# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 7/What I heard at the coffee party

WHAT I HEARD AT THE COFFEE PARTY.
I believe there is no country in the world utterly devoid of superstition in one form or other. Germany is generally considered to be the land of legends and traditions, yet the part in which I have lately resided, is, I think, the least poetical corner of Europe. In Silesia, which was formerly a Polish province, scarcely is a vestige of ancient grandeur to be found, and nothing can be more matter of fact, unrelieved by the least fancy or imagination, than both the habits and tastes of its inhabitants; yet even there, amidst those unpoetic plains, romance, tradition, fiction, call it what you will, has found some small channel, and from time to time threads its way through the commonplace tittle-tattle of this most prosaic era.
Whilst staying at the small garrison town of N——, I was invited to a “coffee party,” an entertainment generally given to ladies alone, the unfair sex being rigorously excluded. The Frau Landräthin von G—— had assembled round her hospitable board a numerous party of ladies from the neighbourhood, and extensive were the preparations made for their delectation. The younger members of the circle might probably have considered that an invasion of some of the uniformed youths, of whom the town was then full, would not altogether have marred the enjoyment of the endless refreshments set before them; but the rule of exclusion was stringent as the laws of the Medes and Persians, so they were fain to make the best of existing circumstances, and wile away the time by discussing the respective merits of absent friends—male and female. A little scandal, or “klatschen,” as it is called in German, is a necessary ingredient in all small assemblies, and if report speaks truly, is an amusement not exclusively confined to the weaker sex.
On this occasion the conversation became all the more lively for being interspersed with repeated sips at that delectable composition called “Bowle.” This is a beverage of which Rhine wine, pine apple sugar, and champagne form the principal ingredients; when mixed with due skill and science, the flavour is ambrosial, and it is particularly favoured by the ladies as being more delicate and refined than the ordinary vinous beverages.
Who knows how many characters would have been torn to pieces, or matches made or even unmade, on that afternoon, had not our good hostess chanced to express her admiration of a pearl necklace, of great value, worn by one of her guests: “It is more curious than beautiful,” rejoined the wearer; “you know it is the famous Malzahn necklace.”
“What, the necklace!” exclaimed all the ladies, in chorus. “Oh, pray let us see it!”
I inquired into the cause of all this curiosity, and as a few besides myself professed ignorance of the generally well-known story, the Countess was kind enough to relate it for our benefit.
“You must know, then,” said she, “that one of our ancestors, a Count Malzahn, inhabited, at a very remote period, the Castle of Militsch, in Silesia. He was married to a very beautiful young lady, and in due course of time became the happy father of a son and heir, whose birth was greeted by the most joyous festivities in Castle and Hall.
“Shortly after the child’s birth, as the young mother had fallen into a deep slumber, she had a strange dream or vision, which made so deep an impression on her mind, that she could not refrain from relating it the next day. She dreamt that a little dwarf had appeared at the bottom of her couch, and that he had begged and prayed her in the most piteous tones to have her baby’s cradle removed from the spot on which it stood, as the rocking, he said, disturbed his wife, who was very ill, and could not sleep for the noise. The poor Countess only got laughed at for her foolish dream. The next night, however, her troublesome guest reappeared, this time urging his request with still greater earnestness; she therefore determined no longer to withstand his entreaties, and the next day had the baby and his cradle removed to the other end of the room. The ensuing night, the little man visited her again in her dreams, but this time in high spirits, thanking her profusely for her kind acquiescence in his wishes, and assuring her that his wife was already fast recovering in consequence.
“The Countess was well pleased when the vision disappeared, and left her for some time in peace: the relief, however, was not of long duration, as a few weeks later the poor lady’s dreams were again disturbed by the same apparition. This time the little dwarf had no intention of again dislodging the poor baby or his cradle, but he made strong objections to the nurse’s habit of throwing away the water from the child’s bath through the ordinary channel. He declared that every particle of it pattered down, drop by drop, on his unfortunate wife’s head, and that if the Countess would not deign to order her servants to throw away the child’s bath on some other spot, his beloved wife must perish. The good Countess got rather impatient at these constant appeals to her good-nature, and determined not to be so foolish as to attach any importance to a mere dream; but the little man was not to be so easily put off—he appeared to her every evening, and was so importunate that, for the sake of peace and quietness, she was fain to order the child’s bath to be emptied in another corner of the castle. No sooner had this taken place, than once more the little man presented himself to her in her dreams, thanking her most gratefully for her kindness.
“‘My wife is now quite restored,’ added he, ‘all danger is past. This blessing I owe to you, most gracious lady, and I wish to offer you a small token of my gratitude. Deign to accept this necklace—it ought never to go out of your family, and if kept, it will always foretell the death of the Countess Malzahn, by one of its pearls turning black by degrees, at the demise of each lady of this race.’
“When the young Countess awoke, what was her surprise to perceive a pearl necklace lying on the coverlid before her! This very same necklace that I now wear is the ominous present of the troublesome little dwarf!
“My story is not at an end yet,” added the Countess, smiling, as she was about to be interrupted. She resumed.
​“Some hundred years ago, a very rough, wild Count Malzahn was proprietor of the Château of Militsch. He was a great sportsman, and fond of heavy potations, as gentlemen were wont to be in those days. He often had a wild, noisy set of companions about him, and thus scared away from his table his delicate, refined, and beautiful young wife. One evening, when these rough sportsmen had been drinking hard around the oaken table in the tower of Militsch Castle, the conversation happened to turn upon the mysterious necklace, which had acquired great celebrity from the fact that whenever a Countess of Malzahn died, one of the pearls really did turn black. Some questions arose as to the quality of the stones, it having been asserted by jewellers that although bearing a strong resemblance to pearls, the stones were of no earthly composition, and so hard that it was perfectly impossible to break them. At the request of his guests, the Count sent to his lady, begging her to lend her necklace for their inspection. She did not like to part with it, and made an excuse; whereupon her lord and master waxed wrath, and ordered her to send him the trinket, on pain of his serious displeasure. The poor Countess complied, though unwillingly; the necklace was brought, handed about, and examined, and many were the bets made as to its solidity. One of the knights declared he could split one of the pearls with his sword. Wagers were laid for and against:—he struck the blow with dreadful violence, but the pearl remained unscathed. Suddenly, however, a dreadful peal of thunder was heard; the lightning struck upon the old tower where they were seated, which crumbled to pieces, burying the half-drunken knights under the rush of falling stones. Many were drawn out merely wounded, but the imprudent knight who had tried his strength on unearthly things was struck dead. The pearl necklace was found, and, as you see, has been ever since carefully preserved, but they never have been able to rebuild the tower of Militsch. It is said that whatever part of it is built during the day, falls in during the night; so that after many fruitless attempts to overcome the spell, it has been given up altogether. The only certain part of the story is,” added the Countess, “that this old necklace still retains its strange power of marking the death of each successive owner, by one of its pearls turning black. I often look at them, to see if another pearl is not beginning to assume a grey tint, which will be the sure sign of my approaching death!”
We all looked with much interest at the handsome features of the amiable old lady, who had so kindly related this family legend for our benefit, and heartily wished that her pearls might long retain their pure white hue, which strongly contrasted with the colour of the seventeen that have already put on their mourning for the deceased châtelaines, and which really have a very dingy tint.
The die was cast—strange stories had become the order of the evening. The formerly interesting topics of family quarrels, suspected flirtations, misbehaved servants, &c., had suddenly lost their charm, and a tide of family traditions and ghost stories came rushing in from all sides, a torrent which nothing but the fear of late hours and bad roads could stem. I will only record the tales which struck me as most authentic, because they were told by members of the families in which they had occurred.
“You all know that beautiful picture of my brother-in-law, the Baron Tettau, which hangs in the picture gallery at home, do you not?” inquired a pale, delicate-looking lady, with light blue eyes and flaxen hair. “That picture was painted by Angelica Kaufmann, and is considered to be one of her best works. He is taken in full uniform, as a smart young officer of the Guards, which he then was, and his portrait was painted on the occasion of his marriage, which, unfortunately, gave him but a short span of happiness, as his young wife died a year after, leaving him a sweet little daughter in token of her love. This child was brought up in the country, under the surveillance of a governess, and very near to the residence of her grandmother, the old Baroness von Tettau.
“We were one evening all assembled at supper, that is to say, all except my brother-in-law, who had just joined his regiment, and was daily expecting to take an active part in the contest against Napoleon’s hated troops. His mother looked up with tender and admiring eyes at the handsome portrait hanging opposite to her, and exclaimed with a sigh, ‘Where may my poor Franz be just now!’ the tears gathering fast in her eyes at the thought of the perils he was about to encounter. Scarcely had the words been spoken when a crash was heard, and down came the picture! Strange to say, the nail on which it had hung had not moved: it seemed to have been jolted off the hook by a sudden jerk. We were all depressed by this unaccountable accident, and I had some difficulty in calming my poor mother-in-law, who persisted in regarding it as an omen that something dreadful had happened: her fears were but too soon verified. A few days later the news reached us that my brother-in-law had been sent to reconnoitre, and that a stray shot had killed him on the spot, at the very hour when his portrait had fallen down at his father’s home.
“Time, which heals all wounds, even the deepest, had passed over this sad circumstance, and we were once more seated together at supper in the same dining-room as before. It was rather late, for we had been paying a visit to the little orphan girl, Baron Tettau’s daughter, and had waited there to speak with the doctor, as she had not been well: he declared, however, that she was much better, quite free from fever, and assured us that there was not the slightest cause for anxiety. We therefore returned home, and as I said before, were seated at supper, when again a crash, and, without any apparent cause, down came my brother-in-law’s portrait to the ground. This time our alarm was excusable: we at once despatched a messenger on horseback to inquire after the little girl, but he returned almost immediately, having been met half way by the bearer of a missive from the governess, conveying the shocking intelligence that the dear little child had died suddenly in a fit!
​“It will readily be believed that my brother-in-law’s portrait, beautiful as it was, had now become an object of superstition, almost of aversion, in the family: it was therefore removed from the dining-room, and carefully hung in a large hall filled with family pictures, which we call ‘the gallery.’ My husband had selected a place for it over the entrance-door, where it was partly hidden, as he wished to spare his poor mother as much as possible the painful reminiscences which the sight of the fatal picture was sure to awaken.
“Many years elapsed—indeed, it is but ten years ago since my much regretted father-in-law died; my poor husband was, as you all know, deeply afflicted at his loss: he tended his poor father through his last illness with the most devoted affection and tenderness, and after the last sad parting, when we women, overcome with sorrow and fatigue, had retired to our rooms, he still remained sitting by his father’s corpse. After some time he became uneasy, and could no longer bear the dread silence of the chamber of death: he got up, paced to and fro, and almost unconsciously bent his steps towards the Gallery: he endeavoured to enter, but some impediment closed the way: he pushed the door with force, and in so doing removed his brother’s picture, which had again fallen to the floor!
“Since that time no death in the family has occurred, but we are of course all convinced that the same thing will happen when any one of us is called to his or her last account.”
This lady’s story was told with so much simplicity and good feeling that all present were impressed with the conviction of its truthfulness, the more so that the narrator bears the highest character for veracity and straightforwardness.
Another tale related on this occasion is to be found in many old German books, but except to readers well versed in the lore of ancient German legend it is probably quite unknown. It was told me by a near and dear friend of mine, a member of the family to whom this tradition belongs, and a person in whose veracity I place the greatest possible confidence. Thus, then, runs the tale:
“In olden times there lived a most beautiful, pious, and amiable Frau von Alvensleben, who was respected and beloved by her friends and the high and mighty of the land, and looked up to and adored by her dependants and the poor, who for many miles around felt the benefit of her loving charities. This favourite of fortune and nature had, however, one drop of gall mixed in her cup of happiness, which had well nigh embittered the whole of her precious gifts. She was childless, and it was no small grief to her beloved lord as well as to herself to be denied an heir to their noble name and vast possessions. Frequently, when more than usually oppressed by sad thoughts, she would wander forth and seek in assuaging the sorrows of others a relief to her own painful reflections. On one occasion, as in pensive mood she was returning from one of these charitable visits to the sick and poor of her villages, her way led through a long avenue of well-grown trees bordering the banks of the Elbe. Slowly she walked with eyes cast on the ground, when her steps were suddenly arrested by a little dwarf, who stood respectfully before her. She was startled at first, but, seeing him look smilingly at her, she soon regained her composure, and in a kind manner asked him what he wanted.
“‘Most gracious lady,’ quoth the dwarf, ‘all I wish is to give you brighter hopes, and to foretel that your future will be as happy as you deserve. Within a year from this time you will be blest with three sons at a birth [drillinge]. I pray you to accept this ring,’ continued he, handing her a large gold ring most curiously wrought; ‘have it divided into three equal parts, and when your sons are of an age to understand the trust, give one piece to each of them to keep as a talisman against evil. As long as it remains in the family the Alvenslebens will prosper.’
“With these words the kind little man disappeared; but his prophecy was realised, and his injunctions were carefully obeyed. The three sons lived to form the source of three distinct lines of the Alvensleben family, and are distinguished by the names of the Black, the White, and the Red line.
“Years—nay, centuries—rolled by, but the three pieces of the ring were carefully preserved by the descendants of the three brothers. The age of superstition had now passed away. Frederick the Great was mighty, and he scoffed at all things: Voltaire, his friend and teacher, sneered at every species of belief, and the courtiers thought it becoming to imitate their master and his favourite.
“A gay party was seated on the balcony of the Castle of Randau, which overhangs the muddy-coloured, shallow, and yet sometimes treacherous, river Elbe. Amongst the company were several gay young officers of the Royal Hussars, then stationed at Magdeburg, who had ridden over to pay their devoirs to the fair lady of the manor, the Frau von Alvensleben of the Red line, a famous beauty at Frederick’s court. Although the mother of three fine boys, her beauty was at its zenith, and her sharp, ready wit and satirical, sceptical turn of mind had won for her as many admirers as her rare personal attractions.
“‘I never believe in anything that I do not see or feel,’ said the lady with a bright laugh, continuing an animated conversation about second-sight and ghost-seers; ‘nor do I care just now to believe in anything but that these strawberries are delicious,’ added she, holding up a ruddy berry; ‘that the air is pure and balmy, my companions most agreeable, and life altogether very charming and enjoyable.’
“‘Would that life were made up of such moments,’ sighed her nearest neighbour, with an ardent glance; ‘but, alas! we must bend to so many influences beyond our own control!’
“‘Not a whit,’ retorted the lively lady, “Jeder ist seines Glückes Schmied” (every one forges his own happiness), saith the proverb.
“‘How can you say that, fairest of chatelaines, when you know that the happiness of each of us is dependant upon your goodwill,’ responded one of the gallants.
“‘And,’ added the Major von Eulenberg, a somewhat more sedate admirer, ‘you yourself, ​madame, must not forget that you are living under the spell of the famous Alvensleben ring; if you were to lose it, who knows what might happen.’
“‘Alter schützt von Thorheit nicht’ (age is no preservative against folly) ‘I see,’ answered the beauty, pertly tossing her head. ‘Do you think I am such an idiot as really to believe in this silly story of the ring? I thought my sentiments were better known, and to prove to you how free from superstition I am’ . . . . she ran into the room through the open folding doors, hastily unlocked a casket with a small golden key which hung from her neck chain, and swiftly returning, made a comical low curtsey to the circle of gentlemen, and, with a graceful movement, flung what she had in her hand down into the rushing river at her feet:—‘There,’ she cried, exultingly, ‘there goes the token of old superstition, which has too long been treasured in our family; there goes the famous ring, and may the Alvenslebens evermore depend upon themselves for their good luck and prosperity.’
“The act was greeted with bravoes, and warm expressions of admiration at the strength of mind she had exhibited, by the young officers, whose only wish was to flatter and please the star of the day: yet some in their hearts disapproved, others felt as if a blank had fallen on their spirits, and though outwardly merry, the party separated with far less jovial feelings than they had ever before experienced within the walls of Randau.
“Six weeks afterwards, this laughing, scoffing beauty was bent low in sadness and sorrow. She had in that short period lost her husband and her three sons, all of whom were suddenly carried off by a virulent fever. It is not known whether she connected this sad bereavement with her imprudent act, but probably her haughty scepticism received a shock, for she renounced the world, and ever after led a life of sorrow and seclusion. Thus ended the Red line of the Alvenslebens.
“The members of the Black line, shocked by this sad occurrence, and fearful lest some accident might cause the loss of so small an object as the third part of a ring, had it melted among other gold and moulded into a goblet or ‘Pokal,’ which the sole survivors of that line still possess. Their star, however, has fallen, and from the prosperous and numerous family which then flourished, and was in possession of nearly half the province of Magdeburg, but two descendants in middling circumstances now exist. The last member of importance of that line, was the highly esteemed Minister of State under Frederic Wilhelm III., Count Albert Alvensleben, who died at so late a period as 1858.
“The members of the White line have been the wisest of the three; they still carefully preserve among the family archives in their Castle of Erxleben, near Magdeburg, their precious share of the little dwarf’s present. This family is amongst the most highly esteemed and beloved of the old noblesse of Prussia: highly favoured and truly loved by their monarch, many of them still hold important offices in the army and state, and the White line still counts thirty or forty members.”
It was not without regret that we broke up the circle round the coffee-table: these and other tales had made us forget the flight of time, and if they have for a moment amused my readers, I am richly repaid for the slight trouble of transcribing them.