Leonie wants a romance with the Baron - стр. 3

I, Leonie Smith, was standing on a hill with a good view of the castle. I had put on my most beautiful dress—the only expensive one I owned—bought long ago for my cousin’s wedding banquet. I had worn it only once, but it had reflected many times in the bathroom mirror of my apartment. From the old sideboard I took a wine glass with a long, thin stem. From my mother’s shelf I borrowed a plate from the porcelain set, along with a silver fork, spoon, and knife. I prepared some sandwiches, grabbed a bottle of lemonade, and packed everything—food and tableware—into a wicker basket.

“I raise my glass to you, Baron, and to your wonderful castle!” I declared solemnly, and I truly did raise my glass.

It should be explained here that after that excursion I was head over heels in love with the Baron, even though at the time I still had no idea what kind of person he was, what he looked like, or how old he might be. Since childhood I had known that one day I would marry the master of this castle. In case the master happened to be elderly or already married, I held onto the hope that he would pass on his title to a younger relative, then move to America, open some kind of business there, and live happily ever after, leaving the young couple in blissful solitude. Later, as I grew older, I realized how absurd my fantasies were and invented a new dream: when I married the young Baron, I would turn the castle into a charity center. If living in it proved impossible, I would agree to move into a cozy city apartment with central heating (by that time I had visited enough castles on excursions to know about their inconveniences).

Time went by, I turned twenty, I was well into my higher education, and my monarchist ideas of power were gradually replaced with socialist ones—it was quite possible that I would have forgotten both the castle and its Baron altogether, had the castle not suddenly opened to tourists. I never did meet the Baron to know and love him—both outwardly and inwardly—but the castle… I fell in love with its inner world at first sight. Two years passed, and my reason tells me I am foolish, because I pay money for the tours, which means—to the aristocrats—while I am ever more convinced of the truth of “liberty, equality, and fraternity… and sisterhood.” At the same time, my conscience reproaches my reason for being calculating. Yet my inner voice adds that the art into which aristocrats poured their money is valued even under socialism.

Young people passed by, amused by the strange sight of a girl in a crinoline dress. They began to take pictures of me on their smartphones. At first I smiled, but then they started laughing. So I stuck out my tongue at them in annoyance. They photographed that too.

I imagined that in its better days this place welcomed guests of the highest rank. It was not hard for me to picture how, on a spring afternoon, the Queen’s motorcade kissed the sandy driveway with its tires; how, on a summer morning, elegantly dressed guests and hosts, pinkies raised, sipped tea on the lawn; how, on autumn evenings, warm light filled the windows, broken only by the shadows of figures waltzing at a ball. I had to be a part of that, if only in my nighttime fantasies.