ere lopped off,
_Caroline de Lichtfield_ would not be a bad story. The heroine, having
lost her mother, has been brought up to the age of fifteen by an amiable
canoness, who (to speak rather Hibernically) ought to have been her
mother but wasn't, because the actual mother was so much richer. She
bears no malice, however, even to the father who, well preserved in
looks, manners, and selfishness, is Great Chamberlain to Frederick the
Great.

That very unsacred majesty has another favourite, a certain Count von
Walstein, who is ambassador of Prussia at St. Petersburg. It pleases
Frederick, and of course his chamberlain, that Caroline, young as she
is, shall marry Walstein. As the girl is told that her intended is not
more than thirty, and knows his position (she has, naturally, been
brought up without the slightest idea of choosing for herself), she is
not displeased. She will be a countess and an ambassadress; she will
have infinite jewels; her husband will probably be handsome and
agreeable; he will certainly dance with her, and may very possibly not
object to joining in innocent sports like butterfly-catching. So she
sets off to Berlin quite cheerfully, and the meeting takes place. Alas!
the count is a "civil count" (as Beatrice says) enough, but he is the
reverse of handsome and charming. He has only one eye; he has a huge
scar on his cheek; a wig (men, remember, were beginning to "wear their
own hair"), a bent figure, and a leaden complexion. Caroline, promptly
and not unnaturally, "screams and disappears like lightning." Nor can
any way be found out of this extremely awkward situation. The count (who
is a thoroughly good fellow) would give Caroline up, though he has
taken a great fancy to her, and even the selfish Lichtfield tries (or
_says_ he tries) to alter his master's determination. But Frederick of
course persists, and with a peculiarly Frederician enjoyment in
conferring an ostensible honour which is in reality a punishment, sees
the marriage ceremony carried out under his own eye. Caroline, however,
exemplifies in combination certain old adages to the effect that there
is "No will, no wit like a woman's." She submits quite decently in
public, but immediately after the ceremony writes a letter[62] to her
husband (whose character she has partly, though imperfectly, gauged)
requesting permission to retire to the canoness till she is a little
older, under a covert but quite clearly intelligible threat of suicide