Project Gutenberg's Black Forest Village Stories, by Berthold Auerbach
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Title: Black Forest Village Stories
Author: Berthold Auerbach
Translator: Charles Goepp
Release Date: May 24, 2010 [EBook #32517]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLACK FOREST VILLAGE STORIES ***
Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by Google Books
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://books.google.com/books?pg=PA381&id=12YTAAAAYAAJ#v=onepage&q&f=false
2. Diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
3. Footnotes are at the end of the book.
BLACK FOREST
VILLAGE STORIES
BY
BERTHOLD AUERBACH
TRANSLATED BY
CHARLES GOEPP
AUTHOR'S EDITION
_Illustrated with Facsimiles of the original
German Woodcuts._
NEW YORK
LEYPOLDT & HOLT
1869
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by
LEYPOLDT & HOLT,
In the Clerk's office of the District Court of the United States
for the Southern District of New York.
BLACK FOREST
VILLAGE STORIES.
THE GAWK
I see you now, my fine fellow, as large as life, with your yellow hair
cropped very short, except in the neck, where a long tail remains as if
you had cut yourself after the pattern of a plough-horse. You are
staring straight at me with your broad visage, your great blue goggle
eyes, and your mouth which is never shut. Do you remember the morning
we met in the hollow where the new houses stand now, when you cut me a
willow-twig to make a whistle of? We little thought then that I should
come to pipe the world a song about you when we should be thousands of
miles apart. I remember your costume perfectly, which is not very
surprising, as there is nothing to keep in mind but a shirt, red
suspenders, and a pair of linen pantaloons dyed black to guard against
all contingencies. On Sunday you were more stylish: then you wore a fur
cap with a gold tassel, a blue roundabout with broad buttons, a scarlet
waistcoat, yellow shorts, white stockings, and buckled shoes, like any
other villager; and, besides, you very frequently had a fresh pink
behind your ear. But you were never at ease in all this glory; and I
like you rather better in your plainer garb, myself.
But now, friend gawk, go about your business; there's a good fellow. It
makes me nervous to tell your story to your face. You need not be
alarmed: I shall say nothing ill of you, though I do speak in the third
person.
The gawk not only had a real name, but a whole pedigree of them; in the
village he ought to have been called Bart's Bast's[1] boy, and he had
been christened Aloys. To please him, we shall stick to this last
designation. He will be glad of it, because, except his mother Maria
and a few of us children, hardly any one used it; all had the impudence
to say "Gawk." On this account he always preferred our society, even
after he was seventeen years old. In out-of-the-way places he would
play leap-frog with us, or let us chase him over the fields; and when
the gawk--I should say, when Aloys--was with us, we were secure against
the attacks of the children at the lime-pit; for the rising generation
of the village was torn by incessant feuds between two hostile parties.
Yet the boys of Aloys' own age were already beginning to feel their
social position. They congregated every evening, like the grown men,
and marched through the village whistling and singing, or stood at the
tavern-door of the Eagle, by the great wood-yard, and passed jokes with
the girls who went by. But the surest test of a big boy was the
tobacco-pipe. There they would stand with their speckled bone-pipe
bowls, of Ulm manufacture, tipped with silver, and hung with little
silver chains. They generally had them in their mouths unlit; but
occasionally one or the other would beg a live coal from the baker's
maid, and then they smoked with the most joyful faces they knew how to
put on, while their stomachs moaned within them.
Aloys had begun the practice too, but only in secret. One evening he
mustered up courage to mingle with his fellows, with the point of his
pipe peeping forth from his breast-pocket. One of the boys pulled the
pipe out of his pocket with a yell; Aloys tried to seize it, but it
passed from hand to hand with shouts of laughter, and the more
impatiently he demanded it the less it was forthcoming, until it
disappeared altogether, and every one professed to know nothing of what
had become of it. Aloys began to whimper, which made them laugh still
more; so at last he snatched the cap of the first robber from his head,
and ran with it into the house of Jacob the blacksmith. Then the
capless one brought the pipe, which had been hidden in the wood-yard.
Jacob Bomiller the blacksmith's house was what is called Aloys'
"go-out." He was always there when not at home, and never at home after
his work was done. Aunt Applon, (Apollonia,) Jacob's wife, was his
cousin; and; besides his own mother and us children, she and her eldest
daughter Mary Ann always called him by his right name. In the morning
he would get up early, and, after having fed and watered his two cows
and his heifer, he always went to Jacob's house and knocked at the door
until Mary Ann opened it. With a simple "Good-morning," he passed
through the stable into the barn. The cattle knew his step, and always
welcomed him with a complacent growl and a turn of the head: he never
stopped to return the compliment, but went into the barn and filled the
cribs of the two oxen and the two cows. He was on particularly good
terms with the roan cow. He had raised her from a calf; and, when he
stood by her and watched her at her morning meal, she often licked his
hands, to the improvement of his toilet. Then he would open the door of
the stable and restore its neatness and good order, often chatting
cosily to the dumb beasts as he made them turn to the right or left.
Not a dunghill in the village was so broad and smooth and with such
clean edges as the one which Aloys built before the house of Jacob the
blacksmith; for a fine dunghill is the greatest ornament to a
villager's door-front in the Black Forest. The next thing he did was to
wash and curry the oxen and cows until you might have seen your face in
their sleek hides. This done, he ran to the pump before the house and
filled the trough with water: the cattle, unchained, ran out to drink;
while he spread fresh straw in their stalls. Thus, by the time that
Mary Ann came to the stable to milk the cows, she found every thing
neat and clean. Often, when a cow was "skittish," and kicked, Aloys
stood by her and laid his hand on her back while Mary Ann milked; but
generally he found something else to do. And when Mary Ann said,
"Aloys, you are a good boy," he never looked up at her, but plied the
stable-broom so vehemently that it threatened to sweep the boulder-stones
out of the floor. In the barn he cut the feed needed for the day; and,
after all the work required in the lower story of the building--which,
in the Black Forest, as is well known, contains what in America is
consigned to the barn and outhouses--was finished, he mounted up-stairs
into the kitchen, carried water, split the kindling-wood, and at last
found his way into the room. Mary Ann brought the soup-bowl, set it on
the table, folded her hands, and, everybody having done the same, spoke
a prayer. All now seated themselves with a "God's blessing." The bowl
was the only dish upon the table, into which every one dipped his spoon,
Aloys often stealing a mouthful from the place where Mary Ann's spoon
usually entered. The deep silence of a solemn rite prevailed at the
table: very rarely was a word spoken. After the meal and another prayer,
Aloys trudged home.
Thus things went on till Aloys reached his nineteenth year, when, on
New-Year's day, Mary Ann made him a present of a shirt, the hemp of
which she had broken herself, and had spun, bleached, and sewed it. He
was overjoyed, and only regretted that it would not do to walk the
street in shirt-sleeves: though it was bitter cold, he would not have
cared for that in the least; but people would have laughed at him, and
Aloys was daily getting more and more sensitive to people's laughter.
[Illustration: The old squire's new hand.]
The main cause of this was the old squire's[2] new hand who had come
into the village last harvest. He was a tall, handsome fellow, with a
bold, dare-devil face appropriately set off with a reddish mustache.
George (for such was his name) was a cavalry soldier, and almost always
wore the cap belonging to his uniform. When he walked up the village of
a Sunday, straight as an arrow, turning out his toes and rattling his
spurs, every thing about him said, as plainly as words could speak, "I
know all the girls are in love with me;" and when he rode his horses
down to Jacob's pump to water them, poor Aloys' heart was ready to
burst as he saw Mary Ann look out of the window. He wished that there
were no such things as milk and butter in the world, so that he too
might be a horse-farmer.
Inexperienced as Aloys was, he knew all about the three classes or
"standings" into which the peasants of the Black Forest are divided.
The cow-farmers are the lowest in the scale: their draught-cattle, in
addition to their labor, must yield them milk and calves. Then come the
ox-farmers, whose beasts, after having served their time, may be
fattened and killed. The horse-farmers are still more fortunate: their
beasts of draught yield neither milk nor meat, and yet eat the best
food and bring the highest prices.
Whether Aloys took the trouble to compare this arrangement with the
four castes of Egypt, or the three estates of feudalism, is doubtful.
On this New-Year's day, George derived a great advantage from his
horses. After morning service, he took the squire's daughter and her
playmate Mary Ann sleighing to Impfingen; and, though the heart of poor
Aloys trembled within him, he could not refuse George's request to help
him hitch the horses and try them in the sleigh. He drove about the
village, quite forgetting the poor figure he cut beside the showy
soldier. When the girls were seated, Aloys led the horses a little way,
running beside them until they were fairly started, and then let them
go. George drove down the street, cracking his whip; the horses jingled
their bells; half the commune looked out of their windows; and poor
Aloys stared after them long after they were out of sight; and then
went sadly home, cursing the snow which brought the water to his eyes.
The village seemed to have died out when Mary Ann was not to be in it
for a whole day.
All this winter Aloys was often much cast down. At his mother's house
the girls frequently assembled to hold their spinning-frolics,--a
custom much resembling our quiltings. They always prefer to hold these
gatherings at the house of a comrade recently married or of a
good-natured widow; elder married men are rather in the way. So the
girls often came to Mother Maria, and the boys dropped in later,
without waiting to be invited. Hitherto Aloys had never troubled
himself about them so long as they left him undisturbed: he had sat in
a corner doing nothing. But now he often said to himself, "Aloys, this
is too bad: you are nineteen years old now, and must begin to put
yourself forward." And then again he would say, "I wish the devil would
carry that George away piecemeal!" George was the object of his
ill-humor, for he had soon obtained a perfect control over the minds of
all the boys, and made them dance to his whistle. He could whistle and
sing and warble and tell stories like a wizard. He taught the boys and
girls all sorts of new songs. The first time he sang the verse,--
"Do thy cheeks with gladness tingle
Where the snows and scarlet mingle?"--
Aloys suddenly rose: he seemed taller than usual; he clenched his fists
and gnashed his teeth with secret joy. He seemed to draw Mary Ann
toward him with his looks, and to see her for the first time as she
truly was; for, just as the song ran, so she looked.
The girls sat around in a ring, each having her distaff with the gilt
top before her, to which the hemp was fastened with a colored ribbon;
they moistened the thread with their lips, and twirled the spindle,
which tumbled merrily on the floor. Aloys was always glad to put "a
little moistening," in the shape of some pears or apples, on the table,
and never failed to put the plate near Mary Ann, so that she might help
herself freely.
Early in the winter Aloys took his first courageous step in right of
his adolescence. Mary Ann had received a fine new distaff set with
pewter. The first time she brought it into the spinning-room and sat
down to her work, Aloys came forward, took hold of it, and repeated the
old rhyme:--
"Good lassie, give me leave,
Let me shake your luck out of this sleeve;
Great goodhap and little goodhap
Into my lassie's lap.
Lassie, why are you so rude?
Your distaff is only of wood;
If it had silver or gold on't,
I'd have made a better rhyme on't."
His voice trembled a little, but he got through without stammering.
Mary Ann first cast her eyes down with shame and fear lest he should
"balk;" but now she looked at him with beaming eyes. According to
custom, she dropped the spindle and the whirl,[3] which Aloys picked
up, and exacted for the spindle the promise of a dumpling, and for the
whirl that of a doughnut. But the best came last. Aloys released the
distaff and received as ransom a hearty kiss. He smacked so loud that
it sounded all over the room, and the other boys envied him sorely. He
sat down quietly in a corner, rubbed his hands, and was contented with
himself and with the world. And so he might have remained to the end of
time, if that marplot of a George had not interfered again.
Mary Ann was the first voice in the church-choir. One evening George
asked her to sing the song of the "Dark-Brown Maid." She began without
much hesitation, and George fell in with the second voice so finely and
sonorously that all the others who had joined in also lapsed into
silence one by one, and contented themselves with listening to the two
who sang so well. Mary Ann, finding herself unsupported by her
companions, found her voice trembling a little, and nudged her
companions to go on singing; but, as they would not, she took courage,
and sang with much spirit, while George seemed to uphold her as with
strong arms. They sang:--
"Oh, to-morrow I must leave you,
My belovéd dark-brown maid:
Out at the upper gate we travel,
My belovéd dark-brown maid.
"When I march in foreign countries,
Think of me, my dearest one;
With the sparkling glass before you,
Often think how I adore you;
Drink a health to him that's gone.
"Now I load my brace of pistols,
And I fire and blaze away,
For my dark-brown lassie's pleasure;
For she chose me for her treasure,
And she sent the rest away.
"In the blue sky two stars are shining:
Brighter than the moon they glow;
This looks on the dark-brown maiden,
And that looks where I must go.
"I've bought a ribbon for my sabre,
And a nosegay for my hat,
And a kerchief in my keeping,
To restrain my eyes from weeping:
From my love I must depart.
"Now I spur my horse's mettle,
Now I rein him in and wait:
So good-bye, dear dark-brown maiden;
I must ride out at the gate."
When each of the girls had filled four or five spindles, the table was
pushed into a corner, to clear a space of three or four paces in length
and breadth, on which they took turns in dancing, those who sat singing
the music. When George brought out Mary Ann, he sang his own song,
dancing to it like a spindle: indeed, he did not need much more space
than a spindle, for he used to say that no one was a good waltzer who
could not turn around quickly and safely on a plate. When he stopped at
last,--with a whirl which made the skirts of Mary Ann's wadded dress
rise high above her feet,--she suddenly left him alone, as if afraid of
him, and ran into a corner, where Aloys sat moodily watching the sport.
Taking his hand, she said,--
"Come, Aloys, you must dance."
"Let me alone: you know I can't dance. You only want to make game of
me."
"You g----" said Mary Ann: she would have said, "you gawk," but
suddenly checked herself on seeing that he was more ready to cry than
to laugh. So she said, gently, "No, indeed, I don't want to make game
of you. Come; if you can't dance you must learn it: there is none I
like to dance with better than you."
They tried to waltz; but Aloys threw his feet about as if he had wooden
shoes on them, so that the others could not sing for laughing.
"I will teach you when nobody is by, Aloys," said Mary Ann, soothingly.
The girls now lighted their lanterns and went home. Aloys insisted on
going with them: he would not for all the world have let Mary Ann go
home without him when George was of the company.
In the still, snowy night, the raillery and laughter of the party were
heard from end to end of the village. Mary Ann alone was silent, and
evidently kept out of George's way.
When the boys had left all the girls at their homes, George said to
Aloys, "Gawk, you ought to have stayed with Mary Ann to-night."
"You're a rascal," said Aloys, quickly, and ran away. The others
laughed. George went home alone, warbling so loud and clear that he
must have gladdened the hearts of all who were not sick or asleep.
Next morning, as Mary Ann was milking the cows, Aloys said to her, "Do
you see, I should just like to poison that George; and if you are a
good girl you must wish him dead ten times over."
Mary Ann agreed with him, but tried to convince him that he should
endeavor to become just as smart and ready as George was. A bright idea
suddenly struck Aloys. He laughed aloud, threw aside the stiff old
broom and took a more limber one, saying, "Yes: look sharp and you'll
see something." After much reluctance, he yielded to Mary Ann's
solicitations to be "good friends" with George: he could not refuse her
any thing.
It was for this reason alone that Aloys had helped George to get the
sleigh out, and that the snow made his eyes run over as he watched the
party till they disappeared.
In the twilight Aloys drove his cows to water at Jacob's well. A knot
of boys had collected there, including George and his old friend, a
Jew, commonly called "Long Hartz's Jake." Mary Ann was looking out of
the window. Aloys was imitating George's walk: he carried himself as
straight as if he had swallowed a ramrod, and kept his arms hanging
down his sides, as if they had been made of wood.
"Gawk," said Jake, "what will you allow me if I get Mary Ann to marry
you?"
"A good smack on your chops," said Aloys, and drove his cows away. Mary
Ann closed the sash, while the boys set up a shout of laughter, in
which George's voice was heard above all the others.
Aloys wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, so great was
the exertion which the expression of his displeasure had cost him. He
sat for hours on the feed-box of his stable, maturing the plans he had
been meditating.
Aloys had entered his twentieth year, and it was time for him to pass
the inspection of the recruiting-officers. On the day on which he, with
the others of his age, was to present himself at Horb, the county town,
he came to Mary Ann's house in his Sunday gear, to ask if she wished
him to get any thing for her in town. As he went away, Mary Ann
followed him into the hall, and, turning aside a little, she drew a bit
of blue paper from her breast, which, on being unwrapped, was found to
contain a creutzer.[4] "Take it," said she: "there are three crosses on
it. When the shooting stars come at night, there's always a silver bowl
on the ground, and out of those bowls they make this kind of creutzers:
if you have one of them in your pocket you are sure to be in luck. Take
it, and you will draw a high number."[5]
Aloys took the creutzer; but in crossing the bridge which leads over
the Necker he put his hand in his pocket, shut his eyes, and threw the
creutzer into the river. "I won't draw a high number: I want to be a
soldier and cut George out," he muttered, between his teeth. His hand
was clenched, and he drew himself up like a king.
At the Angel Hotel the squire waited for the recruits of his parish;
and when they had all assembled he went with them to the office. The
squire was equally stupid and pretentious. He had been a corporal
formerly, and plumed himself on his "commission:" he loved to treat all
farmers, old and young, as recruits. On the way he said to Aloys,
"Gawk, you will be sure to draw the highest number; and even if you
should draw No. 1 you need not be afraid, for they never can want you
for a soldier."
"Who knows?" said Aloys, saucily. "I may live to be a corporal yet, as
well as any one: I can read and write as well as another, and the old
corporals haven't swallowed all the wisdom in the world, either."
The squire looked daggers at him.
When Aloys walked up to the wheel, his manner was bold almost to
provocation. Several papers met his fingers as he thrust his hand in.
He closed his eyes, as if determined not to see what he should draw,
and brought out a ticket. He handed it to the clerk, trembling with
fear of its being a high number. But, when "Number 17" was called, he
shouted so lustily that they had to call him to order.
The boys now bought themselves artificial flowers tied with red
ribbons, and, after another hearty drink, betook themselves homeward.
Aloys sang and shouted louder than all the others.
At the stile at the upper end of the village the mothers and many
of the sweethearts of the boys were waiting: Mary Ann was among them
also. Aloys, a little fuddled,--rather by the noise than by the
wine,--walked, not quite steadily, arm-in-arm with the others. This
familiarity had not occurred before; but on the present occasion they
were all brothers. When Aloys' mother saw No. 17 on his cap, she cried,
again and again, "O Lord a' mercy! Lord a' mercy!" Mary Ann took Aloys
aside, and asked, "What has become of my creutzer?" "I have lost it,"
said Aloys; and the falsehood smote him, half unconscious as he was.
The boys now walked down the village, singing, and the mothers and
sweethearts of those who had probably been "drawn" followed them,
weeping, and wiping their eyes with their aprons.
The "visitation," which was to decide every thing, was still six weeks
off. His mother took a large lump of butter and a basket full of eggs,
and went to the doctor's. The butter was found to spread very well,
notwithstanding the cold weather, and elicited the assurance that Aloys
would not be made a recruit of; "for," said the conscientious
physician, "Aloys is incapable of military service, at any rate: he
cannot see well at a distance, and that is what makes him so awkward
sometimes."
Aloys gave himself no trouble about all these matters: he was quite
altered, and swaggered and whistled whenever he went out.
On the day of the visitation, the boys went to town a little more
soberly and quietly than when the lots were drawn.
When Aloys was called into the visitation-room and ordered to undress,
he said, saucily, "Spy me out all you can: you will find nothing wrong
about me. I have no blemish: I can be a soldier." His measure being
taken and found to be full, he was entered on the list without delay:
the doctor forgot the short-sightedness, the butter, and the eggs, in
his astonishment at the boldness of Aloys.
But, when the irrevocable step was fairly taken, Aloys experienced such
a sense of alarm that he could have cried. Still, when his mother met
him on the stone steps of the office, weeping bitterly, his pride
returned; and he said, "Mother, this is not right: you must not cry. I
shall be back in a year, and Xavier can keep things in order very well
while I am gone."
On being assured of their enlistment as soldiers, the boys began to
drink, sing, and royster more than ever, to make up for the time they
supposed themselves to have lost before.
When Aloys came home, Mary Ann, with tears in her eyes, gave him a
bunch of rosemary with red ribbons in it, and sewed it to his cap.
Aloys took out his pipe, smoked all the way up the village, and made a
night of it with his comrades.
One hard day more was to be passed,--the day when the recruits had to
set out for Stuttgart. Aloys went to Jacob's house early, and found
Mary Ann in the stable, where she now had to do all the hard work
without his assistance. Aloys said, "Mary Ann, shake hands." She did
so; and then he added "Promise me you won't get married till I come
back."
"No, indeed, I won't," said she; and then he replied, "There, that's all:
but stop! give me a kiss for good-bye." She kissed him; and the cows and
oxen looked on in astonishment, as if they knew what was going on.
Aloys patted each of the cows and oxen on the back, and took leave of
them: they mumbled something indistinctly between their teeth.
George had hitched his horses to the wagon, to give the recruits a lift
of a few miles. They passed through the village, singing; the baker's
son, Conrad, who blew the clarionet, sat on the wagon with them and
accompanied; the horses walked. On all sides the recruits were stopped
by their friends, who came to shake hands or to share a parting cup.
Mary Ann was looking out of her window, and nodded, smiling.
When they were fairly out of the village, Aloys suddenly stopped
singing. He looked around him with moistened eyes. Here, on the heath
called the "High Scrub," Mary Ann had bleached the linen of the shirt
he wore: every thread of it now seemed to scorch him. He bade a sad
farewell to every tree and every field. Over near the old heath-turf
was his best field: he had turned the soil so often that he knew every
clod in it. In the adjoining patch he had reaped barley with Mary Ann
that very summer. Farther down, in the Hen's Scratch, was his
clover-piece, which he had sown and was now denied the pleasure of
watching while it grew. Thus he looked around him. As they passed the
stile he was mute. In crossing the bridge he looked down into the
stream: would he have dropped the marked creutzer into it now?
In the town the singing and shouting was resumed; but not till the
Bildechingen Hill was passed did Aloys breathe freely. His beloved
Nordstetten lay before him, apparently so near that his voice could
have been heard there. He saw the yellow house of George the
blacksmith, and knew that Mary Ann lived in the next house but one. He
swung his cap and began to sing again.
At Herrenberg George left the recruits to pursue their way on foot. At
parting he inquired of Aloys whether he had any message for Mary Ann.
Aloys reddened. George was the very last person he should have chosen
for a messenger; and yet a kind message would have escaped his lips if
he had not checked himself. Involuntarily he blurted out, "You needn't
talk to her at all: she can't bear the sight of you, anyhow."
George laughed and drove away.
An important adventure befell the recruits on the road. At the entrance
of the Boeblingen Forest, which is five miles long, they impressed a
wood-cutter with his team, and compelled him to carry them. Aloys was
the ringleader: he had heard George talk so much of soldiers' pranks
that he could not let an occasion slip of playing one. But when they
had passed through the wood he was also the first to open his leathern
pouch and reimburse the involuntary stage-proprietor.
At the Tuebingen gate of Stuttgart a corporal stood waiting to receive
them. Several soldiers from Nordstetten had come out to meet their
comrades; and Aloys clenched his teeth as every one of them greeted him
with, "Gawk, how are you?" There was an end of all shouting and singing
now: like dumb sheep the recruits were led into the barracks. Aloys
first expressed a wish to go into the cavalry, as he desired to emulate
George; but, on being told that in that case he would have to go home
again, as the cavalry-training would not begin till fall, he changed
his mind. "I won't go home again until I am a different sort of a
fellow," he said to himself; "and then, if any one undertakes to call
me gawk, I'll gawk him."
So he was enrolled in the fifth infantry regiment, and soon astonished
all by his intelligence and rapid progress. One misfortune befel him
here also; he received a gypsy for his bedfellow. This gypsy had
a peculiar aversion to soap and water. Aloys was ordered by the
drill-sergeant to take him to the pump every morning and wash him
thoroughly. This was sport at first; but it soon became very irksome:
he would rather have washed the tails of six oxen than the face of the
one gypsy.
Another member of the company was a broken-down painter. He scented the
spending-money with which Aloys' mother had fitted him out, and soon
undertook to paint him in full uniform, with musket and side-arms, and
with the flag behind him. This made up the whole resemblance: the face
was a face, and nothing more. Under it stood, however, in fine Roman
characters, "Aloys Schorer, Soldier in the Fifth Regiment of Infantry."
Aloys had the picture framed under glass and sent it to his mother. In
the accompanying letter he wrote,--
"DEAR MOTHER:--Please hang up the picture in the front room, and let
Mary Ann see it: hang it over the table, but not too near the dovecote;
and, if Mary Ann would like to have the picture, make her a present of
it. And my comrade who painted it says you ought to send me a little
lump of butter and a few yards of hemp-linen for my corporal's wife: we
always call her Corporolla. My comrade also teaches me to dance; and
to-morrow I am going to dance at Haeslach. You needn't pout, Mary Ann:
I am only going to try. And I want Mary Ann to write to me. Has Jacob
all his oxen yet? and hasn't the roan cow calved by this time?
Soldiering isn't much of a business, after all: you get catawampously
tired, and there's no work done when it's over."
The butter came, and was more effective this time: the gypsy was
saddled upon somebody else. With the butter came a letter written by
the schoolmaster, in which he said,--
"Our Matthew has sent fifty florins from America. He also writes that
if you had not turned soldier you might have come to him and he would
make you a present of thirty acres of land. Keep yourself straight, and
let nobody lead you astray; for man is easily tempted. Mary Ann seems
to be out of sorts with you,--I don't know why: when she saw your
picture she said it didn't look like you at all."
Aloys smiled when he read this, and said to himself, "All right. I am
very different from what I was: didn't I say it, Mary Ann,--eh?"
Months passed, until Aloys knew that next Sunday was harvest-home at
Nordstetten. Through the corporal's intervention, he obtained a
furlough for four days, and permission to go in full uniform, with his
shako on his head and his sword at his side. Oh, with what joy did he
put his "fixings" into his shako and take leave of his corporal!
With all his eagerness, he could not refrain from exchanging a word
with the sentry at the gate of the barracks and with the one at the
Tuebingen gate. He must needs inform them that he was going home, and
that they must rejoice with him; and his heart melted with pity for his
poor comrades, who were compelled to walk to and fro in a little yard
for two mortal hours, during which time he was cutting down, step by
step, the distance that lay between him and his home.
He never stopped till he got to Boeblingen. Here he ordered a pint of
wine at the "Waldburg;" but he could not sit quiet in his chair, and
walked away without emptying the glass.
At Nufringen he met Long Hartz's Jake,--the same who had teased him so.
They shook hands, and Aloys heard much news of home, but not a word of
Mary Ann; and he could not make up his mind to inquire after her.
At Bohndorf he forced himself to rest: it was high time to do so; for
his heart was beating furiously. Stretched upon a bench, he reflected
how they all would open their eyes on his arrival: then he stood before
the looking-glass, fixed the shako over his left ear, twisted the curl
at the right side of his forehead, and encouraged himself by a nod of
approbation.
[Illustration: He once more beheld his native village.]
It was dusk when he found himself on the heights of Bildechingen and
once more beheld his native village. He shouted no longer, but stood
calm and firm, laid his hand upon his shako, and greeted his home with
a military salute.
He walked slower and slower, wishing to arrive at night, so as to
astonish them all in the morning. His house was one of the first in the
village: there was a light in the room; and he tapped at the window,
saying,--
"Isn't Aloys here?"
"Lord a'-mercy!" cried his mother: "a gens-d'armes!"
"No: it's me, mother," said Aloys, taking off his shako as he entered,
and clasping her hand.
After the first words of welcome were spoken, his mother expressed her
regret that there was no supper left for him; nevertheless, she went
into the kitchen and fried him some eggs. Aloys stood by her near the
hearth, and told his story. He asked about Mary Ann, and why his
picture was still hanging in the room. His mother answered, "Don't
think any thing more of Mary Ann, I beg and beg of you: she is good for
nothing,--she is indeed!"
"Don't talk anymore about it, mother," said Aloys; "I know what I
know." His face, tinted by the ruddy glow of the hearth-fire, had a
strange decision and ferocity. His mother was silent until they had
returned to the room, and then she saw with rapture what a fine fellow
her son had become. Every mouthful he swallowed seemed a titbit to her
own palate. Lifting up the shako, she complacently bewailed its
enormous weight.
Aloys rose early in the morning, brushed up his shako, burnished the
plating of his sword, and the buckler and buttons, more than if he had
been ordered on guard before the staff. At the first sound of the
church-bell he was completely dressed, and at the second bell he walked
into the village.
Two little boys were talking as they passed him.
"Why, that's the gawk, a'n't it?" said one.
"No, it a'n't," said the other.
"Yes, it is," rejoined the first.
Aloys looked at them grimly, and they ran away with their hymn-books.
Amid the friendly greetings of the villagers he approached the church.
He passed Mary Ann's house; but no one looked out: he looked behind him
again and again as he walked up the hill. The third bell rang, and he
entered the church; Mary Ann was not there: he stood at the door; but
she was not among the late-comers. The singing began, but Mary Ann's
voice was not heard: he would have known it among a thousand. What was
the universal admiration to him now? _she_ did not see him, for whom he
had travelled the long road, and for whom he now stood firm and
straight as a statue. He heard little of the sermon; but, when the
minister pronounced the bans of Mary Ann Bomiller, of Nordstetten, and
George Melzer, of Wiesenstetten, poor Aloys no longer stood like a
statue. His knees knocked under him, and his teeth chattered. He was
the first who left the church. He ran home like a crazy man, threw his
sword and his shako on the floor, hid himself in the hay-loft, and
wept. More than once he thought of hanging himself, but he could not
rise for dejection: all his limbs were palsied. Then he would remember
his poor mother, and sob and cry aloud.
At last his mother came and found him in the hay-loft, cried with him,
and tried to comfort him. "It was high time they were married," was the
burden of her tale of Mary Ann. He wept long and loud; but at last he
followed his mother like a lamb into the room. Seeing his picture, he
tore it from the wall and dashed it to pieces on the floor. For hours
he sat behind the table and covered his face with his hands. Then
suddenly he rose, whistled a merry tune, and asked for his dinner. He
could not eat, however, but dressed himself, and went into the village.
From the Adler he heard the sound of music and dancing. In passing
Jacob's house, he cast down his eyes, as if he had reason to be
ashamed; but when it was behind him he looked as proud as ever. Having
reported himself and left his passport in the squire's hands, he went
to the ball-room. He looked everywhere for Mary Ann, though he dreaded
nothing more than to meet her. George was there, however. He came up to
Aloys and stretched out his hand, saying, "Comrade, how are you?" Aloys
looked at him as if he would have poisoned him with his eyes, then
turned on his heel without a word of answer. It occurred to him that he
ought to have said, "Comrade! the devil is your comrade, not I;" but it
was too late now.
All the boys and girls now made him drink out of their glasses; but the
wine tasted of wormwood. He sat down at a table and called for a
"bottle of the best," and drank glass after glass, although it gave him
no pleasure. Mechtilde, the daughter of his cousin Matthew of the Hill,
stood near him, and he asked her to drink with him. She complied very
readily, and remained at his side. Nobody was attentive to her: she had
no sweetheart, and had not danced a round that day, as every one was
constantly dancing with his or her sweetheart, or changing partners
with some other.
"Mechtilde, wouldn't you like to dance?" said Aloys.
"Yes: come, let's try."
She took Aloys by the hand. He rose, put on his gloves, looked around
the floor as if he had lost something, and then danced to the amazement
of all the company. From politeness he took Mechtilde to a seat after
the dance: by this he imposed a burden on himself, for she did not
budge from his side all the evening. He cared but little for her
conversation, and only pushed the glass toward her occasionally by way
of invitation. His eyes were fixed fiercely on George, who sat not far
from him. When some one asked the latter where Mary Ann was, he said,
laughing, "She is poorly." Aloys bit his pipe till the mouthpiece broke
off, and then spat it out with a "Pah!" which made George look at him
furiously, thinking the exclamation addressed to him. Seeing that Aloys
was quiet, he shrugged his shoulders in derision and began singing bad
songs, which all had pretty much the same burden:--
"A bright boy will run through
Many a shoe;
An old fool will tear
Never a pair."
At midnight Aloys took his sword from the wall to go. George and his
party now began to sing the "teaser," keeping time with their fists on
the table:--
"Hey, Bob, 'ye goin' home?
'Ye gettin' scared? 'Ye gettin' sick?
Got no money, and can't get tick?
Hey, Bob, 'ye goin' home?"
Aloys turned back with some of his friends and called for two bottles
more. They now sang songs of their own, while George and his gang were
singing at the other table. George got up and cried, "Gawk, shut up!"
Then Aloys seized a full bottle and hurled it at his head, sprang over
the table, and caught him by the throat. The tables fell down, the
glasses chinked on the floor, the music stopped. For a while all was
still, as if the two were to throttle each other in silence: then
suddenly the room was filled with shouting, whistling, scolding, and
quarrelling. The bystanders interfered; but, according to custom, each
party only restrained the adversary of the party he sided with, so as
to give the latter a chance of drubbing his opponent undisturbed.
Mechtilde held George by the head until his hair came out by handfuls.
The legs of chairs were now broken off, and all hands whacked each
other to their hearts' content. Aloys and George remained as if
fastened together by their teeth. At length Aloys gained his feet, and
threw George down with such violence that he seemed to have broken his
neck, and then kneeled down on him, and would have throttled him had
not the watchman entered and put an end to the row. The musicians were
sent home and the two chief combatants taken to the lock-up.
With his face black and blue, pale and haggard, Aloys left the village
next day. His furlough had another day to run; but what should he do at
home? He was glad enough to go soldiering again; and nothing would have
pleased him better than a war. The squire had endorsed the story of the
fracas on his passport, and a severe punishment awaited him on his
return. He looked neither to the right nor to the left, but walked away
almost without knowing it, and hoping never to return. At Horb, on
seeing the signpost to Freudenstadt, which is on the way to Strasbourg,
he stopped a long time and thought of deserting to France. Unexpectedly
he found himself addressed by Mechtilde, who asked, "Why, Aloys, are
you going back to Stuttgart already?"
"Yes," he answered, and went on his way. Mechtilde had come like an
angel from heaven. With a friendly good-bye, they parted.
As he walked, he found himself ever and anon humming the song he had
heard George sing so long ago, and which now, indeed, suited poor Mary
Ann's case:--
"In a day, in a day,
Pride and beauty fade away.
Do thy checks with gladness tingle
Where the snows and roses mingle?
Oh, the roses all decay!"
At Stuttgart he never said a word to the sentry at the Tuebingen gate
nor to the one at the barrack-gate. Like a criminal, he hardly raised
his eyes. For eight days he did penance in a dark cell,--the "third
degree" of punishment. At times he became so impatient that he could
have dashed his head against the wall; and then again he would lie for
days and nights half asleep.
When released from prison, he was attached for six weeks to the class
of culprits who are never permitted to leave the barracks, but are
bound to answer the call at every moment. He now cursed his resolution
to become a soldier, which bound him for six years to the land of his
birth. He would have gone away, far as could be.
One morning his mother Maria came with a letter from Matthew, in
America. He had sent four hundred florins for Aloys to buy a field
with, or, if he wished to join him, to buy himself clear of the army.
Aloys and Matthew of the Hill, with his wife and eight
children,--Mechtilde among them,--left for America that same autumn.
While at sea he often hummed the curious but well-known old song, which
he had never understood before:--
"Here, here, here, and here,
The ship is on her way;
There, there, there, and there,
The skipper goes to stay;
When the winds do rave and roar
As though the ship could swim no more,
My thoughts begin to ponder
And wander."
In his last letter from Ohio Aloys writes to his mother:--
"... My heart seems to ache at the thought that I must enjoy all these
good things alone. I often wish all Nordstetten was here,--old Zahn,
blind Conrad, Shacker of the stone quarry, Soges, Bat of the sour well,
and Maurice of the hungry spring: they ought to be here, all of them,
to eat their fill until they couldn't budge from their seats. What good
does it do me while I am alone here? And then you might all see the
gawk with his four horses in the stable and his ten colts in the field.
If Mary Ann has any trouble, let me know about it, and I will send her
something; but don't let her know from whom it comes. Oh, how I pity
her! Matthew of the Hill lives two miles away. His Mechtilde is a good
worker; but she is no Mary Ann, after all. I do hope she is doing well.
Has she any children? On the way across there was a learned man with us
on the ship,--Dr. Staeberle, of Ulm: he had a globe with him, and he
showed me that when it is day in America it is night in Nordstetten,
and so on. I never thought much about it till now. But when I am in the
field and think, 'What are they doing now in Nordstetten?' I remember
all at once that you are all fast asleep, and Shackerle's John, the
watchman, is singing out, 'Two o'clock, and a cloudy morning.' On
Sunday I can't bear to think that it is Saturday night in Nordstetten.
All ought to have one day at once. Last Sunday was harvest-home in
Nordstetten: I should never forget that, if I were to live a hundred
years. I should like to be in Nordstetten for one hour, just to let the
squire see what a free citizen of America looks like."
[Illustration]
THE PIPE OF WAR.
It is a singular story, and yet intimately connected with the great
events of modern history, or, what is almost the same thing, with the
history of Napoleon. Those were memorable times. Every farmer could see
the whole array of history man[oe]uvre and pass in review beneath his
dormer-window: kings and emperors behaved like play-actors, and,
sometimes assumed a different dress and a different character in every
scene. And all this gorgeous spectacle was at the farmer's service,
costing him nothing but his house and home, and occasionally, perhaps,
his life. My neighbor Hansgeorge was not quite so unlucky,--as the
story will show.
It was in the year 1796. We who live in these piping times of peace
have no idea of the state of things which then existed: mankind seemed
to have lost their fixed habitations and to be driving each other here
and there at random. The Black Forest saw the Austrians, with their
white coats, in one month, and in the next the French, with their
laughing faces; then the Russians came, with their long beards; and
mixed and mingled with them all were the Bavarians, Wurtembergers, and
Hessians, in every possible uniform. The Black Forest was the open gate
of Germany for the French to enter; it is only ten years since that
Rastatt was placed as a bolt before it.
The marches and counter-marches, retreats and advances, cannonades and
drum-calls, were enough at times to turn the head of a bear in winter;
and many a head did indeed refuse to remain upon its shoulders. In a
field not far from Baisingen is a hillock as high as a house, which,
they say, contains nothing but dead soldiers,--French and Germans
mixed.
[Illustration: He had shot off the forefinger of his right hand.]
But my neighbor Hansgeorge escaped being a soldier, although a fine
sturdy fellow, well fit to stand before the king, and the people too,
and just entering his nineteenth year. It happened in this wise.
Wendel, the mason, married a wife from Empfingen, and on the day before
the wedding the bride was packed on a wagon with all her household
goods, her blue chest, her distaff, and her bran-new cradle. Thus she
was conveyed to the village, while the groom's friends rode on
horseback behind, cracking off their pistols from time to time to show
how glad they were. Hansgeorge was among them, and always shot more
than all the others. When the cavalcade had reached the brick-yard,
where the pond is at your right hand and the kiln at your left,
Hansgeorge fired again; but, almost before the pistol went off,
Hansgeorge was heard to shriek with pain. The pistol dropped from his
hand, and he would have fallen from his horse but for Fidele, his
friend, who caught him in his arms. He had shot off the forefinger of
his right hand, just at the middle joint. Every one came up, eager to
lend assistance; and even Kitty of the brick-kiln came up, and almost
fainted on seeing Hansgeorge's finger just hanging by the skin.
Hansgeorge clenched his teeth and looked steadily at Kitty. He was
carried into the brickmaker's house. Old Jake, the farrier, who knew
how to stop the blood, was sent for in all haste; while another ran to
town for Dr. Erath, the favorite surgeon.
When Old Jake came into the room, all were suddenly silent, and stepped
back, so as to form a sort of avenue, through which he walked toward
the wounded man, who was lying on the bench behind the table. Kitty
alone came forward, and said, "Jake, for God's sake, help Hansgeorge!"
The latter opened his eyes and turned his head toward the speaker, and
when Jake stood before him, mumbling as he touched his hand, the blood
ceased running.
This time, however, it was not Jake's witchcraft which produced the
result, but another kind of magic. Hansgeorge no sooner heard Kitty's
words than he felt all the blood rush to his heart, and of course the
hemorrhage ceased.
[Illustration: Hansgeorge called for his pipe.]
Dr. Erath came and amputated the finger. Hansgeorge bore the cruel pain
like a hero. As he lay in a fever for hours after, he seemed to see an
angel hovering over him and fanning him. He did not know that Kitty was
driving the flies away, often bringing her hand very near his face:
such neighborhood of a loving hand, even though there be no actual
touch, has marvellous effects, and may well have fashioned the dream in
his wandering brain. Then again he saw a veiled figure: he could never
recall exactly how she looked; but--so curious are our dreams--it had a
finger in its mouth, and smoked tobacco with it, as if it were a pipe:
the blue whiffs rose up from rings of fire.
Kitty observed that the closed lips of Hansgeorge moved in his sleep.
When he awoke, the first thing he called for was his pipe. He had the
finest pipe in the village; and we must regard it more closely, as it
is destined to play an important part in this history. The head was of
Ulm manufacture, marbleized so that you might fancy the strangest
figures by looking at it. The lid was of silver, shaped like a helmet,
and so bright that you could see your face in it, and that twice
over,--once upside-down and once right side up. At the lower edge also,
as well as at the stock, the head was tipped with silver. A double
silver chain served as the cord, and secured the short stem as well as
the long, crooked, many-jointed mouthpiece. Was not that a splendid
pipe?
"And who shall dare
To chide him for loving his pipe so fair,"
even as an ancient hero loved his shield?
What vexed Hansgeorge most in the loss of his finger was, that he could
not fill his pipe without difficulty. Kitty laughed, and scolded him
for his bad taste; but she filled his pipe nevertheless, took a coal
from the fire to light it, and even drew a puff or two herself. She
shook herself, and made a face, as if she was dreadfully disgusted.
Hansgeorge had never liked a pipe better than that which Kitty started
for him.
Although it was the middle of summer, Hansgeorge could not be taken
home with his wound, and was compelled to stay at the brickmaker's
house. With this the patient was very well content; for, although his
parents came to nurse him, he knew very well that times would come when
he would be alone with Kitty.
The next day was Wendel's wedding; and when the church-bell rang and
the inevitable wedding-march was played in the village, Hansgeorge
whistled an accompaniment in his bed. After church the band paraded
through the village where the prettiest girls were, or where their
sweethearts lived. The boys and girls joined the procession, which
swelled as it went on: they came to the brickmaker's house also.
Fidele, as George's particular friend, came in with his sweetheart to
take Kitty off to the dance; but she thanked them, pleaded household
duties, and remained at home. Hansgeorge rejoiced greatly at this, and
when they ware alone he said,--
"Kitty, never mind: there'll be another wedding soon, and then you and
I will dance our best."
"A wedding?" said Kitty, sadly: "who is going to be married?"
"Come here, please," said Hansgeorge, smiling. Kitty approached, and he
continued:--"I may as well confess it: I shot my finger off on purpose,
because I don't want to be a soldier."
Kitty started back, screaming, and covered her face with her apron.
"What makes you scream?" said Hansgeorge. "A'n't you glad of it? You
ought to be, for you are the cause."
"Jesus! Maria! Joseph! No, no! surely I am innocent! Oh, Hansgeorge,
what a sinful thing you have done! Why, you might have killed yourself!
You are a wild, bad man! I never could live with you; I am afraid of
you."
She would have fled; but Hansgeorge held her with his left hand. She
tried to tear herself away, turned her back, and gnawed the end of her
apron: Hansgeorge would have given the world for a look, but all his
entreaties were in vain. He let her go, and waited a while to see
whether she would turn round; but, as she did not, he said, with a
faltering voice,--
"Will you be so kind as to fetch my father? I want to go home."
"No; you know you can't go home: you might get the lockjaw: Dr. Erath
said you might," returned Kitty,--still without looking at him.
"If you won't fetch anybody, I'll go alone," said Hansgeorge.
Kitty turned and looked on him with tearful eyes, eloquent with
entreaty and tender solicitude. George took her offered hand, and gazed
long and earnestly into the face of his beloved. It was by no means a
face of regular beauty: it was round, full, and plump; the whole head
formed almost a perfect sphere; the forehead was high and strongly
protruding, the eyes lay deep in their sockets, and the little pug
nose, which had a mocking and bantering expression, and the swelling
cheeks, all proclaimed health and strength, but not delicacy or
refinement. George regarded her in her burning blushes as if she had
been the queen of beauty.
They remained silent for a long time. At last Kitty said, "Shall I fill
your pipe for you?"
"Yes," said George, and let go her hand.
This proposal of Kitty's was the best offer of reconciliation. Both
felt it as such, and never exchanged another word on the subject of
their dispute.
In the evening many boys and girls, with flushed cheeks and sparkling
eyes, came to take Kitty to the dance; but she refused to go.
Hansgeorge smiled. When he asked Kitty to go as a favor to him, she
skipped joyfully away, and soon came back in her holiday gown. Another
difficulty arose, however. With all their good nature, none of the
comers cared to give up their dance and stay with Hansgeorge; and Kitty
had just announced her intention, when, fortunately, old Jake came in.
For a good stoup of wine,--which they promised to send him from the
inn,--he agreed to sit up all night, if necessary.
Hansgeorge had got Dr. Erath to preserve his finger in alcohol, and
intended to make Kitty a present of it; but, with all her strength of
nerve, the girl dreaded it like a spectre, and could hardly be induced
to touch the phial. As soon as Hansgeorge was able to leave the house,
they went into the garden and buried the finger. Hansgeorge stood by,
lost in thought, while Kitty shovelled the earth upon it. The wrong he
had done his country by making himself unfit to serve it never occurred
to him; but he remembered that a part of the life which was given him
lay there never to rise again. It seemed as if, while full of life, he
were attending his own funeral; and the firm resolve grew in him to
atone for the waste committed of a part of himself by the more
conscientiously husbanding what yet remained. A thought of death
flitted across his mind, and he looked up with mingled sadness and
pleasure to find himself yet spared and the girl of his heart beside
him. Such reflections glimmered somewhat dimly in his soul, and he
said, "Kitty, you are quite right: I committed a great sin. I hope it
will be forgiven me." She embraced and kissed him, and he seemed to
have a foretaste of the absolution yet to come.
[Illustration: Kitty embraced and kissed him.]
One would expect to find in a man a peculiar fondness for the spot
where a part of his bodily self is buried. As our native country is
doubly dear to us because the bodies of those we love are resting
there,--as the whole earth is revealed in all its holiness when we call
to mind that it is the sepulchre of ages past, that
"all who tread
The earth are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom,"--
so must a man who has already surrendered a part of his dust to become
dust again be attracted by the sacred claims of earth, and often turn
to the resting-place of his unfettered portion.
Thoughts like these, though vaguely conceived, cannot be supposed to
have taken clear form and shape in such a mind as that of our friend
Hansgeorge. He went to the brickmaker's house every day; but it was in
obedience to the attraction, not of something dead, but of a living
being. But, joyfully as he went, he sometimes came away quite sad and
downhearted; for Kitty seemed intent upon teasing and worrying him. The
first thing she required, and never ceased requiring, was that he
should give up smoking. She never allowed him to kiss her when he had
smoked, and before she would sit near him he was always obliged to hide
his darling pipe. In the brickmaker's room he could not smoke on any
account; and, much as he liked to be there, he always took his way home
again before long. Kitty was not mistaken in often rallying him about
this.
Hansgeorge was greatly vexed at Kitty's pertinacity, and always came
back to his favorite enjoyment with redoubled zest. It appeared to him
unmanly to submit to a woman's dictation: woman ought to yield, he
thought; and then it must be confessed that it was quite out of his
power to renounce his habit. He tried it once in haying-time for two
days; but he seemed to be fasting all the time: something was missing
constantly. He soon drew forth his pipe again; and, while he held it
complacently between his teeth and struck his flint, he muttered to
himself, "Kitty and all the women in the world may go to the devil
before I'll stop smoking." Here he struck his finger with the steel,
and, shaking the smarting hand, "This is a judgment," thought he; "for
it isn't exactly true, after all."
At last autumn came on, and George was pronounced unfit for military
service. Some other farmers' boys had imitated his trick by pulling out
their front teeth, so as to make themselves unable to bite open the
cartridges; but the military commission regarded this as intentional
self-mutilation, while that of George, from its serious character, was
pronounced a misfortune. The toothless ones were taken into the carting
and hauling service, and so compelled to go to the wars, after all.
With defective teeth they had to munch the hard rations of the
soldiers' mess; and at last they were made to bite the dust,--which,
indeed, they could have done as well without any teeth at all.
In the beginning of October, the French general Moreau made good his
famous retreat across the Black Forest. A part of his army passed
through Nordstetten: it was spoken of for several days before. There
was fear and trembling in all the village, and none knew which way to
turn. A hole was dug in every cellar, and every thing valuable
concealed. The girls took off their strings of garnets with the silver
medallions, and drew their silver rings from their fingers, to bury
them. All went unadorned, as if in mourning. The cattle were driven
into a secluded ravine near Eglesthal. The boys and girls looked at
each other sadly when the approaching foe was mentioned: many a young
fellow sought the handle of his knife, which peeped out of his
side-pocket.
The Jews were more unfortunate than any others. Rob a farmer of every
thing you can carry away, and you must still leave him his field and
his plough; but all the possessions of the Jews are movables,--money
and goods: they, therefore, trembled doubly and trebly. The Jewish
Rabbi--a shrewd and adroit man--hit upon a lucky expedient. He placed a
large barrel of red wine, well inspirited with brandy, before his
house, and a table with bottles and glasses beside it, for the unbidden
guests to regale themselves. The device succeeded to perfection,--the
more so as the French were rather in a hurry.
In fact, the storm passed over, doing much less damage than was
expected. The villagers collected in large groups to view the passing
troops. The cavalry came first, then a long column of infantry.
Hansgeorge had gone to the brick-yard with his comrades Xavier and
Fidele: he wished to be near Kitty in case of emergency. The three
stood in the garden before the house, leaning upon the fence,
Hansgeorge calmly smoking his pipe. Kitty looked out of the window and
said, "George, if you'll stop smoking you may come into the house with
your friends."
"Wo are quite comfortable here, thank you," replied Hansgeorge, sending
up three or four whiffs in quick succession.
On came the cavalry. They rode in entire disorder, each apparently
occupied with himself alone; and nothing showed that they belonged
together save the common interest manifested in any deviltry undertaken
by any one of them. Several impudently kissed their hands to Kitty,--at
which Hansgeorge grasped his jack-knife and Kitty quickly closed the
sash. The infantry were followed by the forage-wagons and the pitiable
cavalcade of the wounded and dying. This was a wretched sight. One of
them stretched forth a hand which had but four fingers. This curdled
Hansgeorge's blood in his veins: it seemed to him as if he himself were
lying there. The poor sufferer had nothing but a kerchief round his
head, and seemed to shiver with cold. Hansgeorge jumped over the fence,
pulled off his fur cap, and set it on the poor man's head; then he gave
him his leathern purse with all the money in it. The poor fellow made
some signs with his mouth, as if he wished to smoke, and looked
beseechingly at Hansgeorge's pipe; but the latter shook his head. Kitty
brought some bread and some linen, and laid them on the cart. The
maimed warriors looked with pleasure on the blooming lass, and some
made her a military salute and garbled some broken German. No one asked
whether they were friends or foes: the unfortunate and helpless have a
claim on every one.
Another troop of cavalry brought up the rear. Kitty stood at the window
again, while Hansgeorge and his comrades had returned to their post at
the garden-gate. Suddenly Fidele exclaimed, "Look out: the marauders
are coming."
Two ragged fellows in half-uniform, without saddle or stirrup, came
galloping up. While yet a few yards off, they stopped and whispered
something to each other, at which one of them was heard to laugh. They
then rode up slowly, the one coming very near the fence. Quick as a
flash he tore the pipe out of Hansgeorge's mouth, and galloped off at
the top of his horse's speed. Putting the still-burning pipe into his
mouth, he puffed away merrily in derision. Hansgeorge held his chin
with both his hands: every tooth seemed to have been torn out of his
jaw. Kitty laughed heartily, crying, "Go get your pipe, Hansgeorge:
I'll let you smoke now."
"I'll get it," said Hansgeorge, breaking a board of the fence in his
fury. "Come, Fidele, Xavier; let's get our horses out and after them: I
won't let the rascals have my pipe, if I must die for it."
His two comrades went away and took the horses out of the stable. Kitty
came running over, however, and called Hansgeorge into the house. He
came reluctantly, for he was angry with her for laughing at him; but
she took his hand, trembling, and said, "For God's sake, Hansgeorge,
let the pipe alone. I'll do any thing to please you if you'll only mind
me now. How can you let them kill you for such a good-for-nothing pipe?
Do stay here, I beg of you."
"I won't stay here! I don't care if they do send a bullet through my
head! What should I stay here for? You never do any thing but tease
me."
"No, no!" cried Kitty, falling upon his neck: "you must stay here! I
won't let you go."
Hansgeorge felt a strange thrill pass through him; but he asked,
saucily, "Will you be my wife, then?"
"Yes, yes, I will, Hansgeorge! I will!"
They embraced each other with transport, and Hansgeorge exclaimed,
"I'll never put a pipe into my mouth again as long as I live: if I do,
I hope I may be----"
"No, no; don't swear, but keep your word: that's much better. But now
you will stay here, won't you, Hansgeorge? Let the pipe and the
Frenchman go to the devil together."
Xavier and Fidele now came riding up, armed with pitchforks, and cried,
"Hurry up, Hansgeorge! hurry up!"
"I am not going with you," said Hansgeorge.
"What will you give us if we bring your pipe back?" asked Fidele.
"You may keep it."
They rode off post-haste down the Empfingen road, Hansgeorge and Kitty
looking after them. At the little hill by the clay-pit they had nearly
caught up to the marauders; but when the latter found themselves
pursued they turned, brandished their swords, and one of them drew a
pistol. Fidele and Xavier, seeing this, turned round also, and returned
faster than they had come.
From that day Hansgeorge never touched a pipe. Four weeks later his and
Kitty's banns were read in the church.
[Illustration]
One day Hansgeorge went to the brickmaker's: he had come unperceived,
having taken the back way. He heard Kitty say to some one inside. "So
you are sure it is the same?"
"Of course it is," said the person addressed, whose voice he recognised
as belonging to Little Red Meyer, a Jewish peddler. "Why, they were
always seen together: for my part, I don't see how he ever made up his
mind to marry anybody else."
"Well," said Kitty, laughingly, "I only want to make him stare a little
on our wedding-day. So you won't disappoint me, will you?"
"I'll do it as sure as I want to make a hundred thousand florins."
"But Hansgeorge mustn't hear a word about it."
"Mum's the word," said Little Red Meyer, and took his leave.
Hansgeorge came in rather sheepishly, being ashamed to confess that he
had been listening. But when they sat closely side by side, he said,
"Kitty, don't let them put any nonsense into your head: it's no such
thing. They once used to say that I was courting the maid at the Eagle,
who is now in Rothweil: don't you believe a bit of it. I wasn't
confirmed then: it was nothing but child's-play."
Kitty pretended to lay great stress on this matter, and put Hansgeorge
to a world of trouble to clear himself. In the evening he did his best
to pump the whole secret out of Little Red Meyer; but all in vain: his
word was "mum."
Hansgeorge had many things to go through with yet, and, in a manner, to
run the gauntlet of the whole village. On the Sunday before the
wedding, he, as well as his "playmate" Fidele, adorned their hats and
left arms with red ribbons, and went, thus accoutred, from house to
house, the groom that was to be repeating the following speech at
every call:--"I want you to come to the wedding on Tuesday, at the
Eagle. If we can do the same for you, we will. Be sure to come. Don't
forget. Be sure to come." Thereupon the housewife invariably opened the
table-drawer and brought out a loaf of bread and a knife, saying,
"There! have some bread." Then the intended groom was expected to cut a
piece from the loaf and take it with him. The loss of his forefinger
made Hansgeorge rather awkward at this operation; and many would hurt
his feelings unintentionally by saying, "Why, Hansgeorge, you can't cut
the bread. You oughtn't to get married: you are unfit for service."
Hansgeorge rejoiced greatly when this ordeal was over.
[Illustration: The wedding was celebrated with singing and rejoicing.]
The wedding was celebrated with singing and rejoicing, although there
was no shooting, as it had been strictly forbidden since Hansgeorge's
misfortune.
The dinner was uncommonly merry. Immediately after it, Kitty slipped
out into the kitchen, and came back with the memorable pipe in her
mouth: no one, at least, could say that it was not the same. Kitty
puffed away a little with a wry face, and then handed it to Hansgeorge,
saying, "There, take it: you have kept your word like a man, and now
you may smoke as much as you please. I don't mind it a bit."
Hansgeorge blushed up to the eyes, but shook his head. "What I have
said is said, and not a mouse shall bite a crumb off: I'll never smoke
again in all my life. But, Kitty, I may kiss you after you've done
smoking, mayn't I?"
He strained her to his heart, and then confessed, laughing, that he had
overheard a part of Kitty's talk with Little Red Meyer, and had
supposed they were speaking of the maid at the Eagle. The joke was much
relished by all the company.
[Illustration: The pipe was hung up over the wedding-bed.]
The pipe was hung up in state over the wedding-bed of the young couple;
and Hansgeorge often points to it in proof of the maxim that love and
resolution will enable a man to overcome any weakness or foible.
* * * * *
Many years are covered by a few short words. Hansgeorge and Kitty are
venerable grandparents, enjoying a ripe old age in the midst of their
descendants. The pipe is an heirloom in which their five sons have a
common property: not one of them has ever learned to smoke.
MANOR-HOUSE FARMER'S VEFELA.
1.
Not many will divine the orthography of this name in the Almanac; yet
it is by no means uncommon, and the fate of the poor child who bore it
reminds one strongly of the German story of her afflicted patroness,
the holy St. Genevieve.
The grandest house in all the village, which has such a broad front
toward the street that all the wandering journeymen stop there to ask
for a little "assistance," once belonged to Vefela's father: the houses
standing on each side of it were his barns. The father is dead, the
mother is dead, and the children are dead. The grand house is now a
linen-factory. The barns have been altered into houses, and Vefela has
disappeared without a trace.
One thing alone remains, and will probably remain for all time to come.
Throughout the village the grand house still goes by the name of the
Manor-Farmer's House; for old Zahn, Vefela's father, was called the
Manor-House Farmer. He was not a native of the village, but had moved
there from Baisingen, which is five miles away. Baisingen is one of
those fertile villages called "straw shires," and the Baisingers were
nicknamed "straw-boots," from their custom of strewing the streets of
the village with straw. The German peasantry are not difficult to
please in point of cleanliness; and such a device suits their tastes
for two reasons: it saves street-sweeping and helps to make manure
for the numerous fields of such rich folk as the Baisingers. The
Manor-House Farmer lived in the village thirty years; but he never had
a dispute without hearing himself reviled as the Baisingen straw-boots,
and his wife as the Baisingen cripple. Mrs. Zahn had a fine figure and
a good carriage; but her left leg was a little short and made her limp
in walking. This defect was a chief cause of her unusual wealth. Her
father, whose name was Staufer, once said publicly at the inn that the
short leg shouldn't hurt his daughter, because he would put a peck of
crown-thalers under it as her wedding-portion, and see if that wouldn't
make it straight.
He kept his word; for when his daughter married Zahn he filled a
peck-measure with as many dollars as would go into it, stroked it as if
it had been wheat, and said, "There! what's in it is yours." To keep up
the joke, his daughter was told to set her foot upon it, and the peck
of silver flourished on the wedding-table as one of the dishes.
With this money Zahn bought the manorial estate of the counts of
Schleitheim, and built the fine house from which he took his nickname.
Of nine children born to him, five lived,--three sons and two
daughters. The youngest child was Vefela. She was so pretty and of such
delicate frame that they used to call her, half in scorn and half in
earnest, "the lady." Partly from pity and partly from malice, every one
said in speaking of her that she was "marked," for she had inherited
the short leg of her mother. This expression has an evil meaning: it is
applied to humpbacks, to one-eyed and lame persons, as if to insinuate
that God had marked them as dangerous and evil-disposed. Being too
frequently treated with scorn and suspicion, these unfortunates are
often bitter, crabbed, and deceitful: the prejudice against them
provokes the very consequences afterward alleged in proof of its truth.
It was not that Vefela did harm to any one: she was kind and gentle to
all. But the hatred felt by all the village against the manor-house
farmer was transferred to his children.
For eighteen years the manor-house farmer carried on a lawsuit with
the village commune. He claimed the seignorial rights of the estate. He
had fifty votes in the election of the squire; and he drew the
smoking-tithe, the chicken-tithe, the road-tithe, and a hundred other
perquisites, which the farmers never paid without the greatest chagrin,
grumbling, and quarrelling. Such is human nature! A count or a baron
would have received all these taxes without much difficulty; but the
farmer had to swallow a curse with every grain which was yielded by his
fellows. For want of a better revenge, they mowed down the manor-house
farmer's rye-fields at night while the corn was yet green. But this
only made matters worse, for the manor-house farmer recovered his
damages from the commune; and he employed a gamekeeper of his own, half
of whose salary the villagers were bound to pay. So there was no end to
petty disagreements.
A new lawyer having settled in the little town of Sulz, a lawsuit began
between the manor-house farmer and the commune, in which paper enough
was used up to cover acres of ground. Like a great portion of the Black
Forest, the village then belonged to Austria. The "Landoogt" sat at
Rottemburg, the court of appeals at Friburg in the Breisgau: an
important case could be carried still further. In the complicated state
of the higher tribunals, it was easy to keep a suit in a proper state
of confusion to the day of judgment.
The quarrel between the manor-house farmer and the villagers grew in
time into a standing feud between Baisingen and Nordstetten. When they
met at markets or in towns, the Baisingers called the Nordstetters
their subjects or copyholders, because a Baisingen man ruled over them.
The Nordstetters, who went by the nickname of Peaky-mouths, never
failed to retort. One sally provoked another: the badinage remained
friendly for a time, but grew more and more bitter, and, before any one
expected it, there was a declared state of war, and cudgellings were
heard of on all sides. The first occurred at the Ergenzingen fair; and
after that the two parties rarely met without a skirmish. They would
travel for hours to a dance or a wedding, drink and dance quietly
together for a while, and finally break into the real object of their
visit,--the general shindy.
The manor-house farmer lived in the village as if it were a wilderness.
None bade him the time of day; nobody came to see him. When he entered
the inn, there was a general silence. It always seemed as if they had
just been talking about him. He would lay his well-filled tobacco-pouch
upon the table beside him; but the company would sooner have swallowed
pebbles than asked the manor-house farmer for a pipeful of tobacco. At
first he took great pains to disarm the general ill-will by kindness
and courtesy, for he was a good man by nature, though a little rigid;
but when he saw that his efforts were fruitless he began to despise
them all, gave himself no more trouble about them, and only confirmed
his determination to gain his point. He withdrew from all companionship
of his own accord, hired men from Ahldorf to do his field-work, and
even went to church at Horb every Sunday. He looked stately enough when
on this errand. His broad shoulders and well-knit frame made him seem
shorter than he really was; his three-cornered hat was set a little
jauntily on the left side of his head, with the broad brim in front.
The shadow thus flung on his face gave it an appearance of fierceness
and austerity. The closely-ranged silver buttons on his collarless blue
coat, and the round silver knobs on his red vest, jingled, as he
walked, like a chime of little bells.
His wife and children--particularly the two daughters, Agatha and
Vefela--suffered most under this state of things. They often sat
together bewailing their lot and weeping, while their father was
discussing his stoup of wine with his lawyer in town and did not return
till late in the evening. They had become so much disliked that the
very beggars were afraid to ask alms of them, for fear of offending
their other patrons. In double secrecy, as well from their father as
from their neighbors, they practised charity. Like thieves in the
night, they would smuggle potatoes and flour into the garden, where the
poor awaited them.
At last this was too much for Mrs. Zahn to bear: so she went to her
father and told him all her troubles. Old Staufer was a quiet, careful
man, who liked to be safe in whatever he did. First of all, therefore,
he sent his peddler-in-ordinary and general adviser in the practical
duties of his magisterial office, who was of course a Jew, and bore the
name of Marem, to Nordstetten, directing him to inquire privately who
were the actual ringleaders in carrying on the lawsuit, and to see
whether the matter could not be settled. Marem did so, but with an eye
to his private interests. He procured an acquaintance to spread the
report that the manor-house farmer had succeeded in having an imperial
commission appointed to come to Nordstetten and remain there until the
matter was finally adjudicated, at the expense of the losing party.
Then he went himself to the leading spirits, and told them that for a
certain compensation he would bring about a compromise, though it would
be no easy matter. Thus he secured a perquisite from both parties. But
what is the use of all this fine man[oe]uvring, when you have men to
deal with who act like bears and spoil the most exact calculations with
their savage ferocity?
[Illustration: Marem secured a perquisite from both parties.]
Old Staufer now came to Nordstetten, and Marem with him. They went to
the inn, accompanied by the manor-house farmer, "to meet the spokesmen
of the village.
"Good-morning, squire," said the assembled guests to the three men as
they entered, acting as if no one but old Staufer himself had come. The
latter started at this, but called for two bottles of wine, filled his
glass, and drank the health of the company, jingling his glass against
the glasses of the others. But Ludwig the locksmith replied, "Thank
you, but we can't drink. No offence, squire, but we never drink till
after the bargain is made. What the rich gentlemen-farmers of Baisingen
do is more than we can say."
The squire took his glass from his lips and sighed deeply. He then went
to business with much calmness; dwelt upon the folly of throwing away
one's dearly-bought earnings to "those blood-suckers," the lawyers,
reminded the company that every lawsuit eat out of one's dish and
skimmed the marrow-fat from one's soup, and concluded by saying that a
little allowance here and a little allowance there would bring about a
peace.
Each party now proposed a composition; but the two propositions were
far apart. Marem did all he could to bring them nearer to each other.
He took aside first the one and then the other, to whisper something
into their ears. At length he took upon himself, in the teeth of
objections made on both sides, to fix a sum. He pulled them all by the
sleeves and coat-tails, and even tried to force their hands into each
other.
After much wrangling, the manor-house farmer said, "Sooner than take
such a beggar's bit as that, I'll make you a present of the whole, you
starvelings!"
"Why, who spoke to you," said Ludwig the locksmith, "you straw-boots?"
"You'll never walk on straw as long as you live," replied the
manor-house farmer. "I'll find such beds for you that you won't have
straw enough under your heads to sleep on. And if I should be ruined,
and my wife and child too, and not have a span of ground left, I'll not
let you off another farthing. I'll have my rights, if I must go to the
emperor himself. Mark my words." He gnashed his teeth as he rose, and
all hope of a compromise was gone. At last he even quarrelled with his
father-in-law, and went out, banging the door after him.
When he came home, his wife and daughters wept as if somebody had died,
so that all the passers-by stopped to learn what was the matter. But
all their entreaties could not turn the manor-house farmer from his
purpose. Old Staufer returned home without coming to see his daughter:
he sent Marem to say good-bye to her.
The old state of things went on. The manor-house farmer and his wife
had frequent differences, which Vefela had to settle. The father had a
sort of reverence for "the child," for such was the name by which she
went all over the house. There was such angelic mildness in her face,
and her voice had such a magic charm, that if she only took his hand,
looked up into his face with her blue eyes, and said, "Dear daddy," he
became meek and gentle at once: the strong man followed the guidance of
his child as if it were a higher being; he never spoke a harsh word in
her presence, and did every thing to please her, except only to make
peace with his enemies.
Yet on this very subject the obstinacy of the manor-house farmer was
but the cloak for a great struggle which was going on in his mind. He
would fain have extended the hand of reconciliation, but was ashamed to
confess what he called his weakness; and, as matters had gone so far,
he thought his honor was at stake in keeping up the war. The thought of
his honor recalled his pride; and he thought himself superior to the
other farmers. This notion was fostered by the fawning law-clerks of
the town and by mine host of the Crown Inn there, who always talked to
him of his excellent mind and of his barony. He did not believe what
they said; but still he liked to hear it. Finding, in time, that the
townsfolk were really no wiser than himself, and convinced, like all
European peasants, that the city is inhabited by beings of a far
different order from those who plod in the fields, he could not but
come to the conclusion that the peasantry were far beneath him. Not
that he really enjoyed the society of this sort of people, who never
objected to his standing treat for a stoup of wine; "but," thought he,
"a man must have some company, and it's better than farmers' gossip,
after all." At last, without avowing it even to himself, he enjoyed the
stimulus to his vanity which their conversation afforded.
Such is life. The manor-house farmer quarrelled with himself, with his
wife, with his fellow-men, with everybody and every thing, because he
would not humble himself to surrender a jot or tittle of these old
feudal rights, or rather wrongs, when he had enough and to spare
without them: the confusion of his heart and of his mind increased from
day to day, and he undermined his happiness and that of his family when
they might all have enjoyed so much good fortune.
After a time, a few old farmers, who had no warm stoves at home, or
whose scolding wives made their dwellings too hot to hold them, would
drop in to see the manor-house farmer of a winter evening; but he
received them sullenly, vexed that these only came and not the more
important and influential. Their visits soon ceased.
The mother and daughters often spent a week with her father at
Baisingen, but the manor-house farmer did not go with them. He never
saw his father-in-law again until he lay upon his bier.
[Illustration: Hard times did not leave a single farm-house unvisited.]
The life in the village became more and more disagreeable. It is a sad
thing to go into the fields and not receive a friendly greeting from
all you meet. The manor-house farmer, to make the time pass away, was
forced to talk to his dog, Sultan,--a poor entertainment for a man at
any time.
The hard times brought upon Europe by Napoleon did not leave a single
farm-house of the Black Forest unvisited. Strasbourg was not far away,
and those who had good hearing maintained that they had heard the shots
fired off there in honor of the French victories. This was said to be a
sign of great trouble in the land,--just as if any sign were needed to
show that things would be turned upside-down.
The preparations for the Russian campaign were going on briskly. The
manor-house farmer's oldest sons, Philip and Caspar, were forced to go:
their father would rather have gone himself, for he was tired of every
thing. He saw the departure of his sons with the stony silence of one
whose faculties for wishes or for hopes were gone.
Philip and Caspar were probably buried in the Russian snows: at all
events, they have never been heard of. General Huegel used to tell a
story of a soldier whom he had seen on the retreat from Moscow leaving
the ranks and shedding copious tears over his many distresses. The
general rode up to him and asked, kindly, "Where are you from?"
"I'm the manor-house farmer's boy from the Black Forest over there,"
answered the soldier, pointing sideways, as if his father's house were
within gunshot around the corner. The general was so much amused by the
soldier's answer that the tears ran down his cheeks also and turned to
icicles in his mustache.
This is all that was ever known of the life and death of the
manor-house farmer's two sons.
Meantime, pleasure and pain were mingled at home. When a misfortune
lasts long, people manage to live in it as if it were a house, and make
themselves comfortable. While in health, man cannot cultivate sorrow
beyond a given length of time, the fountain of life always lifts the
gladness of life like the sunbeams upon its waters. Harvest-homes and
weddings were once more held at home, while far away in the distant
steppe hundreds of sons, brothers, and sweethearts were laid on the
cold bed of death.
Agatha, the oldest daughter, was engaged to be married to the innkeeper
of Entingen: the manor-house farmer, at war with the whole village, had
to see his children travel out of his sight and easy reach. At the
wedding-day, Vefela, the bride's-maid, looked beautiful. She was
dressed just like the bride, with a crown or tiara of glittering
silver-foil around her head, and her hair, which hung down her back in
two long wefts, tied in red silk ribbons a handbreadth wide. This
is a decoration which none but virgins are permitted to wear: those
who cannot claim the title are compelled to wear white linen ribbons
or tape. Around her neck was the chain of garnets worn by every
peasant-girl, the dark color of which displayed the brilliant fairness
of her tints to great advantage. The collar of white lace was partially
covered by a nosegay which was set in the bosom of her scarlet bodice
with its silver chains and clasps. The wide blue skirt reached down to
the knees and was half covered with, a white apron; at the shoulders,
and at the ends of her short linen sleeves, red ribbons fluttered
gayly. The high-heeled, wooden-soled shoes made her limping gait more
unsteady still. And yet, as she walked to the church beside her sister
to the sound of music and the firing of pistols, she looked so charming
that all wished she had been the bride instead of the bride's-maid.
Who knows where were the manor-house farmer's sons while he sat with
his guests at the wedding-table? No one thought of them. Once only
Vefela sank into a deep brown study and gazed fixedly into vacancy. She
seemed to see nothing of what was going on around her: her look seemed
to pierce the walls and to wander searching into space. She was
thinking of her brothers that were gone.
Not two months later, Melchior, the third son of the manor-house
farmer, was married also. At Agatha's wedding he had made the
acquaintance of the only daughter of the innkeeper of the Angel, in
Ergenzingen, and engaged himself to her. Although Melchior was still
very young and scarcely a year older than Vefela, the wedding was
hurried as much as possible, lest he might also be forced to go to the
wars. Melchior left the village, and Vefela was left at home alone. The
mother's health failed. A silent grief was gnawing at her life. She
always wished to induce her husband to sell all he had and live with
one of his married children; but his answers were so harsh that she was
forced to drop the subject. These were sad times for Vefela, for she
was always called upon to mediate and make peace. Her mother's
ill-health increased her fretfulness; and she often said that if her
father were still living she would leave her husband. These two people
had lived to see the second generation which issued from their union,
and yet they could not come to understand each other: the older they
grew the more did their heart-burnings and bickerings increase. Vefela
always brought matters around, and wore an air of gayety and happiness;
but in private she often wept bitterly over her sad lot and that of her
parents, and made many vows never to marry. She knew no one to whom she
would have devoted herself; and then she saw how much she was needed in
the house to prevent the smouldering flames from bursting through the
ashes. It is written that God visits the sins of the fathers upon the
children. Such is the case particularly with evil marriages. The heart
that is without love to its father and its mother is exposed to many
dangers.
The death of Vefela's mother suddenly made her father feel how dearly,
after all, he had loved her in his inmost heart. He grieved to think
that he had not been more indulgent, and that he had often taken her
ailments for pretexts and affectation. Every unkind word he had uttered
stung him to the soul: he would gladly have given his life to recall
it. Such are we. Instead of bearing with and sustaining each other in
life, most men grieve when it is too late, when death has made the
irreparable separation. Why not love while yet we live? Every hour not
spent in kindness is so much robbed from the life of those around us,
which can never be restored.
On Sunday the manor-house farmer no longer went to church in the town,
but to the village church, for his wife lay buried beneath the shadow
of its steeple: he always took the roundabout way of the churchyard.
The weekly visit to his wife's grave seemed like an effort to atone for
his shortcomings toward her in life.
The house was all quiet now. Not a loud word was spoken, and Vefela
ruled there like a spirit of peace. Peace was there, but not joy: some
one seemed to be always missed or anxiously expected. Still, the effect
of Vefela's management on the manor-house farmer was such that he
gradually regained his spirits: he did nothing without consulting "the
child." Indeed, he left almost every thing to her disposal: when any
thing was asked of him, he usually answered, "Ask Vefela."
Thus they lived for years. Vefela was over five-and-twenty. Many
suitors asked for her hand; but she always said that she did not wish
to marry; and her father always assented. "Vefela," he would say, "you
are too refined for a farmer, and when I have gained my lawsuit we will
move into town, and I will give you a peck of dollars for your portion,
and you can choose a gentleman." Vefela would laugh; but secretly she
agreed with her father, at least in so far that she made up her mind
that if she ever did marry it should not be a farmer. She had suffered
so much from the ill-governed passions and implacable hatred of the
peasantry that she had contracted a great hatred against them. She
thought that in town, where people are more refined and have better
manners, they must also be better and truer. She had steeled herself to
bear her troubles only by looking upon the people about her as coarse,
and herself as something higher; and, after pondering on the matter for
so many years, she had come not only to think herself better, but even
to fancy that she occupied a higher position. This was her great
misfortune.
2.
It is a great mistake to suppose that in the country people, may live
alone and undisturbed. Such a thing is only possible in a large city,
where men take no interest in each others' affairs, where one man may
meet the other daily for years, and never think of inquiring who he is
or what he does; where you pass a human being without a greeting or
even a look, just as if he were a stone. In the country, where
everybody knows everybody, each one is compelled to account to all the
others' for what he does: no one can rest content with the approbation
of his own judgment. In the Black Forest the passing word of
recognition varies with the direction of your steps. If you are going
down hill, the passer-by inquires, "'You going down there?" If you are
ascending, "'You going up there?" If he finds you loading a wagon, he
says, "Don't load too heavy," or, "Don't work too hard." If you are
sitting before your door or on a stile, it is, "'You resting a little?"
If two are talking, the third man who passes by says, "Good counsel,
neighbors?" and so on.
There is a charm in this communion of work and rest, word and thought;
but the custom has its drawbacks. Any one having good or bad reasons of
his own for disposing of his time in a manner different from what is
customary has to contend against the gossip and the jibes and mockery
of all. An old bachelor or an old maid are in particular the butts of
this sort of street-raillery, whether it be from poverty or any other
motive that they cling to their single condition.
The more Vefela approached the sombre years of old-maidenhood, the more
was the "manor-house lady" persecuted by this sort of fun. One Sunday,
as she walked through the village, a crowd of young men were standing
before the town-hall, and "Tralla," the butt of the village,--a poor
simpleton who was half dumb,--stood near them. When they saw Vefela,
one of them cried, "Tralla, there comes your sweetheart." Tralla
grinned from ear to ear. They urged him on to take his sweetheart by
the arm. Poor Vefela heard them, and almost sank to the ground with
shame and vexation. Already had Tralla hobbled up and taken her arm,
with his brutal features distorted with fun. Vefela raised her eyes to
the young fellows with a look so full of entreaty and reproach that one
of them was actually induced to take her part. What he said was not
heard, being drowned in the uproarious laughter of the others. Here
Vefela found a rescuer whom nobody had expected. Her father's dog Nero,
who had followed her, suddenly sprang on Tralla's back, seized him by
the collar, and dragged him down. Vefela took him away from his victim
in all haste, and hurried on her way. From that time Nero was a power
in the village. The whole affair mortified Vefela greatly, and
confirmed her in her dislike to farmers and farmers' ways.
Vefela spent some weeks with her brother Melchior, in Ergenzingen. Here
too she was often sad; for Melchior had hard-hearted, stingy wife, who
hardly gave him enough to eat.
[Illustration: The squire of Ergenzingen.]
The squire of Ergenzingen, a widower with three children, frequently
came to Melchior's house; and one day he asked Vefela to marry him.
Vefela was disposed to consent; for, though not attached to the squire,
she was weary of her lonesome life, and hoped to derive pleasure from
being a kind mother to the children. But the manor-house farmer came
and told his daughter that the squire was a hard man, who had been
unkind to his first wife, and, besides, that Vefela could only be happy
with a man of great refinement. The squire was rejected. But his
proposal had been heard of in Ergenzingen; and the boys, with whom he
was unpopular on account of his strictness, came one night and strewed
bran all along the path between his house and Melchior's. The squire
forthwith began to hate the manor-house farmer and Vefela: she returned
with her father to the solitude of his roof.
Vefela would have done better to have followed her own counsel and
married the squire; but her doom was sealed, and she could not escape
it.
The life of the manor-house farmer seemed likely to end sooner than his
lawsuit. The strong man was sinking under petty ailments: the trouble
and chagrin so long suppressed had gnawed his core. For hours and hours
he would sit speechless in his arm-chair, only murmuring occasionally
an indistinguishable word to his dog Nero, whose head was on his
master's knee, while his faithful eyes looked up into his face. Vefela
could not be with him always, and he now felt doubly the dreariness of
his lot. He would have given any thing for the privilege of receiving a
guest in his warm, cosy room, only to have given or received a pinch of
snuff. He went to the window and looked out; he coughed when anybody
passed; but no one spoke to him, no one came. He closed the sash and
returned grumbling to his seat.
It was two days before New-Year. Vefela had gone to the well with the
maid for water. She purposely did this coarse kind of work because the
villagers had said that she was ashamed of it. Just as her bucket was
full, the girl said, "Look at that man there with the double eyes: I
guess he is the new surgeon."
[Illustration: The maid said to Vefela, 'Look at that man there with
the double eyes.']
A man in citizens' dress, with spectacles on his nose, was coming down
the village. Just as he was passing the two girls, Vefela took the pail
on her head; but, by an unlucky step, she slipped upon the ice and
fell, pouring the water over her. When she recovered herself the
strange gentleman was standing by her: he took her hand and helped her
up, and then asked her, kindly, whether she had not hurt herself, for
she had had a bad fall. There was something so winning in the tone of
his voice that Vefela experienced a strange sensation: she thanked him
quite warmly, and assured him that she was not hurt. She walked on, the
gentleman beside her.
"Why, you are limping," said he again. "Does your foot pain you?"
"No," answered Vefela; "I have a short foot;" and, though she was
chilled through, the blood shot into her face. She covered her face
with her apron, pretending to wipe it, though it was wet through and
through. The stranger now remarked that her limp was scarcely to be
perceived. Vefela smiled, half incredulous, half flattered. It was a
strange thing to Vefela to find the gentleman walking by her side
through the village, all the way to her father's house; and even there
he entered with her, with a word of apology, to which he gave no time
to reply. Nero, however, sprang upon the stranger, and would have
dragged him down had not the manor-house farmer and Vefela interfered.
The stranger now gave sundry directions to guard against Vefela's
taking cold. She must go to bed, drink tea, and so on.
Edward Brenner (for such was his name) sat down and chatted cosily with
the manor-house farmer. Not an hour passed before he was master of his
whole history. The latter took a strong liking to Dr. Brenner, but
spoke so much of the spectacles, and asked so often whether he had need
of them all the time, that Brenner soon perceived that this instrument
of learning was not agreeable to him. He took them off, and the
manor-house farmer nodded pleasantly, observing that he could talk with
a man much better when his head was not in a lantern. He now gave him a
full account of his bodily grievances also. Brenner looked wise, said
that the doctors had all mistaken his disease, and prescribed an
infallible remedy.
From this time forth he visited the manor-house farmer daily. All were
glad to see him except Nero, who proved so intractable that he had to
be chained whenever Brenner came. One day the latter threw him a piece
of bread as he was leaving the house; but the dog never touched it, but
sprang furiously at the giver.
Vefela was not equally inaccessible to the fine speeches and flatteries
of Brenner. She often scolded the maid for saying that Brenner had but
one coat, for he wore the same in the week and on Sunday. Such was the
way with the gentlefolks, she said; and everybody knew it who wasn't
too stupid. She often lingered near when Brenner talked with her
father, and rejoiced to find the latter almost invariably pleased with
the views advanced by the surgeon. His health happened to improve a
little after taking Brenner's prescription: this gave the latter an
excuse for saying again and again that he was in fact a better doctor
than the licensed physician, but that the law prevented him from
practising. He scolded about those who thought the only way to be wise
was to cram your head with books. "Practice makes perfect," he said. "A
farmer who knows the world often understands more about government
matters than all the ministers and governors; and so it is in
medicine." This mixture of sense and nonsense was very pleasing to the
manor-house farmer's ears: it jumped exactly with what his own
experience had made him wish to be true. The lawsuit also came in for a
share of the kind solicitude of Brenner. He confirmed the notion of the
manor-house farmer to meet in kind the tactics of his adversaries, and
resort to bribery. Brenner suggested the shrewd expedient of stealing a
march on the other party by giving gold instead of silver. Those were
the "good old times" when a lawsuit could not come to an end without
"cribbings" and officials had no hesitation in receiving illegal pay.
One evening, as Brenner left the house, Vefela accompanied him to the
door, and they remained standing there a while together. Brenner took
Vefela's hand and said, "'Pon honor, Vefela, you are a sweet girl,
and not like the peasant-girls at all: you are too refined for a
peasant-girl. 'Pon honor: and you have as much sense as any of them in
the city."
Vefela said he was making fun of her; but in her heart she believed
him. He kissed Vefela's hand and took his leave, taking off his hat
politely to Vefela. She remained standing under the door a long time
with thoughtful eyes and a pleased smile upon her lips: Brenner's
polite and yet kind-hearted manner had pleased her greatly. She went
upstairs singing, and let the soup-bowl fall out of her hands,--at
which she laughed aloud. Every thing was so delightful that evening
that she could not frown, no matter what happened. Late at night she
went into the cellar and brought the men a bottle of cider: they must
have a little enjoyment on a working-day for once.
The intimacy between Brenner and Vefela increased from day to day.
An event which had been so long expected that it almost took them by
surprise brought rejoicing into the manor-house. The news came that the
lawsuit was gained. The opponents had been at Rottenburg, where the
magistrate had told them very plainly, though with a little
circumlocution, that "the manor-house farmer's duns had come in ahead
of their grays." Though confined to the house, the manor-house farmer
put on his Sunday clothes and poured a whole pot of fresh milk into
Nero's breakfast. He sent to Melchior and Agatha to come and rejoice
with him: nobody cared to let him know that Agatha was on her
death-bed. Brenner, also, was sent for; and he alone accepted the
invitation. The manor-house farmer sat up till late at night, drinking,
laughing, and talking, and sometimes lapsing into sudden seriousness.
He sighed to think that his "old woman" could not share his good luck,
and drank a full glass to her memory. At last, as he was beginning to
nod in his chair, they carried him to bed.
It was very late when Brenner started to go. Vefela lighted him to
the door: they were both greatly excited, and exchanged fervent kisses.
On his entreaties and solicitations, Vefela at last said, aloud,
"Good-night." Brenner did the same, took the key, unlocked the door,
closed it with a bang, and locked it. But he had not left the house.
No one had any suspicions except Nero, who was tied in the yard, and
who barked all night as if a thief had got into the house.
Life and death were both busy in that house that night. The next
morning the manor-house farmer lay dead in his bed: the palsy had
struck him.
None could understand why it was that Vefela raved like a maniac by the
bedside of her father. Usually so calm and moderate, she could not be
made to hear reason now.
The estate was again purchased by a baron, and the farmers bore their
feudal burdens without a murmur.
3.
Vefela moved to Ergenzingen, to live with her brother Melchior.
Nobody accompanied her from the village except Nero. Agatha died soon
after her father, and people whispered that Vefela would marry her
brother-in-law; but that was out of the question. Brenner came to
Ergenzingen several times every week. He must have raised money in some
way or other, for he was always showily dressed, and had a peculiar
confidence, almost amounting to arrogance, in his behavior to Vefela as
well as to others. He gave them all to understand that he must be
addressed as "Doctor." Vefela did not quite understand it all, but she
did not complain, as she had made him acquainted with her situation.
Melchior had a man employed whose name was Wendel,--a stalwart,
hard-working fellow, who shared all Nero's friendships and enmities. He
loved the dog because the dog hated Brenner, and loved him doubly for
his devotion to Vefela. In Germany, polite people address each other as
"they;" equals on intimate terms are the "thee" and "thou;" and
superiors sometimes undertake to address inferiors as "he" or "she."
Brenner had once addressed Wendel as "he;" and this gave the latter,
what he had long desired, a pretext for hating the "beard-scraper" like
poison. In spite of this, however, he never objected to hunting him up
in town, even late at night, whenever Vefela took the trouble to say,
"Wendel, won't you, please?" Then he trudged along, and Nero ran with
him, and they brought the doctor a letter from Vefela. Sometimes, when
he had ploughed all day and was more tired than his horses, it cost
Vefela but a word to make him hook up again and take Brenner to town
through storm and darkness.
One Saturday night Vefela said to Wendel in the yard, "To-morrow you
must be so kind as to drive to Horb early in the morning and bring
Brenner here."
"Is it true," asked Wendel, "that you are going to be betrothed to
him?"
"Yes."
"Take my advice and don't do it. There are honest farmers in the world
enough."
Vefela replied, "You can't forgive Brenner for having said 'he' to
you." She had intended to say more, but checked herself, not wishing to
offend the poor fellow. To herself she said, "It is shocking how stupid
and obstinate these farmers are," and congratulated herself on having
got over all that. Notwithstanding his demurrer, Wendel was on the road
long before daybreak.
Vefela and Brenner were now publicly betrothed, and people gossiped a
good deal about it, some even hinting that Brenner had given the
manor-house farmer a drink of which he died, as he had refused his
consent to the match. So over-cunning is foul-mouthed suspicion.
The first change to which Vefela was now forced to submit was a very
sad one. Brenner sent a seamstress from the town to fit dresses for
her. Vefela felt like a recruit who is no longer his own master, and is
forced to wear any clothes brought to him, because the lot has picked
him out; but she submitted without a word. Next Sunday, when she had to
put on the new dresses, she stood weeping beside the seamstress, and
took a sad farewell of every piece. The skirt was particularly hard to
part with: her mother had given it to her when she was confirmed, and
had told her to go in it to the altar when she married. It is a great
defect in a city lady's dress that it cannot be put on or off without
the assistance of a servant. Vefela shuddered as the seamstress fumbled
about her. Her hair was braided and put up in a comb; and, when all was
done, Vefela could not help laughing as she looked at herself in the
window and made herself a reverential bow.
Brenner was delighted when she bashfully entered the room: he said she
looked ten times as pretty as before. But when Vefela said that the
city dresses amounted to nothing after all,--that one peasant's dress
was worth more, and cost more too, than six such city flags,--Brenner
looked cross, and said that that was "silly village-prattle." Vefela
bit her lips, and her eyes were full of tears: she went out and wept.
She very seldom left the house, for she was ashamed to be "marked" so.
She thought everybody must be looking at her. Only one other girl in
the village wore city dresses. She had been brought up by old Ursula,
and no one knew exactly where she came from.
Vefela had hard times in Melchior's house, for his wife was a very
dragon, and always gave birth to still-born children,--so that people
said they were poisoned in her womb. Melchior and Vefela often sat in
the barn, pretending to amuse themselves by peeling turnips, but in
fact eating them with much appetite. Vefela did her best to encourage
her brother to yield and keep the peace. She knew what it was to live
in a house divided against itself, and thought a quiet life cheaply
bought at almost any sacrifice. Melchior was a good fellow, and agreed
to every thing.
Vefela urged Brenner with increasing earnestness to hasten their
marriage. Then he suddenly came out with a new project. He would go to
America. He knew as much of doctoring as the official physician, but
the laws would not allow him to practise here; so he would go to a free
country. Vefela wrung her hands, fell on her knees, and besought him to
give up the plan: they had money enough to live comfortably without
doctoring. But Brenner was not to be moved, and scolded Vefela for a
"stupid peasant-girl that didn't know there were people living 'tother
side the big hill." Poor Vefela gave way at this: she lay with her face
on the ground, and the dreadful thought swept through her mind that she
was despised and would be wretched for life. Brenner must have guessed
at her thoughts: he came, raised her up gently, kissed her, and spoke
so well and so politely that Vefela forgave and forgot every thing and
agreed to go to America with him at once. Where would she not have gone
if he had led the way?
Brenner made all the preparations. Vefela's fortune was turned into
money and exchanged for gold, to be of better use for travelling.
Vefela kept it in the same press with her wardrobe.
The banns were to be spoken at the church; but Brenner's papers never
arrived from Hohenlohe, his birthplace. At last he came one day when
Vefela was busy at the wash-tub, and said, "Vefela, I'll tell you what:
I'll go home and get my papers myself. A friend of mine is waiting at
the door in the carriage; and so I shall have a ride for nothing as far
as Tuebingen. While I'm about it, I'll get our passport countersigned
by the ambassador, and then we can be off in the fall."
"The sooner the better," said Vefela.
"By-the-by," said Brenner, again, "I'm out of change: couldn't you let
me have a little?"
"Here is the key," said Vefela: "help yourself. You know where it
is,--at your left hand as you open the press, by the new linen which is
tied with blue tape."
Brenner went up-stairs and returned after some time. Vefela dried her
hand with her apron and gave it to him: his hand trembled. She wished
to go with him a little way, but he begged her to stay, and ran quickly
down the stairs. Vefela was hurt that he would not let her go with him
to the door, supposing that he was ashamed of having his friend see
her. What was all this to end in? Bitter tears fell into the wash-tub
at the thought of it. Still, she went up into her attic and looked out
of the window to follow the carriage with her eyes. What was her
astonishment when she saw that the carriage, instead of taking the road
to Tuebingen, started toward Herrenberg! It was on her lips to call to
the travellers that they were on the wrong road; but she bethought
herself that she must have misunderstood Brenner, or that he might have
made a slip of the tongue.
A week, a fortnight, passed by, and nothing was seen or heard of
Brenner. Vefela was often sad to think that her whole life was to be
given to a man who did not esteem her: she was not proud, yet she could
not help thinking how much every one in the village, even the squire
himself, would have felt honored by her hand. But again the mere
recollection of Brenner would make her happy as a queen, and she would
beg his forgiveness in thought for all the unkind ideas she had had of
him. She saw no fault in him now: when those we love are away we never
see their faults, but only their virtues. Had Brenner but had a single
virtue!
When Melchior wondered why Brenner remained so long away, she would
answer in such a manner as to make him suppose she knew the reason and
was not disturbed about it.
One day, when in low spirits, Vefela went into her room. For a long
time she looked out of the window in the direction from which Brenner
was to come. To dispel her sadness by a look at her wedding-dress, she
opened the press. Oh pity! what did she behold! Every thing rifled and
strewed about as if the Pandours had been there. Involuntarily her hand
sought the money: it was gone! She shrieked aloud, and the whole truth
flashed upon her. The wrong road--the trembling hand--the fear of her
going with him--the long absence! She flew to the window to fling
herself out. A hand seized her and held her back. Melchior had heard
her cry and hastened to her. Vefela fell upon her knees, wrung her
hands, and told him the dreadful truth. Melchior raved and swore. He
would find him out. He would bring him before every court in the
empire. Then Vefela sank upon her face and told him her shame: her
brother sank down by her side and wept with her. Long they remained
closely pressed against each other, sobbing aloud, without speaking a
word, and almost afraid to look each other in the face.
Whoever is acquainted with human nature, and with the German peasantry
in particular, will fully appreciate the goodness exercised by Melchior
in never reproaching his sister with her fall. On the contrary, he did
his best to restore her love of life. Most people make themselves paid
for their sympathy with misfortune by immediately giving full vent to
their friendly mortification and their wise admonitions. This treatment
may do for children and for people who know not what they have done or
what has befallen them; but for those who feel the arrow rankling in
their flesh it is sheer cruelty to harry them still further, instead of
drawing it out with care and tenderness.
They held counsel together what was to be done, and agreed that the
main thing was to keep quiet and adjust the whole affair secretly. With
a resolution quite unlike him, Melchior made his wife give him money,
and started in his little wagon in pursuit of Brenner. Vefela wished to
go too, and seemed desperate at the thought of having nothing to do but
stay at home and weep; but Melchior kindly persuaded her not to
undertake the journey.
Days and weeks passed in silent wretchedness. Those who had known
Vefela before would have been frightened at the change in her. But she
saw nobody, and lived a life of hopelessness which was hardly life. She
ate and drank, slept and waked, but seemed to know nothing of what she
was doing, and looked straight before her, like a mad woman. She could
not even weep any more. Her soul seemed to be buried alive in her body.
She saw and heard the world around her, but she could not find and
could not understand herself.
When Melchior returned without having seen a trace of the runaway,
Vefela heard his story with heart-rending calmness. She seemed
incapable of surprise. For days she hardly spoke a word. Only when she
heard that Brenner was pursued with warrants giving an exact
description of his appearance did she break out into loud wailings. A
million tongues seemed to proclaim her sorrows and her shame throughout
the land. And yet--so inexhaustible is love--she wept almost more for
Brenner than for herself.
Yet her misery had not yet reached its climax. When Melchior's wife
discovered her condition she became more wicked than ever. Vefela bore
all this with patience; the double life within her seemed to give her
strange new powers of mind and body, which bore her safely through her
troubles. But when she heard her sister-in-law reproach Melchior and
curse the day in which she had entered a family that had such a stain
upon it, then the heart of the poor unfortunate bled deeply. She, the
angel of peace, to be the disgrace of such a dragon! This was too much
to bear.
It was the sad fate of poor Vefela that a phalanx of bad or weak men
and women, clad in the dismal garb of gloomy passions, lined the path
on which her journey through life had been cast. This prevented her
from recognising those bright exceptions who do not press forward
hastily, because their unostentatious dignity holds them back, and
because they have a right to suppose that they will be detected without
it.
As Vefela sat weeping on the kitchen-hearth one day, Wendel came in and
said, "'Mustn't cry: don't you mind how I told you there were plenty of
good farmers' boys in the world, though they don't know how to make
bows and shambles?"
Vefela looked up with tearful eyes, astonished at the speech. But she
said nothing, and after a while Wendel went on:--
"Yes, look at me: what I say is as true as if the parson said it in the
pulpit." He took Vefela's hand and said, "To make it short, I know all
about it: but you are better than a hundred others for all that; and,
if you will say the word, we shall be man and wife in a fortnight; and
your child shall be my child."
Vefela quickly drew away her hand and covered her eyes. Then, rising,
she said, with a burning blush, "Do you know that I am as poor as a
beggar? You didn't know that, did you?"
Wendel stood still a while, anger and pity contending for the mastery
within him. He was ashamed of Vefela's words for her sake and for his
own. At last he said, "Yes, I know it all. If you were rich yet, I
would never have opened my mouth. My mother has a little lot, and I
have saved a little money: we can both work and live honestly."
Vefela looked up to heaven with folded hands, and then said, "Forgive
me, Wendel: I didn't mean to speak so wickedly. I am not so bad; but
the whole world seems so wicked to me. Forgive me, Wendel."
"Well, do you say the word?" he inquired.
Vefela shook her head, and Wendel, stamping the ground, asked, "Why
not?"
"I can't talk much," said Vefela, breathing hard; "but, forgive me, I
can't. God will reward your good heart for this: but now please don't
let us speak another word about it."
Wendel went out and gave Melchior warning against next Martinmas.
At last the worst came. The squire of the village had heard of her
condition, and now gave full scope to the spite he had so long
harbored. He sent the constable to tell her that she must leave the
village, as otherwise her child, if born there, would have a right to
claim a settlement and come upon the parish.
Vefela would not allow any resistance to be made to this act of
cruelty. In a stormy autumn night she got into the little wagon, and
Wendel drove her to Seedorf. On the road Wendel tried to comfort her as
well as he could. He said he could never forgive himself for not having
pitched Brenner down the Bildechingen steep, as he once intended, and
mashed him to a jelly. Vefela seemed almost glad to find no chance to
live at Seedorf. Wendel begged and implored her to go with him to his
mother in Bohndorf. But she was deaf to all his prayers, sent him back
next morning, and went on her way on foot to Tuebingen, as she said.
Nero had gone with them too, and would not be separated from Vefela.
Wendel had to tie him with a rope under the little wagon.
The wind drove the rain about, and the soil was so slippery that Vefela
lost her footing at every step as she took the way to Rottenburg. She
wore a city dress, and had a light-red kerchief on her neck. Under her
arm was a little bundle. An old song, long forgotten, suddenly returned
to her thoughts,--the song of the earl's daughter who was betrayed.
Without opening her lips, she often repeated to herself,--
"O, weep ye for your land so wide,
Or weep ye for your fallen pride?
Or your bright cheeks that are so wan,
Or for your honor that is gone?
Gone, gone!
Your honor that is gone."
She was hardly a hundred yards out of Seedorf before something rushed
up to her. At first she started; but soon her eyes brightened, for it
was Nero. He had a piece of rope around his neck, and seemed so happy!
The storm was so severe that it seemed as if two stones were being
struck together close by your ears, and as if intangible, rustling
curtains were weaving themselves around and around as if to smother
you. As she went slowly on her way, of a sudden the thought fell on her
like a thunderbolt that Brenner was now upon the sea. Only once had she
seen a picture of the storm in the gospel, but now she saw the terrible
reality: she was in the midst of it herself. The dark, hilly billows
tossed the ship, and there stood Brenner stretching out his arms and
wailing. There! There! Vefela raised her arms, her lips parted, but the
scream died in her mouth: she saw Brenner buried in the waves. Her arms
sank to her side, she bowed her head, folded her hands, and prayed long
for the soul of the lost one. Thus she stood for a long time, fully
knowing that Brenner had died that instant. With a deep sigh she looked
up again, took the bundle, which had fallen from her hand, and went on.
On the hill where the road turns and Rottenburg is displayed to the
eye, stands a chapel. Vefela entered, and prayed long and fervently. On
leaving the chapel again, the long plain before her had the appearance
of a lake: the Neckar had overflown its banks. Vefela went outside of
the town toward Hirschau. Here she met an old acquaintance,--Marem, her
grandfather's Jew adviser. He had a bag strapped across his shoulder,
and was leading a cow toward Hirschau. Who would have supposed that
Marem's sympathy for Vefela drew tears from his eyes? Yet so it was.
Take a village Jew and a peasant of the same degree of intelligence,
and you will find the former more cunning, more on the alert for his
profit, and apparently more cold; but in all purely human misfortune
you will see a warmth and a delicacy of feeling which lift him far
above his ordinary existence. His peculiar lot has deadened his social
feelings, but has concentrated his heart all the more upon that which
is purely human.
Marem tried his utmost to dissuade Vefela from pursuing her aimless
journey. He offered to take her to his own house, and even to raise
money for her. Vefela refused every thing. At Hirschau they both went
into a tavern: Marem had a good soup boiled for Vefela; but after the
first spoonful she got up again to continue her journey. Marem wished
to keep the dog back; but the faithful beast refused to stay behind,
and Vefela departed with a "God reward you."
[Illustration: Nero came running up with a red kerchief in his mouth.]
An hour later, Marem, having sold his cow, went to Tuebingen also. Not
far from Hirschau, Nero came running up to him with a red kerchief in
his mouth. Marem grew pale with fear. Nero ran forward, and he
followed: they came to a spot where the water had overrun the road; the
dog sprang in, and swam on and on, on and on, until he was lost to
sight.
* * * * *
The grandest house in all the village once belonged to Vefela's father.
The father is dead, the mother is dead, and Vefela has disappeared
without a trace.
NIP-CHEEKED TONEY.
On the ridge where the road forks, and leads to Muehringen on one side
and to Ahldorf on the other, in what is called the "Cherry-copse,"
three lasses were sitting one Sunday afternoon under a blossoming
cherry-tree. All around was quiet: not a plough creaked nor a wagon
rattled. As far as the eye could see, Sunday rested everywhere. From
the opposite hill, where the church of an old monastery is yet
standing, a bell tolled its farewell to the worshippers who were
returning to their homes. In the valley the yellow rape-seed blossomed
among the green rye-fields; and on the right, where the Jewish
graveyard crowns a gentle eminence, the four weeping willows which mark
its corners drooped motionless over the graves of the grandmother,
mother, and five children who were all burned in one house together.
Farther down, amid the blooming trees, was a wooden crucifix, painted
white and red. Every thing else breathed still life. The "beech-wood,"
the only remnant of leaf-forest in the whole neighborhood, was dressed
in its brightest green, and the gladed pine-grove swept along the road
in unruffled calmness. Not a breath stirred. High up in the air the
sky-lark trilled his gladness, and the quail sang deep in the furrows.
The fields seemed to wear their green robes only for their own delight;
for nowhere was man visible to indicate, with his shovel or his hoe,
that he claimed the allegiance of the earth. Here and there a farmer
came along the footpath; sometimes two or three were seen viewing the
progress of their crops. Dressed in their Sunday gear, they seemed to
regard with satisfaction the holiday attire of nature.
[Illustration: The three girls sat motionless.]
The three girls sat motionless, with their hands in their aprons,
singing. Babbett sang the first voice, and Toney (Antonia) and Brigetta
accompanied. The long-drawn sounds floated solemnly and a little sadly
over the mead: as often as they sang, a thistlefinch, perched on a twig
of the cherry-tree, piped with redoubled vigor; and as often as they
paused at the end of a strain, or chatted in a low voice, the finch was
suddenly silent. They sang:--
"Sweet sweetheart, I beg and I beg of you,
Just stay a year longer with me;
And all that you lack, and all that you spend,
My guilders shall keep you free.
"And though your guilders should keep me free,
Yet I cannot do your will;
Far, far o'er the hills and away I must go,
Sweet sweetheart, then think of me still.
"Far over the hills and away when I came,
Sweet sweetheart, she open'd the door;
She laugh'd not, she spoke not, she welcomed me not:
It seem'd that she knew me no more.
"There's never an apple so white and so red
But the kernels are black at its core;
There's never a maid in all Wurtemberg
But plays false when you watch her no more."
Pop! went the report of a fowling-piece. The girls started: the finch
flew away from the cherry-tree. Looking round, they saw the gamekeeper
of Muehringen run into a field of rape-seed, with his dog before him.
He picked up a heron, pulled out one of its feathers and fixed it in
his hat, thrust the bird into his pouch, and hung his gun upon his
shoulder again: he was a fine-looking fellow as he strode through the
green field.
Tony said, "He might have let the bird alone on Sunday."
"Yes," said Babbett; "the gamekeepers are no good Christians anyhow:
they can do nothing but get poor folks into the workhouse for
trespassing, and kill poor innocent beasts and birds. That green
devil's imp there sent poor Blase's Kitty to prison for four weeks just
the other day. I wouldn't marry a gamekeeper if he were to promise me I
don't know what."
"Old Ursula once told me," said Bridget, the youngest of the three,
"that a gamekeeper is bound to kill a living thing every day of his
life."
"That he can do easy enough," laughed Babbett, catching a gnat which
had settled on her arm.
By this time the gamekeeper came quite near them. As if by a previous
arrangement, they all began to sing again: they wished to pretend that
they did not see the gamekeeper, but in their constraint they could not
raise their voices, and only hummed the last verse of the song:--
"If she plays me false I will play her fair:
Three feathers upon my hat I wear;
And, as she will not have me stay,
I'll travel forth upon my way."
"Girls, how are you?" said the gamekeeper, standing still: "why don't
you sing louder?"
The girls began to giggle, and held their aprons to their mouths.
Babbett found her tongue first, and said, "Thank you, mister, we are
only singing for ourselves, and so we hear it if we sing ever so low:
we don't sing for other people."
"Whisht!" said the gamekeeper: "the little tongue cuts like a sickle."
"Sickle or straight, it's as broad as it's long; whoever don't like it
may talk to suit himself if he can," replied Babbett. Tony jogged her,
saying, half aloud, "You're as rough as a hedgehog, you Babbett."
"Oh, I can stand a joke as well as the next one," said the gamekeeper,
making the best of a bad job.
For all that, the girls were a good deal embarrassed, and did just the
worst thing to put an end to it: they rose and took each others' arms
to go home.
"May I go with you, ladies?" said the gamekeeper again.
"It's a high road and a wide road," said Babbett.
The gamekeeper thought of getting away, but reflected that it would
look ridiculous to let these girls bluff him off. He felt that he ought
to pay Babbett in her own coin, but he could not: Tony, by whose side
he walked, had "smitten" him so hard that he forgot all the jokes he
ever knew, although he was not a bashful man by any means. So he left
the saucy girl in the enjoyment of her fun and walked on in silence.
Just to mend matters a little, Tony asked, "Where are you going on
Sunday?"
"To Horb," said the gamekeeper; "and if the ladies would go with me I
wouldn't mind standing treat for a pint or two of the best."
"We're going home," said Tony, blushing up to the eyes.
"We'd rather drink Adam's ale," said Babbett: "we get that for nothing
too."
At the first house of the village, Babbett again said, pointing to a
footpath, "Mr. Gamekeeper, there's a short cut for you goes round
behind the village: that's the nearest way to Horb."
The gamekeeper's patience was running out, and he had a wicked jibe on
his lips; but, checking, himself, he only said, "I like to look an
honest village and honest people in the face." He could not refrain
from turning his back on Babbett as he spoke.
The gamekeeper grew uncivil because he could not crack a joke,--a thing
that happens frequently.
As they were entering the village, the gamekeeper asked Tony what her
name was. Before she could answer, Babbett interposed, "Like her
father's."
And when the gamekeeper retorted upon Babbett, "Why, you are mighty
sharp to-day: how old are you?" he received the common answer, "As old
as my little finger."
Tony said, half aloud, "My name's Tony. What makes you ask?"
"Because I want to know."
'When they had reached the top of the hill, at "Sour-Water Bat's"
house, the three girls stood still and laid their heads together.
Suddenly, like frightened pigeons, they ran in different directions,
and left the gamekeeper all alone on the road. He whistled to his dog,
who had started in pursuit, put his left arm in his gun-strap, and went
on his way.
At the stone-quarry the girls met again and stood still.
"You are too rough, you are," said Tony to Babbett.
"Yes, you are so," Bridget chimed in.
"He didn't hurt you," continued Tony, "and you went at him like a
bull-dog."
"I didn't hurt him either," answered Babbett; "I only fooled him. Why
didn't the jackanapes answer me? And, another thing, I don't like the
green-coat, anyhow. What does he mean by running through the whole
village with us and making people think we want something of him? And
what will Sepper[6] and Caspar think of it? I'm not such a good-natured
little puss as you are; I don't take things from counts or barons, nor
barons' gamekeepers either."
Here the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Sepper and
Caspar, who had looked for their sweethearts at the cherry-bush in
vain. Babbett now told the whole story so glibly that no one else could
get a word in edgewise. As a good many smart things occurred to her
while she was speaking, she put them into her own mouth, without being
unnecessarily precise. People have a way of embellishing the recital of
their own doings and sayings in this manner: it requires so much less
readiness and courage to invent these things when the person at whom
they are levelled is gone than when he is by.
Sepper expressed his hearty approval of Babbett's proceedings, and
said, "These gentry-folk must be stumped short the minute you begin
with them."
The gamekeeper certainly did not belong to the "gentry-folk;" but it
was convenient to class him so, for the purpose of scolding the more
freely about him.
Sepper gave an arm to Tony, his sweetheart, while Bridget hung herself
upon the other. Caspar and Barbara walked beside them; and so they
passed out through the hollow to take a walk.
Sepper and Tony were a splendid pair, both tall and slender, and both
doubly handsome when seen together: among a thousand you would have
picked them out and said, "These two belong together." Sepper wore a
style of dress half-way between that of a peasant and a soldier: the
short flapping jacket set off in fine contrast the display of
well-rounded limbs cased in the close-fitting military breeches. He
looked like an officer in undress, so fine was the blending of ease and
precision in all his movements.
At the top of the hill they saw the gamekeeper in conversation with the
woodranger of Nordstetten. Sepper even observed that he was pointing
toward them, and cleared his throat as if to prepare a sharp answer for
the "gentleman," who was still two hundred yards away. Then he put his
arms around Tony's neck and gave her a hearty smack, as a sort of broad
hint for him who ran to read. This done, he walked on, whistling a
lively tune, with something of a swagger.
His manner would have been still more emphatic if he had heard what the
gamekeeper was saying to the woodranger, which was, "See! there she
comes now. It is a girl as white as wax,--for all the world like the
mother of God in the church: I never saw any thing like it in all my
life."
"Yes, I thought you meant her," replied the woodranger "It's the
Poodlehead's daughter: they call him Poodlehead because he has white
curly hair like a lamb, just as the girl has, too. In the village they
call her the maiden-blush, because she has such pretty red cheeks. The
old parson knew what's good, and wanted her for a cook; but it was no
go. Poodlehead wiped his chops for him with a 'No, thank ye.' Tony will
get her ten acres some day in this commune, and they say there's more
besides."
The gamekeeper shook hands and took his leave before the party had
quite reached him.
Sitting on an unploughed strip of land, between two fields,--such as
take the place of fences in that hedgeless country,--our friends spent
the afternoon in singing and kissing. Bridget had the worst of the
game, for her sweetheart was with the soldiers at Heilbronn: who knows
what he was about while his girl sat aside from the others with
blushing face, playing with a flower and thinking of him? At dusk she
was wanted to "fix up" the others: her own collar was in perfect trim,
while the collars and the hair of her friends were all "mussed and
fussed," as she said, scolding good-naturedly.
All the girls and boys now met on the highroad, and the sexes walked
separately. In the west, or, as they say there, "across the Rhine," the
sun went down blood-red and gave promise of a pleasant day. The boys
walked into the village in files which spread nearly across the street,
singing or whistling tunes set in four parts. About thirty yards
behind, the girls walked arm in arm. They sang incessantly. Scarcely
was one song at an end before one girl or the other struck up a new
one, and the others fell in without consultation or debate.
Tony was on the left flank, and on her right arm hung Blatschle's Mary
Ann, called the Flambeau Mary Ann,--a poor unfortunate girl the whole
left side of whose face, from the forehead to the chin, was blue, just
as if there were clotted blood beneath the skin. At the great fire
which happened eighteen years before, and where seven men lost their
lives, Mary Ann's mother had hurried up, and on seeing the flames had
passed her hand over her face in great fear and fright. When her child
was born, one-half of its face was blue. Tony always had a certain
horror of Mary Ann; but she did not like to hurt her feelings by going
away. So she went on, trembling inwardly, but singing the louder to
regain the mastery over herself.
Near the manor-house farmer's house the gamekeeper came up with the
party on his return from Horb. On seeing Tony he blushed up to the
eyes, and lifted his gun off his shoulder a little, sinking it again
immediately, and, turning toward Tony, he said, "Good-evening, girls."
A few returned the salutation, and he said, in a low voice, to Tony,
"May I walk with you now?"
"No, no! that will never do," said Tony, no louder than he had spoken:
"go and walk with the boys, just to oblige me."
The gamekeeper was delighted, and, with a polite bow, he walked on.
At the Eagle there was, a general halt. The curfew sounded, and the
boys, with their heads uncovered, mumbled a paternoster: the girls did
the same; and then all crossed themselves.
But as soon as this was done the jokes and laughter were resumed. The
gamekeeper said, "Good-night, all," and went on his way. The girls
teased Tony about him, and said he had whispered to her. Sepper, who
heard this, suddenly grew stark and stiff: the pipe which he was
lifting to his mouth remained in the convulsive grasp of his one hand,
while his other fist clenched, and his eyes, which stared upon Tony,
shot forth fierce and angry thoughts. Then again he swung proudly on
his knees, and only once cast his head backward in something of
disdain.
When all separated, Sepper went with Tony to her father's house. He was
silent a while, and then said,--
"What are you carrying on with the gamekeeper?"
"Nothing."
"What were you saying to him?"
"Just what people are apt to talk."
"But I don't want you ever to speak a word to him."
"And I'm not going to ask you for permission to speak to anybody."
"You're a proud, deceitful thing."
"If you think so I can't help it."
They walked on in silence. At Tony's door she said "goodnight;" but
Sepper allowed her to go in without an answer. He stood before the door
all the evening, whistling and singing: he thought that Tony must
certainly come to him; but she did not come, and he went away in high
dudgeon.
That whole week Sepper never spoke a word to Tony, and even went out of
his way to avoid meeting her.
On Saturday afternoon he was out in the "Warm Dell" with his team to
get clover for Sunday. On his way home he saw Babbett coming up the
"Cowslip Dell" with a heavy bundle of clover on her head. He stopped,
and made her put her clover and herself on his wagon. Here Babbett told
him her mind about his foolish jealousy so very plainly that he went to
the well near the town-hall and waited until Tony came to fetch water.
He hastened to lift the bucket for her and adjust it on her head, and
then walked by her side, saying, "How have you been all the week? I
have such lots of work."
[Illustration: He hastened to lift the bucket for her.]
"You give yourself lots of trouble, which you might let alone. You are
a wild, wilful fellow. Do you see now that you were in the wrong?"
"You must never speak to that gamekeeper again."
"I'll speak to him whenever I please," said Tony: "I am not a child. I
understand my own business."
"But you needn't speak to him if you don't choose to."
"No, I needn't; but I am not going to be led about by a halter that
way."
Peace was restored, and no disturbance occurred for a long time, for
the gamekeeper did not show himself at Nordstetten again.
Tony often sat in the cherry-copse of a Sunday afternoon, with her
playmates, and sometimes with Sepper, laughing and singing. The wild
cherries--the only ones which ripen in the climate of the Black
Forest--had long disappeared; the rape-seed was brought home; the rye
and barley were cut, and the peaceful life of our friends had passed
through but little change: Sepper's and Tony's love for each other had,
if any thing, increased in intensity. That fall Sepper had to go
through the last course of drill with the military, and then he would
get his discharge, and then--the wedding.
Since that Sunday in the spring Tony had never cast eyes on the
gamekeeper. But when she and Sepper were cutting oats in the Molda[7]
the gamekeeper came by and said, "Does't cut well?" Tony started, and
plied her sickle busily without answering. Sepper said, "Thank you,"
knelt upon a sheaf and twisted down the tie with all his might,--as if
he were wringing the gamekeeper's neck. The gamekeeper passed on.
It happened that Babbett's and Caspar's wedding came off just three
days before that on which Sepper was obliged to go to the military. So
he made up his mind to enjoy himself once for all, and kept his word.
In almost every house where Caspar and his friend left the invitations,
somebody said, "Well, Sepper, your turn will come next." And he smiled
affirmatively.
At the wedding Sepper was as happy as a horse in clover. He enjoyed the
foretaste of his coming bliss. When the dance began he climbed up to
the musicians and bespoke them for his wedding, with two additional
trumpeters: he belonged to the Guard, and therefore thought himself
entitled to more trumpets than others.
But in the evening a new apparition crossed his path and changed the
color of his thoughts. The gamekeeper came to the dance, and the first
one he asked to dance with him was Tony.
"Engaged," answered Sepper for Tony.
"The lassie can speak for herself, I guess," replied the gamekeeper.
"You and I will dance the next hop-waltz together," said Tony, taking
Sepper's hand. But she turned around toward the gamekeeper once more
before the hop-waltz began. The next waltz Tony danced with the
gamekeeper, while Sepper sat down at the table and made up his mind not
to stir another foot that evening, and to forbid Tony to dance any
more. But Babbett came and asked him to dance. This was the bride's
privilege, and Sepper could not refuse. Of course the dance was a cover
for a round lecture. "I don't know what to make of you at all," said
she: "that gamekeeper seems to have driven every bit of sense out of
your head. It'll be your fault and nobody else's if Tony should ever
come to like him. She wouldn't have had a thought of him this many a
day; but, if you go on teasing her about him this way, what can she do
but think of him? And with always thinking about him, and wondering
whether he likes her or not, she might get to like him at last, after
all, for he does dance a little better than you, that's a fact: you
couldn't reverse waltz the way he does, could you?"
Sepper laughed; but in his heart he could not deny that the shrewd
little rogue was right, and when he sat at the table with his
sweetheart he clinked his glass against the gamekeeper's and beckoned
to Tony to do the same. The gamekeeper drank, bowed politely to Tony,
and nodded slightly to Sepper. The latter had made up his mind,
however, not to be sulky again, and prided himself a little on the good
tact of his behavior to the gamekeeper, and then sat, happy as a king,
with his arm round Tony's waist. He was called away to the master-joke
of the wedding.
According to ancient custom, all the young men had conspired to steal
the bride. They formed a ring around her, and Caspar had to bargain for
her release amid a plentiful volley of small jokes and lively sallies.
Six bottles of wine were at last accepted as a ransom, and the reunited
pair marched off arm in arm. The musicians came down from their
platform to the yard under their windows, and played the customary
march; and many a hurrah followed from the crowd.
Tony stood at the window, in a dreamy mood, long after Babbett was gone
and the others had returned to the dance.
It was very late at night, or, rather, early in the morning, when
Sepper saw Tony home; yet it was long before they parted. Tony pressed
her cheek against his with wild emotion, and held him with all the
force of her arms. He too was greatly excited; yet he could not refrain
from talking about the gamekeeper. "Let the gamekeeper alone," said
Tony: "there's nothing in the world but you."
Sepper lifted her high up in the air; then he embraced her again, and,
pressing his lip to her cheek, he whispered, "Do you see? I should just
like to bite you."
"Bite," said Tony.
Well done! Sepper had bitten in good earnest. The blood flowed freely
and ran down her cheeks into her neck and breast. Her hand rushed to
her cheek, and there she felt the open scars of the teeth. She thrust
Sepper away with such force that he fell on his back, and shrieked and
cried aloud, so that the whole house was alarmed. Sepper got up and
tried to comfort her; but with loud wailing she pushed him away again.
Hearing a noise in the house, he slipped away quietly. He thought the
matter was not so bad, after all, and that if he was out of the way she
would hit upon some excuse to quiet them.
Her father and mother came up with lights, and were frightened almost
to death at the sight of their child dripping in blood. Old Ursula, who
knew so many remedies, was sent for immediately. She had no sooner cast
eyes on the wound than she declared, "This may end in a cancer, or else
the person who did it must clean the wound with his tongue." But Tony
protested vehemently that she would rather die than ever let Sepper
touch her again.
Various remedies were applied, and Tony groaned as if she were at the
point of death.
The story spread through the village like wildfire; and it was even
said that Sepper had taken a piece of flesh out of Tony's cheek.
Everybody came to comfort her and to find out all about it. Sepper came
too; but Tony screamed like a maniac, and declared he must leave the
house at once and never come back. All his prayers and tears availed
nothing: Tony seemed to be really beside herself, and Sepper had to go.
He went to Babbett and begged her to say a good word for him. Babbett
was busy arranging the wedding-gifts: kitchen-furniture, and all sorts
of utensils, lay scattered about. She scolded Sepper roundly, but left
her work at once and hastened to Tony. The latter fell upon her
playmate's neck and cried, "I am spoiled for all the days of my life!"
After a great deal of coaxing, she consented to rise from her bed; but,
when she stood before the looking-glass and saw the horrible
devastation, she exclaimed, "Jesus! Maria! Joseph! why, I am just like
Flambeau Mary Ann! Oh God! I'm sure I must have sinned against her: I
am punished hard enough!"
On no condition would she hear of seeing Sepper again; so the poor
fellow had to trudge off to Stuttgard in a day or two, with a little
white linen knapsack on his back, and a heavy, heavy load on his heart.
It was two weeks before Tony left the house, and then she kept her face
well tied up. She walked out with a hoe on her shoulder to dig
potatoes; and, strange to say, almost the first person she met was the
gamekeeper.
"How are you, pretty Tony?" he asked, almost tenderly.
She could have sunk into the earth with shame, it seemed so strange for
him to call her by name, and say "pretty" besides; and she felt more
keenly than ever how much she was disfigured. As she sighed and said
nothing, the gamekeeper went on:--"I have heard of what has happened:
won't you let me see it?"
She bashfully pushed the kerchief aside, and the gamekeeper
involuntarily raised his hands to his own face and said, "It is horrid,
it is inhuman, to act so to a sweet, good girl like you! There's a fair
specimen of your farmers' brutality. Don't be offended: I certainly
didn't mean you by it: but these people are often worse than wild
beasts. But don't be grieved about it."
Of all this Tony only heard the sympathy of the gamekeeper, and said,
"I'm dreadfully spoiled and mangled, a'n't I?"
"I shouldn't mind it," said the gamekeeper: "if you had but one cheek
you would please me better than all the girls between Nordstetten and
Paris."
"It isn't right to tease one so," said Tony, smiling sadly.
"I am not teasing you," said the gamekeeper; and, taking her hand, he
continued, "Oh, if you would say the word, how glad I should be to
marry you!"
"That is talking sinfully," said Tony.
"I don't see any sin in our getting married," returned the gamekeeper.
"If you want to be good friends with me, don't say another word about
it," said Tony, taking her way across the field.
The gamekeeper was content, for the present, to be "good friends," and
made the most of it; for he came to Nordstetten almost regularly twice
or three times a week. He managed to start some business-negotiations
with the Poodlehead, Tony's father, about cordwood; and this always
gave him an opportunity of talking with Tony. He said nothing more
about marrying, but anybody but a fool could see that he alluded to it
all the time. He had much trouble with Babbett, whose influence upon
Tony was of the greatest consequence. At first he tried good humor and
fun, but Babbett never would understand his jokes: she did nothing but
talk about Sepper as long as the gamekeeper was within hearing.
A lucky occurrence gave the latter a great advantage. Tony had a rich
cousin in Muehringen, who was to be married shortly: the dance was to
last three days; and Tony was invited. The gamekeeper's sister soon
made friends with her, and the two girls rambled over the fields
together and kept near each other at the dance. Tony now appeared for
the first time with an uncovered face; and it might almost be said that
the bite had improved her looks. Some wild and superstitious people
purposely mangle what is perfectly beautiful, so that the "evil look"
may have no power over it, and by way of appeasing the devil, who can
suffer nothing perfect to exist. Whether the "beauty-spots" cultivated
by the damsels of our day were originally derived from this
superstition I cannot tell. At all events, the bite on Tony's cheek was
just enough to give the spirit of envy a little "but" to hang on the
end of an acknowledgment of her comeliness.
The gamekeeper always kept near Tony while the dance was going on; and
in the evening he treated her to something that no peasant-girl of all
Nordstetten had ever enjoyed. The old baron, a stout and well-fed
personage, though very parsimonious, and unmerciful in hunting down
every poor farmer who took an armful of dry sticks out of the wood, was
very ambitious for the prosperity of a little private theatre which he
maintained at the manor-house, and to which he used to invite the grand
folks of the neighborhood. The gamekeeper was permitted to bring Tony
to see the theatricals.
She trembled till her teeth chattered as she walked up the hill on
which the manor-house, or rather castle, stands, with its drawbridge,
moat, and parapet, in the style of the Middle Ages. Without a breath,
and on tip-toe, she came into the hall, where the ladies and gentlemen
were already assembled. A place was assigned her not far back of the
orchestra. The lord-lieutenant's lady levelled her eyeglass at her for
a long time; Tony cast down her eyes, almost afraid to breathe. The
scar on her cheek tingled as if the eyes of the lady had opened the
wound afresh. The rise of the curtain came to her relief, and now she
listened with breathless attention. She shed tears over the fate of the
poor boy who died in prison, because he was accused of stealing, just
to save the credit of his master, to whom he owed a debt of gratitude;
and if she had been the master's daughter she certainly would not have
put off her disclosure until it came too late. When the curtain fell, a
deep sigh escaped her.
On the way home the gamekeeper put his arm around Tony's waist, and she
clung closely to him. She was quite overcome with mingled emotions. It
seemed as if all she felt, and the feigned events she had seen, were of
the gamekeeper's doing, and as if she owed it all to him; and, again,
she wished to go back to the old man and his sweet daughter, who were
now so happy together. The gamekeeper, too, was happy, for he obtained
Tony's promise to walk with him after church on Sunday afternoon.
Thus the gamekeeper's man[oe]uvres were far more successful than those
in which poor Sepper was engaged on horseback on the plains of
Ludwigsburg; and, before the latter got his honorable discharge from
the military, Tony had given him another discharge which he never
desired. When he came home, his first visit was to the house of Tony's
father. She was spinning in the room, but gave him no look of
recognition, only directing a fixed, cold stare at him from time to
time. He took his discharge out of his pocket, brushed every mote of
dust from the table, and spread the document before their eyes. Tony
would not walk to the table to look at it. He wrapped it up in a piece
of paper and went, carrying it carefully in his hand, to Babbett's.
Here he heard the whole story, and also that the two playmates had
quarrelled about the gamekeeper, and were not on speaking terms. He
mashed the discharge into a ball with both hands and went away.
At dark Sepper was sitting under the cherry-tree where we first made
Tony's acquaintance. It was leafless. The wind whistled over the
stubble, and the pine-wood sighed and murmured like a mighty current.
The night-bell sounded from the convent, and a belated raven croaked as
he flew toward the wood. Sepper saw and heard nothing. His elbows
rested on his knees, and his hands covered his eyes. Thus he remained a
long time. The bark of a dog and the sound of footsteps approaching
aroused him, and he sprang to his feet. The gamekeeper was coming out
of the village. Sepper saw the flash of his gun-barrel: he also saw a
white apron, and concluded, rightly, that Tony was accompanying the
gamekeeper. They stood still a while, and Tony returned toward the
village.
When the gamekeeper was near him, Sepper said, in a tone of defiance,
"Good-evening."
"How are you?" returned the gamekeeper.
"I've got a crow to pick with you," said the former again.
"Oh, Sepper," said the gamekeeper, "since when have you got back?"
"Too soon for you, you----: we won't be long about it. There! we'll
draw straws for which of us must give up Tony, and if I lose I must
have the gun."
"I won't draw any straws."
"Then I'll draw your soul out of your body, you rascally green-coat!"
roared Sepper, seizing the rifle with one hand and the gamekeeper's
throat with the other.
"Seize him, Bruin," cried the gamekeeper, with a smothered voice. A
kick from Sepper disabled the hound, but released the gamekeeper a
little. They now wrestled furiously for the gun, and held each other by
the throat, when suddenly the charge went off, and the gamekeeper fell
backward into the ditch. He groaned but slightly, and Sepper bent over
him to hear whether he was still breathing. Tony came running up the
road: she had heard the report, and was filled with forebodings of
evil.
[Illustration: There lies your gamekeeper: now marry him!]
"There, there!" cried Sepper; "there lies your gamekeeper: now marry
him!"
Tony stood like a statue, without speech or motion. At last she said,
"Sepper, Sepper, you have made yourself and me unhappy."
"What am I to you? I ask nothing more of anybody," cried Sepper, and
fled toward the highlands. He was never heard of again.
On the way to Muehringen, in the cherry-copse, is a stone cross, to
mark the spot where the gamekeeper of Muehringen was slain.
[Illustration: In the cherry-copse is a stone cross, where the
gamekeeper was slain.]
Tony lived through many years of solitary grief.
GOOD GOVERNMENT.
1.
[Illustration: A magnificent tree was found before the house of Michael.]
On May morning a magnificent tree was found before the house of Michael
the wagoner. It was a tall fir; the branches had been cut off, and only
the crown was left. It towered far over all the houses, and, if the
church were not on a hill, it would have looked down on the steeple.
There was not another May-pole in all the village; and all the girls
envied Eva, the wagoner's oldest daughter, the distinction of having
this one set for her.
The children came up the village, a green hut moving along in their
midst. A conical roof of twisted withes, covered with leaves, was put
on a boy's head, and in this curious disguise he went from house to
house, stopping at every door. Two boys walked beside him, carrying a
basket filled with eggs and chaff, followed by a crowd with green
boughs in their hands. They sang at every house,--
"Bim, bam, bum!
The May-man he has come;
Give us all the eggs you've got.
Or the marten will come to your cot;
Give us all the eggs we will,
Or we'll strew our chaff on your sill.
Bim, bam, bum," &c.
Where they received no eggs they fulfilled their threat, and cast a
handful of chaff on the sill, with cheers and laughter. This happened
but very rarely, however, though they left not a single house unvisited
except the manor-house farmer's. But the "May-man" failed on this
occasion to attract the general interest, for all the world had flocked
to Michael the wagoner's house to see the May-pole. It could not have
been brought there without the aid of at least six men and two horses.
How it could have been done so "unbeknown" was the wonder of all, for
setting May-poles was rigorously forbidden and punished with three
months' confinement in the Ludwigsburg penitentiary. The fear of this
punishment had deterred all the boys from putting this monster nosegay
before their sweethearts' windows,--all but Wendel's Mat, who went to
see Eva. Who had helped him was not to be discovered: some supposed
that they were boys from Dettensee, which is only a mile off and
belongs to the dominions of his high mightiness the Duke of
Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen.
Many of the farmers, on their way to the field with their ploughs and
harrows, stopped to look at the May-pole. Others, with hoes on their
shoulders, did the same. Wendel's Mat was there also, and he chuckled
in his sleeve continually, tipping the wink to Eva, who sat gayly at
the window with her eyes shut. Those closed eyes were very significant.
At every arch repetition of the question, "Who could have set the
May-pole!" she answered with a roguish shrug of the shoulders.
Just as the May-man and his followers had reached Michael the wagoner's
house and began their song, the beadle and the ranger made their
appearance, and a solemn "Hush your noise, you----!" from the former,
stopped the proceedings. Amid the sudden silence the officer of the law
walked up to Mat, took him by the arm, and said, "Come along to the
squire."
Mat shook off the broad hand of the functionary, and asked, "What for?"
"You'll hear in good time. Come along, now, or you'll be sorry for it."
Mat looked about him as if he did not exactly know what to do, or as if
he was waiting for assistance from some quarter. The May-cabin marched
straight up to the beadle and struck his face. The boy probably took it
for granted that, as May-man, his person was sacred and secure; but the
beadle knew no sacred personage except himself, and pulled the boy's
hut to pieces at a blow. Christian, Mat's younger brother, sprang out
of it; and there was an end of the Maying.
Meantime Eva had come out of the house and took Mat by the arm, as if
to save him. But he shook her off almost as roughly as he had done the
beadle; while the latter said to Eva, "You may as well wait till I come
for you."
[Illustration: Holding her apron to her face, she went back quickly to
the house.]
"Come on," said Mat, casting a look of much meaning on Eva; but she,
poor thing, saw nothing now, for the tears were in her eyes. Holding
her apron to her face, she went back quickly to the house.
The farmers went to their work, and Mat followed the officers to the
squire's, the children bringing up the rear. When nearly out of
hearing, some of the boldest cried, "Soges! Soges!" This was the
beadle's nickname, and always made him furious. He had administered his
office while the Black Forest yet formed a part of the possessions of
the house of Austria. His devotion to his august master was such that
he thought it necessary even to affect the dialect of Vienna; and,
instead of pronouncing the German for "I say it," "I sag's" or "I han's
g'sa't,"--as a plain Black Forester would have done,--he said, "I
sog'es." Soges thereby became his title.
The mysterious brown door of the squire's house removed Mat, Soges, and
the ranger from the sight of the multitude. The squire welcomed the
prisoner with a round rating for the crime of which he stood accused.
Mat remained calm, only beating with one foot the time of a tune he
sang in imagination. At last he said, "'You 'most done, squire? All
that's nothing to me, for I haven't set any May-pole: go on talking,
though, for I've plenty of time to listen."
The squire waxed very wroth, and would have assaulted Mat bodily had
not Soges whispered some more sagacious counsels in his ear. He sank
his clenched fist, and ordered Soges to take the criminal to the
lock-up for twenty-four hours for a flagrant denial.
"I belong to the village; I am to be found at any time, and I'm not
likely to run away about such a trumpery as this: you can't lock me
up," said Mat, rightly.
"Can't?" cried the squire, reddening with anger: "we'll see if we
can't, you----"
"Save your blackguarding," said Mat: "I'm going; but it's an outrage to
treat the son of a citizen this way. If my cousin Buchmaier was at home
it couldn't be done."
On the way to the lock-up they met Eva; but Mat did not even make an
attempt to speak to her. Eva could not understand how this happened.
She followed Mat with her eyes until he was no longer in sight, and
then, bent with shame and trouble, she entered the squire's dwelling.
His wife was Eva's godmother, and Eva would not go until Mat had
been released. But her intercession was of no use this time: the
president-judge of the district was shortly expected on his tour of
visitation, and the squire wished to conciliate him by a specimen of
unrelenting severity.
In conjunction with his faithful prime minister Soges, a report was
prepared and Mat transported to Horb early next morning. It was well
that Eva's house lay at the other end of the village, so that she could
not see the wretched plight to which a night's imprisonment had reduced
the fine, active fellow who generally appeared so neatly clad. In his
anger he tore a bough from every hedge he passed, gnawed it between his
teeth, and threw it away again. In the fir-wood he broke a twig and
kept it in his mouth. He never spoke a word: the fir-sprig seemed to be
the symbol of his silence in regard to the May-pole,--a charm with
which he intended to tie his tongue. Arrived at the court-house door,
he hastily took it out of his mouth and unconsciously thrust it in his
pocket.
No one who has not been in the hands of a German court of justice can
form any idea of the misery attending such a perfect loss of the power
of self-control: it is as if one's mind had been forcibly deprived of
its body. Pushed from hand to hand, the feet move with apparent freedom
of will, and yet do only another's bidding. Mat felt all this keenly;
for he had never been in trouble like this. He felt as if he was a
great criminal, and had killed somebody at the very least: his knees
seemed to sink under him as he was taken up the long flights of steps
which lead to the top of the hill. He was locked up in the old tower
which stands so uncomfortably on the hill, like a great stone finger
pointing upward as if to say, "Beware!"
Every minute appeared to last an age. As long as he could remember, he
had never been left alone for an hour without work: what could he do
now? For a while he peered through the doubly-barred and grated window
in the wall, which was six feet thick, but saw only a patch of sky.
Lying on the bench, he played with the fir-sprig which he found in his
pocket,--the only keepsake he had of the green world without. Sticking
it into a crack of the floor, he amused himself with supposing it to be
the great May-pole before Eva's window,--which he seemed not to have
seen for a hundred years. Sighing, he started up, looked around wildly,
whistled, and began to count the needles of the fir-sprig. In the midst
of this occupation he stopped and regarded it more closely: he had
never before seen the beauty of one of Nature's fabrics. At the stem
the needles were dark-green and hard; but they grew gradually lighter
and softer, and at the ends they were like the plumage of an unfledged
bird. At the tip, the germ, with its neatly-folded scales, gave promise
of a fir-nut. A smell sweeter than that of lavender or of rosemary
oozed out of its pores. Mat passed it gently over his face and closed
eyes, until he fell asleep. He dreamed of being spellbound to a swaying
fir-tree, without being able to stir: he heard Eva's voice begging the
spirit who held him in chains for leave to come up to him and set him
free. He awoke, and really heard Eva's voice and that of his brother
Christian. They had brought him his dinner, and begged the jailer to
let them speak to Mat in his presence; but in vain.
It was late in the day when Mat was brought up for a hearing. The
president-judge received him roughly, and scolded him in high German,
just as the squire had done in the dialect of the country. Wherever
judicial transactions are withheld from the public eye, as they have
been in Germany for three or four centuries, any man accused of an
offence will always be at the mercy of the officiating functionary.
Though it will not do to torture or to beat him, there are means of ill
treatment which the law cannot reach.
The judge walked up and down the room with rattling spurs, and twirled
a bit of paper nervously between his fingers, as he put his questions.
"Where did you steal the tree?"
"I don't know any thing about it, your honor."
"You lie, you beggarly rascal!" cried the judge, stepping up to Mat and
seizing him by the lapel of his coat.
Mat started backward, and clenched his fist involuntarily.
"I'm not a rascal," said he, at last, "and you must write what you have
said in the minutes: I'd like to see what sort of a rascal I am. My
cousin Buchmaier will come home after a while."
The judge turned away, biting his lips. If Mat's case had been a better
one, the judge might have had reason to rue his words; but he wisely
abstained from inserting what he had said in the minutes. He rang the
bell, and sent for Soges.
"What proof have you that it was this fellow that put up the May-pole?"
"Every child in the village, the tiles on the roofs, know that Mat goes
to see Eva: no offence, your honor, but I should think it would be the
quickest way to send for Eva, and then he won't deny it: he can't
qualify that it isn't so."
Mat opened his eyes wide, and his lips quivered; but he said nothing.
The judge hesitated a long time, for he perfectly understood the
impropriety of such a mode of proof; but the desire to set an example
prevailed.
The hearing ended by drawing up the minutes, and requiring Mat, as well
as Soges and the customary two "assessors," or, as they are vulgarly
called, "by-sleepers," to sign them. Mat had not the courage to repeat
his demand about the abusive words of the judge, but suffered himself
to be led back quietly to prison.
When it grew dusk, Eva might have been seen sitting on the stile at the
end of the village and looking over toward the tower, thinking that Mat
must surely come before long. She sat behind a hedge, to avoid being
seen and questioned by the passers-by. There she saw Soges coming up
the hillside. As she walked toward the road, Soges beckoned to her;
and, hoping to hear news from Mat, she ran to him in all haste.
"Not too fast, Eva," cried Soges; "I only wished to tell you that you
must come to court to-morrow: you've saved me a walk."
Eva turned ashy pale, and looked almost beside herself; then she ran
down the hill, and did not stop till she had come to the Neckar. She
looked around in amazement, for it had seemed to her that she was to be
locked up at once with no hope of escape but by running away. She went
home, weeping silently.
Eva hardly closed her eyes all night for thinking of the chambers hung
in black, and the skull and bones with which her imagination garnished
the thought of courts and judges. If her playmate Agatha, the tailor's
daughter, had not come to sleep with her, she would have died of fear.
At the first dawn of morning she went to the press and took out her
Sunday gear. Agatha had to dress her, for she trembled so much that she
could not tie a string. She looked at herself sadly in her broken
glass. It seemed as if she were forced to go to a funeral in holiday
garb.
Michael the wagoner accompanied his daughter, for it would not do to
let the child go alone. In the court-house he took off his hat, stroked
his short hair, and drew his face into an expression of smiling
humility as he stood, scraping the floor with his feet, before the
unopened door. He rested his hawthorn stick against the wall, took off
his three-cornered hat, pressed it to his breast with his left hand,
bent his head humbly, and knocked at the door. It opened. "What do you
want?" inquired a gruff voice.
"I am Michael the wagoner, and this is my daughter Eva, and she is very
much afraid; so I thought I would ask whether I might come in to court
with her."
"No," was the rude answer; and the door was slammed in his face so
heavily that he staggered some steps backward. He had no opportunity of
advancing his other argument,--that in strictness he ought to appear
before court and not Eva, as the house before which the May-pole was
belonged to him.
With both hands folded upon his hawthorn stick, and his chin resting
upon his hands, Michael the wagoner sat beside his daughter in the
entry, and looked at the stone floor, which seemed almost as void of
sympathy as the face of the official. "If Buchmaier was at home," he
muttered, "they would strike up another tune." Eva could not speak a
word: she only coughed once or twice into her neatly-ironed
handkerchief.
Summoned at last, she rose quickly. Neither spoke, but, after a mute,
parting look, Eva disappeared behind the door. At the door she stood
still: the judge was not there, but the clerk sat playing with his pen,
while the two "assessors" whispered softly to each other. Eva shook and
trembled in every limb: the silence lasted ten minutes, which, to the
poor girl, seemed half an eternity. At last the clink of spurs
announced the judge's arrival. Eva seemed to find favor in his eyes,
for he tucked her chin, stroked her burning cheeks, and said, "Sit
down." Eva obeyed, just seating herself on the very edge of the stool.
After going through the customary catechism of name, station, age, and
so on, the judge asked,--
"Well, who put up your May-polo?"
"How can I know, your honor?"
"Didn't you drop the rope out of the dormer-window to tie it with?"
"No, your honor."
"And don't you know who is your sweetheart?"
Eva began to weep aloud. It was dreadful to deny; and yet she could not
confess it. In America such a question would have had no other result
than a reprimand from the bench to the counsel putting it. But so
defenceless is the condition of parties and witnesses where justice
hides in corners, that the judge even went further, and said,--
"It's no use to deny it: Mat is your sweetheart, and you're going to
get married very soon."
Eva remembered that four weeks later they intended to ask that same
court for permission to get married,--an indispensable formula under
the code of that happy country. If she denied it now, she thought they
would refuse to give her the "papers" and the "acceptance," and,
besides, it was against her conscience to say "No." Her heart beat
quickly; a certain feeling of pride arose within her; a consciousness
of superiority to all the ills that flesh is heir to pervaded her
being: she forgot the papers and the judge, and only thought of Mat.
The last tear dropped from her lids; her eyes brightened; she arose
quickly, looked around as if in triumph, and said, "Yes: I'll never
have any one but him."
"So Mat put up your May-pole?"
"It may be, but of course I couldn't be by, and that night I was----"
Here the tears choked her utterance again. It was well for the poor
girl that she held her hands before her eyes, and could not see the
smiles of the men of justice.
"Confess, now, he put up your May-pole, and nobody else."
"How can I know?"
By all sorts of cross-questions, and the oily assurance that the
punishment would be but slight, the judge at last wormed the confession
from her. The minutes were now read to her in fine book-German and in
connected periods: of her tears and sufferings not a word was written.
Eva was astonished to find that she had said so much and such fine
things; but she signed the minutes unhesitatingly, only too glad to get
away at any price. As the door closed behind her and the latch fell
into the socket, she stood still, with folded hands, as if chained to
the ground; a heavy sigh escaped her, and she almost feared the earth
would open under her feet, for she now reflected, for the first time,
how much harm she might have done to her beloved. Clinging to the
balusters, she came slowly down the stone steps, and looked for her
father, who was keeping up his spirits with a stoup of wine at the Lamb
Tavern: she took her seat by his side, but said nothing, nor brought a
drop to her lips.
Mat was now called up again, and Eva's confession read to him. He
stamped his foot and gnashed his teeth. These gestures were immediately
recorded as the basis of a confession, and, after sufficient baiting,
Mat found himself completely caught: like game in a net, his desperate
efforts to disengage himself only entangled him still further.
Being asked where he had got the tree, Mat first said that he had
taken it out of the Dettensee wood,--which was in the duchy of
Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen, and therefore under another sovereignty and
jurisdiction. But, when another investigation and a report to the court
at Haigerloch was talked of, he at last confessed that he had taken it
out _of his own wood_,--"by the Pond,"--and that it was a tree which
would have been marked for felling in two or three days by the
forester.
In consideration of these extenuating circumstances, Mat was fined ten
rix-dollars for having taken a tree out of his own wood before it was
marked.
Up at the stile where Mat had torn off a sprig the day before, he met
Eva and her father, who were coming up the hill-slope. He would have
passed on without a greeting; but Eva ran up to him and cried, huskily,
"Don't sulk, Mat: I'll give you my cross and my garnets if they make
you pay a fine. Thank the Lord, you're not locked up any more."
After some altercation, Mat gave in: hand in hand with Eva he walked
through the village, and received kind congratulations from all he met.
This is the story of the May-pole before Michael the wagoner's house:
on the wedding-day it was decked with red ribbons. The heavens and the
earth seemed to like it better than the good government or the vigilant
police, for it unaccountably took root and sent forth new branches. To
this day it graces the house of the happy couple as a living emblem of
their constant love.
2.
This story is connected with another, of more general interest. The
prevalence at this time of the wicked custom of putting up May-poles,
as well as other offences against the peace and dignity of the forests,
induced the judge to issue an ordinance which had long hovered at the
nib of his pen. From immemorial times it has been the custom of the
peasantry of the Black Forest to carry a little axe in their left hand
whenever they go abroad. Only the "men"--that is, the married men--do
so; and it is a badge which distinguishes them from the "boys," or
unmarried young fellows. It is said to be a remnant of the ancient time
when every one bore arms.
On Whitsunday the following ordinance was found on the blackboard
nailed in front of the town-house of every village in the presidency:--
"It having been found that many offences against the forest are
occasioned by the improper practice of carrying axes, the public are
hereby notified,--
"That from this day forth every person found upon the road or in the
woods with an axe shall be held to give the gamekeeper or ranger
accurate information of the purpose for which he has the axe with him;
and, if he fails to do so, he shall be punished by a fine of one
rix-dollar: upon a repetition of the offence he shall be fined three
rix-dollars: and, upon a further repetition, with imprisonment for not
less than one and not more than four weeks.
"RELLINGS,
_President-Judge_."
A crowd of farmers flocked around the town-house at the close of the
afternoon service. Mat, who was now one of the "men" also, read the
ordinance aloud. All shook their heads and muttered curses: the old
squire said, audibly, "Such a thing wouldn't have been done in old
times: these are our privileges."
Buchmaier was now seen coming down from the upper village with the axe
in his hands. Every eye was turned toward him as he walked along. He
was a stout, strong man, in the prime of life,--not large, but
broad-shouldered and thick-set. The short leathern breeches had allowed
his shirt to bag a little round his waist; the open red vest showed the
broad band which connected his suspenders, and which was woven in
various colors and resembled a pistol-belt in the distance; the
three-cornered hat was fixed upon a head disproportionately small; the
features were mild and almost feminine, particularly about the mouth
and chin, but the large, bright blue eyes and the dark, protruding
brows spoke clearness of apprehension and manly boldness.
Mat ran to meet the new-comer, told him of the ordinance, and said,
"Cousin, you are not good councilmen, any of you, if you knuckle under
to this."
[Illustration: He struck the axe into the middle of the ordinance.]
Buchmaier continued his regular pace without hastening his steps in the
least: he walked straight up to the board, everybody stepping aside to
let him pass. He raised his hat a little, and there was an expectant
silence. He read the ordinance from beginning to end, struck the flat
of his hand upon the crown of his head,--a sign that something decisive
was coming,--took the axe into his right hand, and with a "Whew!" he
struck it into the board in the middle of the ordinance. Then, turning
to the by-standers, he said, "We are citizens and councilmen: without a
meeting, without the consent of the councils, such ordinances cannot be
passed. If the clerks and receivers are our lords and masters, and we
are nobody, we may as well know it; and, if we must go before the king
himself, we can't put up with this. Whoever agrees with me, let him
take my axe out and strike it into the board again."
Mat was the first who stepped forward; but Buchmaier held him by the
arm and said, "Let the older men come first."
This movement turned the scale in the minds of those who had halted
between two opinions, not knowing whether to imitate Buchmaier's course
or to condemn it. The old squire made his essay first, with a trembling
hand; after him, no one kept aloof, and the name of the judge in
particular was hacked into a hundred pieces. By degrees, all the
village assembled, and every one contributed his stroke amid shouts and
laughter.
The acting squire, informed of what had happened, thought of calling
the military from Horb. But his sapient minister dissuaded him from
such a requisition, as it would be of no use; "and, besides," thought
he, "let them make as much rebellion as they can; there will be a fine
crop of summonses, and every summons is a creutzer to me. Hack away,
boys: you are hacking into your own flesh, and that flesh is my
copper." With a joyous mien he counted his coming gains as he drank his
stoup of wine in the Adler.
Thus it happened that not one in the village remained innocent of the
offence except Soges and the squire.
Next Tuesday, at the suggestion of the old squire, the councilmen went
to court of their own accord and gave information of what they had
done. The judge stormed. His name--Rellings--is a word used in the
Black Forest to designate a tom-cat; and he might then really be
compared to a shorn puss, with spectacles on its nose and spurs at its
feet. He talked of locking up all the offenders at once; but Buchmaier
stepped forward with great decision and said, "Is that all you are good
for? Locking up? You won't do that yet a while. We are here to stand by
what we have done: we avow it freely, and there can be no such thing as
imprisonment before trial. I am not a vagrant. You know where I live. I
am Buchmaier, this here's Beck, that there's John the Blacksmith, and
that's Michael's son Bat, and we're all to be found on our own
freeholds. You can't lock us up without a sentence, and after that the
way is still open to Reutlingen and to Stuttgard, if need be."
The judge changed his tone, and summoned the men to appear before him
at nine o'clock of the following day. This was well at least, so far as
Soges thereby lost his creutzers. Thus do great lords and little lords
frequently err in their calculations.
Next day an array of more than a hundred farmers, with axes in their
hands, marched through the village. They often stopped before the door
of a house and called for the belated master, who rushed out in great
haste, pulling on his coat as he walked along the road. Jokes and
witticisms were passed about, but died away whenever the speaker's eye
fell upon Buchmaier, who walked on silently with contracted brows. Not
a drop had been tasted before going to court. Business first, pleasure
afterward, was the motto of the farmers.
The judge was lounging at the window in his dressing-gown, with his
long pipe in his mouth. On seeing the approach of the armed force, he
closed the window in all haste, and ran to ring the bell; but, as his
boots were always spurred, he stumbled over the window-curtain and fell
at full length upon the floor. His long pipe lay beside him like a
weapon of offence. He rose quickly, however, rang for the tipstaff,
sent him to the commandant and to the captain of the gens-d'armes, and
ordered them all to come up with arms heavily loaded. Unfortunately,
there happened to be but four men in the town. He now ordered them to
remain in the porter's room and hold themselves in readiness to act at
a moment's warning. He then gave directions that but one farmer should
be admitted at a time, and the door always closed upon him.
Buchmaier, being first called in, said, holding the door in his hand,
"Good-morning, your honor;" and then, turning to the others, "Come in,
men: we have a common grievance I'm not going to speak for myself
alone."
[Illustration: Write down word for word what I say.]
Before the judge could interfere, the room was filled with farmers,
each carrying an axe on his left arm. Buchmaier stepped up to the
clerk, and said, stretching out his hand, "Write down word for word
what I say; I want them to read it at the Provincial Government." Then,
after passing his hand twice through his shirt-collar, he rested his
hand upon the green baize of the table, and continued:--
"All respect and honor to you, judge: the king has sent you, and we
must obey you, as the law requires. The king is a good and a true man,
and we know it isn't his will to have the farmers knocked about like
dumb cattle or boxed on the ears like children. But the little lords
and gentlemen that hang by one another from the top to the bottom are
mighty fond of commanding and giving orders: one of these days they
will set it down in notes how the hens must cackle over their eggs. I'm
going to lift the lid off the pan and just give you a bit of my mind. I
know it won't do any particular good just now; but, once for all, it
must be said: it has been tickling my throat too long, and I'm going to
get it out of me. The commune is to be put on the shelf altogether, and
all things to be done in the rooms of you office-holders. Then why
don't you sow and reap in the rooms too? Such a little whippersnapper
of a clerk twists a whole town-housefull of farmers on his fingers, and
before you know it you find clerk after clerk saddled upon us for a
squire: then it is all fixed to the liking of you pen-and-ink fellows.
What is true is true, and there must be law and order in the land; but
the first thing is to see whether we can't get along better without
tape-fellows than with them; and then we don't carry our heads under
our elbows, either, and we can mind our own business, if we can't talk
law-Latin. There must be studied men and scholars to overlook matters;
but, first, the citizens must arrange their own affairs themselves."
"Come to the point," said the judge, impatiently.
"It's all to the point. You've ordered and commanded so much that
there's nothing left to be ordered or commanded, and now you begin to
prevent and precaution: you'll end by putting a policeman under every
tree to keep it from quarrelling with the wind and drinking too much
when it rains. If you go on this way a body might as well ride away on
the cow's back. You want to take every thing from us: now, there
happens to be one thing our minds are made up to hold on to." Raising
his axe and gnashing his teeth, he continued:--"And if I must split
every door between me and the king with this very axe, I will not give
it out of my hand. From time immemorial it is our right to carry axes;
and if they are to be taken from us the assembly of the hundred must do
it, or the estates of the realm; and before them we shall have a
hearing also. But why do you want to take them from us? To protect the
forests? You have woodrangers, and laws and penalties, for that, and
they fall alike on the noble and the beggar. How many teeth must a poor
farmer have to eat potatoes with? Pluck out the rest, so that he may
not be tempted to steal meat. How do you come to let the dogs run about
with their fangs? When a boy is eight or nine years old he has his
knife in his pocket, and if he cuts his finger it's his own fault, and
there's an end; if he hurts anybody else he gets his fingers chowsed.
Who told you that we are worse than little children, and you our
teachers and guardians? You gentlemen seem to think that if it wasn't
for you I'd jump out of the window this minute and dash my brains out.
In all the main matters of life everybody must care for himself, and
every commune for itself, and not you lords and gentlemen. Lords, did I
say? Our servants you are, and we are the lords. You always think we
are here on your account, so that you may have something to give orders
about: we pay you that there may be order in the land, and not for the
purpose of being bothered by you. You are the servants of the State,
and we, the citizens, are the State itself. If we must look for our
rights, we don't mean to go to the spout, but to the well; and I will
sooner lay my head on the block and let the hangman chop it off with my
axe than give up my axe to an office-holder against my will. There!
I've done."
There was a general silence; the spectators looked on each other with
twitching eyes, which seemed to say, "There! he's got his pipe stuffed:
now let him smoke it."
Bat whispered to Beck, "He knows how to ask for a piece of bread and
butter when he wants it." "Yes," said Beck; "he doesn't carry his
tongue in his pocket."
The judge did not suffer the impression made by this speech to remain
long undisturbed. Twirling a bit of paper in his fingers, he began
calmly to dilate on the enormity of the offence which had been
committed. Many a side-thrust was levelled at Buchmaier, who only shook
his head slightly, as if he were driving flies away. At length the
judge came to speak of barrators and unquiet spirits, of conceited
gentlemen-farmers who had once drunk a stoup of wine with a lawyer, who
heard a bell ring without knowing where it was. Returning from this
digression, he entered once more on the case in hand; he spoke of some
of those present by name, and praised them as good, orderly citizens,
utterly incapable of such an action. He expressed his firm conviction
that they had been misled by Buchmaier's bad example: he conjured them,
by their conscience, by their loyalty to their king and country, by the
love of their wives and children, not to load this heavy guilt upon
themselves, but frankly to confess the seduction, and their punishment
would be lenient.
Again there was silence: some looked at each other and then cast their
eyes on the ground. Buchmaier's mien was bold and confident: he looked
them all in the face, his breast heaved, and his breath remained
suspended with expectation. Mat had already opened his mouth to speak,
but John, the blacksmith, stopped his mouth; for at this moment the old
squire, who alone of all present had occupied a chair, was seen to
rise. With heavy steps, hardly lifting his feet, he came up to the
green table and spoke. At first he panted a little, and often stopped
for breath, but soon his speech became quite fluent:--"Many thanks to
your honor," said he, "for the good opinion your honor has of me and of
some others; but what Buchmaier has said I say, to the last I dot. If
there was any more proof wanted that the gentlemenfolks look at us as
if we were under age, or little children, your honor has given it just
now. No, your honor: I am seventy-six years old, and have been squire
for twenty years; we are not children, and we don't do things because
we have been misled into doing them by naughty boys. My axe sha'n't go
out of my hand until I am laid between six boards myself. If there are
any children here, let them say so. I am a man, and know what I am
about; and, if there's punishing to be done, I am ready to be punished
as well as another."
"So are we!" said all the farmers with one voice. Mat could be heard
above the rest.
Buchmaier's face was as if bathed in light: he pressed his axe closer
to his bosom.
The necessary formalities were soon concluded and the minutes signed.
After Buchmaier had requested a copy of the latter, the farmers quietly
left the court-house.
Several other communes also remonstrated against the ordinance, and the
matter was carried up to the Provincial Government. Those communes who
had protested so violently with the axes themselves were mulcted in a
heavy fine. Judge Rellings, however, was removed after a time, and the
ordinance became obsolete. The men carried their axes on their left
arms, as they had done before.
I may have something more to tell of Buchmaier at some other time.
THE HOSTILE BROTHERS.
In the little cold alley called the "Knee-Cap" is a little house,
with a stable, a shed, and three windows glazed with paper. At the
dormer-window a shutter dangles by one hinge, threatening every moment
to fall. The patch of garden, small as it is, has a division-line of
leafless thorns to cut it into two equal halves. The premises were
inhabited by two brothers, who had been in constant warfare for
fourteen years. As in the garden, so in the house, all things were
partitioned into halves, from the attic down to the kennel of a cellar.
The trap-door was open, but underneath the domain of each was enclosed
in lattice-work and padlocked. All the other doors were likewise hung
with locks, as if an attack of burglars was looked for every moment.
The stable was the property of one brother, and the shed of another.
Not a word was ever spoken in the house, unless when one of them cursed
or swore for his own edification.
Mike and Conrad--such were their names--were both past the prime of
life and alone in the world. Conrad's wife had died early, and now he
lived by himself; and Mike had never been married.
A blue chest, of the kind called "bench-chests," was the first cause of
the quarrel. After their mother's death all the property should have
been divided between them: their sister, who was married in the
village, had received her share in advance. Conrad claimed the chest as
having been bought by his own money, earned by breaking stones on the
turnpike: he had only lent it to his mother, he said, and it belonged
to him. Mike alleged, on the other hand, that Conrad had eaten his
mother's bread and therefore had no property of his own. After a
violent altercation, the matter came before the squire, and then before
the court; and it was finally decided that, as the brothers could not
agree, every thing in the house, including the chest, should be sold
and the proceeds divided. The house itself was put up at auction; but,
as no purchaser was found, the brothers had nothing to do but to keep
it.
They were now compelled to publicly buy their own chattels,--their
bedding and other furniture. Conrad disliked this greatly. There are
many things in every house which no stranger is rich enough to pay for,
for there are associations connected with them which have no value for
any one but the original possessor. Such things should descend quietly
from generation to generation: this preserves their value unimpaired.
But, when they must be torn from the hands of strangers by the force of
money, a great part of their value is lost: they are thenceforth things
purchased for coin, and have not the more sacred character of an
inheritance. Thoughts like these often made Conrad shake his head when
some old utensil was knocked down to him; and when the velvet-bound
hymn-book of his mother, with the silver studs and buckles, came up,
and a peddler weighed it in his hand to judge of the value of the
silver, Conrad reddened up to his eyes. He bought it at a high price.
The box was sold last. Mike hemmed aloud, and looked at his brother in
defiance: he bid a large sum. Conrad bid a florin more, without looking
up, and pretended to count the buttons on his coat. Mike, looking
saucily around, went still higher. None of the strangers present
interfered, and the brothers were both determined not to give way. Each
comforted himself with the thought that he would only have to pay half
of what he bid, and so they continued to raise the price up to more
than five times its real value,--when it was knocked down to Conrad for
twenty-eight florins.
Then he looked up for the first time, and his face was entirely
changed. Spite and mockery leered out of his glaring eyes, his open
mouth, and his protruding mien. "When you die, I'll make you a present
of the chest to lie in," he said to Mike, trembling with rage: and
those were the last words he had spoken to him for fourteen years.
The story of the chest was an excellent theme for fun and waggery in
the village. Whenever anybody met Conrad, something was said about the
mean way in which Mike had acted toward him; and Conrad talked himself
into a rage against his brother, which increased with every word he
said.
The brothers were of different dispositions in all things, and went
their different ways. Conrad kept a cow, which he would yoke with the
cow of his neighbor Christian to do field-work. When there was nothing
to be done afield, he broke stones on the turnpike for fifteen
creutzers, or about five cents, a day. He was very near-sighted. When
he struck a flint to light his pipe, he always held his face very near
the spunk, to see whether it was lit. All the village called him "blind
Conrad." He was short and thick-set.
Mike was the opposite of all this. He was tall and lank, and walked
with a firm step. He dressed like a farmer, not because he was one,
(for he was not,) but because it was of advantage to him in his
business. He dealt in old horses; and people have great faith in a
horse bought of a man who is dressed in farmers' clothes. Mike was what
is called in Germany a "spoiled blacksmith,"--one who had deserted his
trade and lived by dickering. He rented out and sold his fields, and
lived like a gentleman. He was a person of importance in the whole
country round. In a circuit of twenty miles--in Wurtemberg, in
Sigmaringen and Hechingen, and in Baden--he knew the condition and the
muster of every stable just as accurately as a great statesman knows
the statistics of foreign states and the position of cabinets; and, as
the latter sounds the state of public feeling in the newspapers, so
did Mike in the taverns. In every village he had a scapegrace as
minister-resident, with whom he often held secret conferences, and
who, in cases of importance, would send him couriers,--to wit,
themselves,--asking nothing but a good drink-money, in the strict sense
of the word. Besides these, he had secret agents who would incite
people to revolutions in their stables; and thus his shed, which served
the purpose of a stable, was generally tenanted by some broken-down
hack in the course of preparation for publicity,--_i.e._ for sale on
market-day. He would dye the hair over its eyes and file its teeth;
and, though the poor beast was thereby disabled from eating any thing
but bran, and must starve on any thing else, he cared little, for at
the next market he was sure to sell it again.
He had some curious tricks of the trade. Sometimes he instructed an
understrapper to pretend to be making a trade with him. They would
become very noisy, and at last Mike would say, in a very loud tone of
voice, "I can't trade. I've no feed and no stabling; and, if I must
give the horse away for a ducat, away he must go." Or he would pay some
stupid farmer's lout to ride the horse up and down, and then observe,
"If a man had that horse that knew what to do with it he might make
something out of it. The build is capital: the bones are English. If he
had a little flesh he would be worth his twenty ducats." If a purchaser
turned up, he would undertake to get him the horse, stipulating a
commission for himself for the sale of his own property. What he hated
most was a warranty: rather than sign that he always agreed to throw
off a ducat or two. Nevertheless, he had many a lawsuit, which eat up
the horse and the profit; but the unsettled life he led had such a
charm that he could not think of leaving it, and he always hoped that
the profit on one speculation would compensate for the losses on
another. His principle was never to leave the market without a bargain.
The Jews of the markets were also his accomplices, and he would return
their favors in kind.
[Illustration: He would pass his brother breaking stones on the road.]
Sometimes, in riding out on these excursions, or in coming home, he
would pass his brother breaking stones on the road. He would look at
him half in pity and half in contempt, saying to himself, "This poor
devil works from morning to night for fifteen creutzers; and, if I have
any luck, I clear fifteen florins."
Conrad, seeing a little of these thoughts in spite of his
nearsightedness, would strike the stones until a thousand splinters
flew on every side.
We shall see hereafter whether Mike or Conrad did better in the end.
Mike was what is called "good company." He could tell stories day and
night, knew a thousand tricks, and was acquainted, as the German
proverb has it, with God and the world. Not that his acquaintance with
God was very intimate,--though he went to church now and then, as no
one in the country can avoid doing; but he went, like many others,
without thinking much about what he heard there, or endeavoring to act
accordingly.
Conrad also had his faults, among which perhaps the greatest was his
hatred of his brother and the manner in which he expressed it. When
asked, "How's Mike comin' on?" he would answer, "He'll come to this
some day," passing his hands under his chin as if to tie a knot, and
then lifting them up and stretching out his tongue. Of course people
were not chary in putting the question; and, whenever the standing
answer came, it was the signal for peals of merriment. In other ways,
also, people would try to keep the hatred of the brothers at the
boiling-point, not so much from malice as for fun. Mike never did more
than shrug his shoulders contemptuously when the "poor devil" was
mentioned.
They never remained in the same room. When they met at the inn, or at
their sister's, one of them always went away. No one ever thought of
making peace between them; and whenever people lived at daggers' points
it became proverbial to say, "They live like Mike and Conrad."
When they met at home they never spoke a word, nor even looked at each
other. Yet, when one perceived that the other was lying ill in bed, he
would go all the way to their sister's, who lived away off in Frog
Alley, and say, "Go up: I guess he's poorly:" and then he would make as
little noise as possible while he worked, so as not to disturb the
other.
Out of doors, however, and among the neighbors, they kept up their feud
without blinking; and no one would have thought of finding a spark of
brotherly love in their hearts.
This had now lasted wellnigh fourteen years. Mike, with his traffic and
dickering, had let the money received for his two acres slip through
his fingers,--he scarce knew how. Conrad, on the contrary, had bought
another field from an emigrant, and very nearly paid for it. Mike did a
commission-business, and thought of selling another field to set
himself afloat again.
[Illustration: The new parson was a young man of great zeal.]
"Now, there arose up a new king over Egypt," is a verse of which the
people of the village might have made a peculiar application. The old
parson was dead. He was a good man, but let things go their own way.
The new parson was a young man of great zeal. He was bent upon righting
all things, and did accomplish a great deal, until at last he got into
a declared connection with Lisa, the Lamb Innkeeper's daughter; after
which he ceased to meddle with people's private affairs,--for then he
might have been told to sweep at his own door. But as yet he was in the
full tide of reform.
One Sunday afternoon, when church was over, people sat about on the
lumber brought for the new engine-house which was to be built near the
town-house well. Mike was there too, sitting with his elbows on his
knees and chewing a straw. Peter, Shackerle's John's boy, who was only
five years old, was passing. Somebody cried, "Peter, I'll give you a
handful of nuts if you'll do like Conrad: how does Conrad do?" The
child shook his head, and was going on, for he was afraid of Mike; but
they held him fast, and teased him till at last he did the tying of the
knot, the pulling up, and the stretching out of the tongue. The shouts
of laughter could have been heard through half the village. The boy
called for his nuts, but the contractor was found unable to furnish
them; so Peter kicked at him,--which made them all laugh again.
The new parson, who chanced to be coming down the little hill at the
town-house, had stopped to see the whole transaction. When the boy was
on the point of being pummelled for his indignant dunning, the parson
stepped up quickly and took the boy away. The farmers all arose in
great haste and pulled off their caps. The parson walked on, taking
with him the image-keeper, who happened to be among the crowd. From him
he heard the story of the feud between the brothers.
Next Saturday, as Conrad was breaking stones in the village, he was
summoned to meet the parson next morning after church. He looked
astonished: his pipe went out, and for two seconds the stone under his
plank-soled foot remained unbroken. He was at a loss to think what
could have happened at the parsonage, and would rather have gone there
at once.
Mike received the same invitation as he was "greasing his old nag's
Sunday boots,"--as he termed getting up his hoof's for market. He
whistled a naughty tune, but stopped in the middle of it, for he well
knew what was coming. He was glad of the chance to prepare himself for
a good counter-sermon, a few sentences of which he already mumbled
between his teeth.
On Sunday morning the parson took for his text, "Behold, how good and
how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!" (Psalm
cxxxii. 1.) He showed that all the happiness and joy of earth is void
and vapid if not shared between those who have slept in the same
mother's womb; he said that parents can neither be happy here nor at
peace hereafter if their children are sundered by hatred, envy, or
malice; he referred to Cain and Abel, and spoke of fratricide as the
first venomous fruit of the fall. All this was uttered in a full,
resounding voice, of which the farmers said, "It pries the walls
apart." Alas! it is often almost easier to move stone walls than to
soften the hard heart of man. Barbara wept bitter tears over the evil
ways of her brothers; and, although the parson declared again and again
that he did not allude to any one in particular, but desired one and
all to lay their hands on their hearts and ask themselves whether the
true love for their kindred was in them, yet every one was content to
think, "That's for Mike and Conrad: the shoe fits them exactly."
The two latter stood near each other, Mike chewing his cap, which he
held between his teeth, and Conrad listening with open mouth. Once
their eyes met, and then Mike dropped his cap and stooped down quickly
to pick it up.
The hymn at the close had a calm, pacifying influence; but, before the
last sounds had died away, Mike was out of the church, and knocked at
the door of the parsonage. Finding it locked, he went into the garden.
He stood before the beehives, and watched their restless labor.
"They never know when Sunday comes."
And he thought, "I have no Sunday either, with my traffic; but then I
have no real working-day." Again he thought how many hundred brothers
lived together in a beehive, all working like the old folks. He did not
dwell upon such reflections, however. He made up his mind that the
parson should not bridle him; and when he looked at the graveyard he
remembered the last words of Conrad, and his hand clenched.
In the parsonage he found the parson and Conrad in earnest
conversation. The parson appeared to have given up the expectation of
his coming. He offered him a chair; but Michael answered, pointing to
his brother,--
"No offence to your reverence, but I never sit down where he is. Your
reverence hasn't been long in the village yet, and don't know his
tricks. He is a hypocritical doughface, but false and underhanded. All
the children imitate him," he continued, gnashing his teeth: "'How's
Mike coming on?'" and here he gave the well-known pantomime again.
"Your reverence," he went on, trembling with rage, "he is the cause of
all my mishap: he has ruined my peace at home, and so I have sold
myself to the devil for horses. You've prophesied it, you bloodhound!"
he roared at his brother: "I'll hang myself with a halter yet, but your
turn shall come first."
The parson gave the brothers time to vent their wrath, only exerting
his dignity so far as to prevent personal violence. He knew that after
their anger was poured out love must appear also; yet he was half
deceived.
At last the two brothers sat motionless and speechless, though
breathing hard. Then the parson began to speak words of kindness: he
opened all the secret corners of the heart, but in vain; they both
looked at the floor. He depicted the sufferings of their dead parents:
Conrad sighed, but did not look up. The parson gathered up all his
powers; his voice surged like that of an avenging prophet; he told them
how after death they would appear before the Lord's judgment-seat, and
how the Lord would cry, "Woe be unto you, ye hardened of heart! Ye have
lived in hatred, ye have withheld the grasp of a brother's hand from
each other: go, and suffer the torments of hell, riveted together!"
There was silence. Conrad wiped his eyes with his sleeve, got up from
his chair, and said, "Mike!"
The sound had been so long unheard that Mike started and looked up.
Conrad went up to him and said, "Mike, forgive me." The hands of the
brothers were firmly clasped, and the hand of the parson seemed to shed
a blessing on them both.
All the village rejoiced when Mike and Conrad were seen coming down the
little hill by the town-house, hand in hand.
They did not relinquish their grasp until they had reached home: it was
as if they desired to make up for the long privation. But here they
hastened to tear off the padlocks; then, going into the garden, they
tore away the dividing hedge, heedless of the cabbage destroyed in the
operation.
Then they went to their sister's, and sat side by side at the
dinner-table.
In the afternoon they sat in church together, each holding one side of
their mother's hymn-book.
They lived in harmony from that day forth.
IVO, THE GENTLEMAN.
1.
THE FIRST MASS.
[Illustration: Valentine the carpenter.]
One Saturday afternoon the busy sound of the hammer and of the adze was
heard on the green hill-top which served the good folks of Nordstetten
as their public gathering-place in the open air. Valentine the
carpenter, with his two sons, was making a scaffolding designed to
serve no less a purpose than that of an altar and a pulpit. Christian
the tailor's son Gregory was to officiate at his first mass and to
preach his first sermon.
Ivo, Valentine's youngest son, a child of six years of age, assisted
his father with a mien which betokened that he considered his services
indispensable. With his bare head and feet he ran up and down the
timbers nimbly as a squirrel. When a beam was being lifted, he cried,
"Pry under!" as lustily as any one, put his shoulder to the crowbar,
and puffed as if nine-tenths of the weight fell upon him. Valentine
liked to see his little boy employed. He would tell him to wind the
twine on the reel, to carry the tools where they were wanted, or to
rake the chips into a heap. Ivo obeyed all these directions with the
zeal and devotion of a self-sacrificing patriot. Once, when perched
upon the end of a plank for the purpose of weighing it down, the motion
of the saw shook his every limb, and made him laugh aloud in spite of
himself: he would have fallen off but for the eagerness with which he
held on to his position and endeavored to perform his task in the most
workmanlike manner.
At last the scaffolding was finished. Lewis the saddler was ready to
nail down the carpets and hanging. Ivo offered to help him too; but,
being gruffly repelled, he sat down upon his heap of chips, and looked
at the mountains, behind which the sun was setting in a sea of fire.
His father's whistle aroused him, and he ran to his side.
[Illustration: Valentine and his son folded their hands as the
vesper-bell rang.]
"Father," said Ivo, "I wish I was in Hochdorf."
"Why?"
"Because it's so near to heaven, and I should like to climb up once."
"You silly boy, it only seems as if heaven began there. From Hochdorf
it is a long way to Stuttgard, and from there it is a long way to
heaven yet."
"How long?"
"Well, you can't get there until you die."
Leading his little son with one hand, and carrying his tools in the
other, Valentine passed through the village. Washing and scouring
was going on everywhere, and chairs and tables stood before the
houses,--for every family expected visitors for the great occasion of
the morrow.
As Valentine passed Christian the tailor's house, he held his hand to
his cap, prepared to take it off if anybody should look out. But nobody
did no: the place was silent as a cloister. Some farmers' wives were
going in, carrying bowls covered with their aprons, while others passed
out with empty bowls under their arms. They nodded to each other
without speaking: they had brought wedding-presents for the young
clergyman, who was to be married to his bride the Church.
As the vesper-bell rang, Valentine released the hand of his son, who
quickly folded his hands: Valentine also brought his hands together
over his heavy tools and said an Ave.
Next morning a clear, bright day rose upon the village. Ivo was dressed
by his mother betimes in a new jacket of striped Manchester cloth, with
buttons which he took for silver, and a newly-washed pair of leathern
breeches. He was to carry the crucifix. Mag, Ivo's eldest sister, took
him by the hand and led him into the street, "so as to have room in the
house." Having enjoined upon him by no means to go back, she returned
hastily. Wherever he came he found the men standing in knots in the
road. They were but half dressed for the festival, having no coats on,
but displaying their dazzling white shirt-sleeves. Here and there women
or girls were to be seen running from house to house without bodices,
and with their hair half untied. Ivo thought it cruel in his sister to
have pushed him out of the house as she had done. He would have been
delighted to have appeared like the grown folks,--first in negligee,
and then in full dress amid the tolling of bells and the clang of
trumpets; but he did not dare to return, or even to sit down anywhere,
for fear of spoiling his clothes. He went through the village almost on
tip-toe. Wagon after wagon rumbled in, bringing farmers and farmers'
wives from abroad: at the houses people welcomed them and brought
chairs to assist them in getting down. All the world looked as
exultingly quiet and glad as a community preparing to receive a hero
who had gone forth from their midst and was returning after a victory.
From the church to the hill-top the road was strewn with flowers and
grass, which sent forth aromatic odors. The squire was seen coming out
of Christian the tailor's house, and only covered his head when he
found himself in the middle of the street. Soges had a new sword,
brightly japanned and glittering in the sun.
The squire's wife soon followed, leading her daughter Barbara, who was
but six years old, by the hand. Barbara was dressed in bridal array.
She wore the veil and the wreath upon her head, and a beautiful gown.
As an immaculate virgin, she was intended to represent the bride of the
young clergyman, the Church.
At the first sound of the bell the people in shirt-sleeves disappeared
as if by magic. They retired to their houses to finish their toilet:
Ivo went on to the church.
Amid the ringing of all the bells, the procession at last issued from
the church-door. The pennons waved, the band of music brought from Horb
struck up, and the audible prayers of the men and women mingled with
the sound. Ivo, with the schoolmaster at his side, took the lead,
carrying the crucifix. On the hill the altar was finely decorated; the
chalices and the lamps and the spangled dresses of the saints flashed
in the sun, and the throng of worshippers covered the common and the
adjoining fields as far as the eye could reach. Ivo hardly took courage
to look at the "gentleman," meaning the young clergyman, who, in his
gold-laced robe, and bare head crowned with a golden wreath, ascended
the steps of the altar with pale and sober mien, bowing low as the
music swelled, and folding his small white hands upon his breast. The
squire's Barbara, who carried a burning taper wreathed with rosemary,
had gone before him and took her stand at the side of the altar. The
mass began; and at the tinkling of the bell all fell upon their faces,
and not a sound would have been heard, had not a flight of pigeons
passed directly over the altar with that fluttering and chirping noise
which always accompanies their motion through the air. For all the
world Ivo would not have looked up just then; for he knew that the Holy
Ghost was descending, to effect the mysterious transubstantiation of
the wine into blood and the bread into flesh, and that no mortal eye
can look upon Him without being struck with blindness.
The chaplain of Horb now entered the pulpit, and solemnly addressed the
"primitiant."
Then the latter took his place. Ivo sat near by, on a stool: with his
right arm resting on his knee, and his chin upon his hand, he listened
attentively. He understood little of the sermon; but his eyes hung upon
the preacher's lips, and his mind followed his intentions, if not his
thoughts.
When the procession returned to the church amid the renewed peal of the
bells and triumphant strains of music, Ivo clasped the crucifix firmly
with both his hands: he felt as if new strength had been given him to
carry his God before him.
As the crowd dispersed, every one spoke in raptures of the "gentleman,"
and of the happiness of the parents of such a son. Christian the tailor
and his wife came down the covered stairs of the church-hill in
superior bliss. Ordinarily they attracted little attention in the
village; but on this occasion all crowded around them with the greatest
reverence, to present their congratulations. The young clergyman's
mother returned thanks with tearful eyes: she could scarcely speak for
joyous weeping. Ivo heard his cousin, who had come over from Rexingen,
say that Gregory's parents were now obliged to address their son with
the formal pronoun "they," by which strangers and great personages are
spoken to, instead of the simple "thee and thou," by which German
villagers converse with each other.
"Is that so, mother?" he asked.
"Of course," was the answer: "he's more than other folks now."
With all their enthusiasm, the good people did not forget the pecuniary
advantage gained by Christian the tailor. It was said that he need take
no further trouble all his life. Cordele, Gregory's sister, was to be
her brother's housekeeper; and her brother was a fortune to his family
and an honor to all the village.
Ivo went home, each of his parents holding one of his hands.
"Father," said he, "I wish Gregory was pastor here."
"That won't do: nobody ever becomes pastor where he was born."
"Why not?"
"Confound your why and why not: because it is so," said his father. But
his mother said, "He'd have too much bias in the village, and wouldn't
be impartial." She either did not know or could not explain to the
child that in the case of a native of the village the sanctity of the
office and the reverence of the minister's person would suffer, his
human origin and growth being so familiarly known.
After some time Valentine said again, "A minister's life is the best,
after all. His hands are never sore with ploughing, nor his back with
reaping, and yet the grain comes into his barn: he lies on a sofa and
studies out his sermon, and makes his whole family happy. Ivo, if you
are good you can be a gentleman. Would you like to?"
"Yes!" cried Ivo, looking up at his father with his eyes opened to
their full width. "But you mustn't say 'they' to me," he added.
"Plenty of time to see about that," replied Valentine, smiling.
After dinner Ivo stood on the bench behind the table, in the corner by
the crucifix, where his father had been sitting. At first he only moved
his lips; but gradually he spoke aloud, and made a long, long sermon.
With the most solemn mien in the world, he talked the most rambling
nonsense, and never stopped until his father laid his hand kindly on
his head, and said, "There! that's enough, now."
His mother took Ivo upon her lap, hugged and kissed him, and said,
almost with tears, "Mother of God! I would be content to die if our
Lord God would let me see the day on which you held your first mass."
Then, shaking her head, she added, in a low voice, "God forgive me my
sins! I am thinking too much of myself again." She set down the boy,
and placed her other hand on his head.
"And Mag shall be my housekeeper, sha'n't she?" said Ivo; "and I'll
have city dresses made for her, just as the parson's cook wears."
Madge, Ivo's cousin from Rexingen, rewarded him for his sermon with a
creutzer. Then he ran out to Nat the ploughman, who was sitting under
the walnut-tree at the door, and told him that he was going to be a
gentleman. Nat only shook his head and pushed the glowing tobacco down
into his pipe.
The afternoon service was not so well attended as usual: the morning
had absorbed all the devotion of the worshippers. Toward sundown the
young minister, with the chaplain of Horb and some other clergymen,
took a walk through the village. All the people who sat before their
houses arose and greeted them: the older women smiled on the pastor, as
if to say, "We know you and like you. Do you remember the pear I gave
you? and I always said Gregory would be a great man some day." The
young men took their pipes out of their lips and their caps from their
heads, and the girls retreated into a house and nudged each other and
looked out stealthily. The children came up and kissed Gregory's hand.
Ivo came also. Perhaps the young clergyman perceived the boy's tremor
and the pious warmth of his kiss; for he held his hand a while, stroked
his cheek, and asked, "What's your name, my dear?"
"Ivo."
"And your father's?"
"Valentine the carpenter."
"Give my love to your parents, and be good and pious."
[Illustration: Ivo hastened home and told the whole adventure.]
Ivo remained spell-bound long after the men had passed on: it seemed as
if a saint had appeared and conversed with him. He looked upon the
ground in wonder; then, hastening home in long leaps, he told the whole
adventure.
The family were seated on the timbers under the walnut-tree, Nat not
far from them, upon a stone by the door. Ivo went to him and told him
what had happened; but the ploughman was out of humor that day, and Ivo
sat down at his father's feet.
It had grown dark, and little was spoken. Once only Koch the
cabinet-maker said, "I'd like to see you get money under five per
cent."
Nobody answered. Ivo looked up at his father with a silent light
beaming out of his eyes: no one could guess what was stirring in that
infant soul.
"Father," said Ivo, "does Christian the tailor's gentleman sleep just
like other folks?"
"Yes; but not as long as you do: if you want to be a gentleman you must
get up early and mind your prayers and your books. Off with you now to
bed."
Ivo's mother went with him; and in his evening prayer he included the
name of the minister as well as those of his parents and his sister.
The ceremony was not without immediate results. The next day, our old
friend Hansgeorge, of the pipe of war, called, with his son Peter, on
the chaplain at Horb; and rich Johnny of the Bridge, sometimes called
Mean Johnny, brought his son Constantine, a bright, quick-witted lad.
Both of them were admitted to the grammar-school at once: Ivo was yet
too young.
We shall probably meet with both of these boys again. For the present
we must remain with Ivo and watch the progress of his boyhood as
closely as we can.
2.
THE TEACHER.
The schoolmaster of the village was a clear-headed man, but of a
violent temper. His fancy and his strong point was music. He had but
little influence on Ivo,--which is not surprising, as he had a hundred
and twenty boys to attend to. The boy's best teacher--though you would
not have thought it--was Nat, who could not write, and hardly read.
Even in towns the servants of a household may be called the "lesser
Fates" of the family. In a village this is doubly the case, for the
whole house is there a community of labor and repose. When in such
close contact with their employers, bad servants become insupportable
and are not long retained: one, therefore, who is good enough to be a
servant of the family is generally good enough to be intrusted with the
company and unconscious education of the children. Nat, at all events,
was safe enough. In the crib and on the hay-loft he would erect his
professional chair, answer the eager questions of his pupil or tell him
wonderful stories.
Nat liked to be with the animals on which he waited; yet, though he
could speak to them, and though the dun horse at least was as sensible
as a man, they could not give a satisfactory answer to what was told
them. Ivo, on the contrary, was always able and willing to clap his
hands and say, "Oh, my!" So Nat was never tired of Ivo's company. As a
colt runs by the side of the horse, bounding and frisking, so did Ivo
skip around Nat wherever he went.
Sometimes they would sit quietly together on the straw, Nat telling the
story of Firnut Pete, of the juniper-king, or of the charmed lady of
Isenberg; while the muffled noise of the feeding horses and cows
accompanied the story with a mysterious undertone. Firnut Pete--who
wantonly pulled the crests from the young firs while they were still
bleeding--is doomed, as a restless ghost, to haunt the heath of
Eglesthal; and the juniper-king has one gray and one black eye, which
exchange their colors every year. These stories Nat had to tell again
and again; for children are not so spoiled as to be always craving for
something new.
But these repetitions gave Nat some trouble; for as often as he had
forgotten a little of the story, or wished to tell it in a different
way, Ivo would say, "Why, that isn't the way it was." Nat would take
him on his lap, saying, "You're right: I didn't exactly remember.
There's a good many other things in my head, you see." Then Ivo would
tell the rest of the story with great interest, so that Nat was
delighted at the aptness of his pupil.
Often, also, they would speak of the fortunes of life, and things of
which children brought up in towns have little idea or knowledge until
they grow older,--of poverty and wealth, honesty and knavery, trade and
barter, and so on; for the life of a village is a life in public: the
inmost recesses of every house are known to all the inmates of every
other.
One day, as Ivo was going home with his father from the place where the
latter had been at work, "Father," he asked, "why didn't our Savior
make the trees grow square and save all the trouble of chopping?"
"Why? You stupid boy, there wouldn't be any work for carpenters then,
and no chips."
Ivo said nothing; and his father reflected that, after all, the boy had
a good head, and that it was not right to speak so harshly to him. So
he said, after some time, "Ivo, you must ask your teacher in school, or
his reverence the parson, about such things: remember that."
This was well done in Valentine. Few parents are sufficiently shrewd
and conscienscious to hit upon this only means of escape from their own
ignorance.
But Ivo, instead of going to the schoolmaster or the parson, asked Nat,
and received for answer, "Because trees are wanted for a great many
things besides building."
Ivo was astonished: that, he thought, was an answer worth giving.
A consequence of his intimacy with Nat was that Ivo had no companion of
his own age. But then Nat regarded him as his confidant, and would call
him, caressingly, a "good old soul." In particularly-favored moments he
would tell him of his dog Singout, who had been with him when he had
watched the sheep, and who "had more wit than ten doctors." "I tell
you," Nat asseverated, "Singout used to understand my secret thoughts:
if he only looked at me he knew what I wanted immediately. Did you ever
look at a dog right sharp? They often have a face on which grief is
poured out, just as if they meant to say, 'I could cry because I can't
talk with you.' When I looked at Singout then, he would bark and howl
till my heart ached. If I said a single cross word to him, he wouldn't
eat a morsel for a whole day. The dumb beast was too good for this
world."
"Do dogs go to heaven?" asked Ivo.
"I don't know: there's nothing written about it."
What pleased Nat most of all was Ivo's love for animals; for both old
people and children, who do not know exactly what to love, make animals
the objects of their affections. These pets make no pretensions, exact
no duties; and never contradict us, which is particularly distasteful
to young and old children.
"What a poor beast piggy is!" said Ivo at one time: "she isn't in the
world for any thing but to be killed: other beasts are of some use
while they're alive." Nat nodded complacently. After a while he said,
"Perhaps that's the reason a pig squeals worse than any other beast
when they kill it."
His merry questions, remarks, and odd speeches gained for Ivo
throughout the village the reputation of a "smart, quick-witted boy."
Nobody surmised to whom this early activity of his mind was to be
ascribed. The schoolmaster was displeased with him because he never
went home from school quietly, as the rules prescribed, but always
screamed and whooped like an Indian. Poor children! For hours they are
compressed into themselves: when released at last, how can they be
blamed for shaking themselves and greeting the free air to which they
return? That is the reason that eleven o'clock in a village often seems
to be the hour for the Wild Huntsman to make his round.
No one doubted that Ivo would be a good parson in time, he was so
orderly and well-behaved. Valentine once boasted at the Eagle that his
Ivo would go far ahead of George's Peter and John's Constantine.
We shall see.
3.
CHILD'S LOVE.
Next door to Valentine lived Mike Shackerle, a poor man, whose sole
wealth was in his children, the youngest of whom was called Emmerence:
the carpenter's wife was her godmother, and Emmerence spent almost all
her time at. Valentine's house, ate and drank there, and only slept at
home. She was of Ivo's age exactly, and the two children were
inseparable. Although his ungallant schoolfellows called him
"girl-runner," he stuck to Emmerence. They had a partnership in a lot
of fruit they had buried in the hay-loft. Over this treasure they would
often sit with quiet joy. Ivo showed himself as a man in being able to
count up to a hundred. Emmerence listened devoutly and spoke the
numbers after him. The damaged and the odd pieces were consumed in
equal portions. Disputes were not wanting; when the partnership-goods
were divided at once. But the separation never lasted longer than a
day; for, if they did not "go joints," how could they talk to each
other of their fortune?
Great changes took place, however. Ivo received from Nat the present of
a whip, and Emmerence learned to knit. In towns children are presented
with drums or with toy-shops, to play soldier and trader until life
begins in earnest: in the village they begin to play farmer with a
whip. Ivo would stand before the empty wagon, smack his whip at the
bare pole, and cry, "Whoa! Gee! Get up!" The moment he came home from
school, his slate and ruler were laid upon the footstool behind the
stove, his whip cracked, and the geese and chickens routed up and down
the road. While thus roystering about one day, he saw Emmerence sitting
under the walnut-tree with her knitting. Her little kitten lay near
her, purring and puffing in the sun. The plump little yellow-haired
girl was taking up her stitches with a zeal which kept her eyes riveted
to her work; her lips were pressed together with an air of
determination, as if she was bound to make a woollen jacket for old
Winter himself.
Ivo stood quietly looking at her for a while, and then asked, "Are you
knitting stockings for your puss?"
Emmerence took no time to answer, but went on knitting. The spirit of
mischief tickled Ivo, and he pulled the needle out of her fingers.
Emmerence got up to throw a stone after him as he ran away; but,
girl-like, she never lifted it over her shoulder, but let it fall
immediately at her own feet. Having gathered up her needles, she went
home crying.
In the afternoon Ivo soon obtained forgiveness for his cruelty by
presenting Emmerence with a piece of a broken blue-glass bottle. They
looked at the sun through it by turns, exclaiming, "Oh, my! how
pretty!" Ivo wrapped the gem in a piece of paper and left it with
Emmerence.
[Illustration: The "saint-man."]
From time to time the village was visited by a man who, like the bold
Ratcatcher sung by Goethe, always had the children at his heels. It was
the "saint-man," who would sell pictures of the saints to the children
for broken glass. Ivo always ransacked the house until the glittering
coin was found, and then brought Emmerence the prize.
Not in the sunshine alone, but also in the storm, we find the children
together.
Old Valentine looked out of the window with a pleased expression in his
face,--for it is easy to look pleased during a fine summer shower, even
when there is not much to think about: body and soul are played upon as
with a gentle dew, and the drops fall from the eaves of the opposite
houses like the ripples of a stream: all around us--even the flood of
the silent air itself--has acquired a voice and a meaning.
Ivo and Emmerence had taken refuge in the open barn: little Jake, the
squire's son, who was but three years old, was there also. The chickens
had betaken themselves to the same asylum: they stood beside the
children, with drooping tails, often shaking themselves. The black
kitten also crept along under the eaves of the house so softly that its
coming into the barn was not perceived until the chickens cackled: it
dived down into the stable immediately.
At first it dripped so slightly that you could only see the rain by
looking at the dark windows opposite; but soon the drops swelled and
pattered, and Ivo said, "Ah, this is first-rate for my pinks in the
garden." "Pinks in t' garden," repeated little Jake. Again Ivo said,
"Ah, that'll be a big puddle." "Big puddle," re-echoed little Jake. Ivo
looked at him grimly.
Farmers drove by with empty sacks on their heads, crying out and trying
to escape the storm: the children laughed at them and cried out,
"Whew!" Emmerence stood with her head a little on one side, and her
hands under her apron: just when it rained hardest, Ivo pushed her out
under the eaves. Little Jake sprang out of his own accord, as if to
challenge the rain, but still he shut his eyes and held down his head,
so as not to get the very worst of it. With her apron over her head,
Emmerence now did her best to get under cover again; but Ivo was on the
look-out, and never let her in till she began to cry.
The rain at last stopped: the sun came forth brightly, and the children
rushed out with unspeakable joy. The human plants seemed to derive as
much benefit from the freshened air as any others. Yellow torrents
poured down along the road: the children launched chips upon them, and
waded about in the water, looking for bits of iron. Ivo, who always had
extended projects, wished to build a mill; but long before the mill was
ready the water had run off. How often do we build up machines to be
moved by the stream of our lives, and ere the machinery is half
constructed the water-course is empty and dry!
[Illustration: Ivo rushed upon the geese.]
Much as Ivo loved to tease Emmerence, he never permitted anybody else
to harm her. Once he was returning home from school, armed, as usual,
with his buckler the slate, and his sword the ruler, when he saw
Emmerence pursued by two evil spirits in the shape of old gray geese.
Crying and screaming, the poor girl fled, with her eyes turned upon her
foes. Already had one of them seized her gown and was tugging at it,
when Ivo rushed upon them, and a hard-fought battle ensued, out of
which Ivo at last came forth victorious. With the consciousness of
heroism, he helped Emmerence up from where she had fallen, and walked
triumphantly by her side, armed as he was. Nat had told him stories of
knights rescuing poor, helpless damsels from giants and dragons: he now
felt as if he was something like one of these knights himself.
4.
BRINDLE AND THE GOSLINGS.
The purchase of a horse or a cow is an event of absorbing interest in
the family of every farmer; but, when it is remembered that in the
Black Forest the dwelling-house, the stable, and the barn, are all
parts of one and the same building, it is clear that the importance of
such an occurrence is doubly great, for it makes a change, if not in
the family itself, at least in the household.
An event of this kind took place one day when Valentine came home from
the fair in the upper village with a fine heifer. Before it was taken
into the house it was examined and praised by all the neighbors and
passers-by. Ivo and his mother, and Nat, received the stranger at the
door. A wooden horse fell to Ivo's share as his "fairing," and
Valentine placed the end of the tether into Nat's hands, looked round
with an air of triumph, and then dismissed the "cattle" into the stable
with a good-humored stroke on the hocks. It was indeed a fine beast,
just what farmers like to call a smart, strutty sort of cow.
Ivo, with his wooden horse on his bosom, hastened to help Nat prepare
the stranger's supper. "Short feed" was heaped in the trough; but she
would not open her mouth except to growl gloomily. Ivo passed his hand
gently over her sleek hide: she turned her head and looked fixedly at
the boy for a long time.
Ivo then played with his wooden horse, which showed no reluctance to
make his acquaintance, but seemed at home everywhere and always carried
its head high.
At night Ivo was waked out of his sleep by a wailing note which shook
his soul. The poor heifer seemed to pour out her very bowels with
lamentation.
Ivo lay awake a long time listening to the sounds which went forth so
mournfully into the stillness. Whenever they ceased he held his breath,
hoping that they would come no more; but the poor cow always began
again.
At last Ivo waked his father.
"What's the matter?"
"The new heifer's crying."
"Let her cry, and go to sleep, you foolish boy: the heifer's homesick,
and it can't be helped."
Ivo shut his ears with the pillows and fell asleep again.
For nearly three days the heifer refused to eat a morsel; but at last
she grew accustomed to the other cattle in the stable, and ate quietly
like the rest. But a new trouble arose when the claws of her fore-feet
came off. She was only used to walk on soft pasture, but not to travel
so much on hard roads as was necessary in passing between the stable
and the fields.
Ivo often helped Nat to bind up the heifer's hoofs, and gave the
greatest proofs of sympathy and tenderness; nor did she fail to return
his kindness as far as she could, and Nat, who knew all about cows and
their ways, used to say, "The herdsboy that minded her before must have
looked like you, Ivo; be sure of that."
While the cow gave him so much pleasure, the wooden horse became a
source of grief. It had become quite soiled. So, one morning, without
saying a word about it to anybody, he ran down to the pond and gave it
a good scouring, but returned home with loud wailing, for he found that
all the color came out of it. Thus early did he discover how little
artificial favorites are to be trusted.
But fate soon gave him ample compensation for his loss. Once more, late
in the night, the whole house was astir on account of the heifer: she
was calving. Ivo was not allowed to go into the stable: he only heard a
low, distant wail,--for the curse is on animals also, and they must
"bring forth with pain."
At dawn of day Ivo hurried into the stable. A fine brindled calf was
lying at the dam's feet, and she kissed and licked it with her tongue.
No one could go near it without setting the cow into a storm of rage;
only when Ivo stepped up and timidly touched the calf she was quiet.
Her first-born was a son, and Ivo never ceased to beseech his father to
raise the calf until he consented.
From this time on Ivo was always in the kitchen when warm food or drink
was being prepared for the mother, and no one but he had leave to hold
the pail for her to drink.
But Ivo was destined to find that no pleasure is to be enjoyed without
interruption. One day, coming home from school, he saw a large dog on
the threshold. Passing him carefully, he went on to the stable. There
he found a man in a blue smock and red and yellow checked neckcloth,
which hung in a loose knot to his neck. In his hand he held a hawthorn
stick with a handle of brass thread.
Ivo saw at once that he was a butcher. His father, who stood by him,
was just saying, "For eight florins you may have it; but it's a pity to
kill it with such fine hoofs."
"I'll give seven."
His father shook his head.
"Well, split the difference and say done."
Ivo saw what it all meant in an instant. Leaving his slate and books
against the wall, he rushed into the stable, fell upon the calf's neck
and cried, embracing it tenderly, "No, no, Brindle! they sha'n't stab
your poor neck." He cried aloud, and could hardly pronounce the words,
"Why, father, father, you promised me!"
The calf bleated with all its might, as if it knew what was about to
happen, and the cow turned her head and growled without opening her
mouth.
Valentine was puzzled. He took off his cap, looked into it, and put it
on again. Smiling on Ivo, he said at last, "Well, let it be so; I don't
want to fret the child. Ivo, you may raise it, but you must find the
food for it."
The butcher walked away, his dog barking as he ran before him, as if to
give vent to his master's vexation. He made a rush at Valentine's geese
and chickens, and scattered them in all directions: it is the way with
underlings to expend their ill will on the dependants of their master's
foes.
The thought that he had saved the calf's life made Ivo very happy; yet
he could not but feel sore at the idea that, but for an accident, his
father would have broken the promise he had made him. He forgot all
this, however, when the time came for him to lead his pet out into the
grass and watch it while grazing.
One afternoon Ivo stood holding Brindle by the tether while it browsed.
With a clear voice he sang a song which Nat had taught him. The tones
seemed to tremble with half-suppressed yearnings. It was as follows:--
"Up yonder, up yonder,
At the heavenly gate,
A poor soul is standing
In sorrowful strait.
"Poor soul of mine, poor soul of mine,
Come hither to me,
And thy garments shall be white
As wool to-see.
"As white and as pure
As the new-driven snow,
And, hand in hand, together
Into heaven we'll go.
"Into heaven, into heaven,
Upon the heavenly hill,
Where God Father, and God Son,
And God the Spirit dwell."
[Illustration: Emmerence was driving some young ducklings before her.]
Hardly was the song ended when he saw Emmerence coming toward him from
the brick-yard. With a dry fir-twig she was driving some young
ducklings before her. On coming up to Ivo she stopped and began to
talk.
"Oh, you can't think," said she, "what trouble I had getting my four
ducklings out of the puddle in the brickyard. Four gray ones and two
white, you see. They're just a week old now. Only think, my mother made
a hen sit on the eggs, and now the hen won't take care of 'em: they run
about, and nobody looks after 'em at all."
"They're orphans," said Ivo, "and you must be their mother."
"Yes, and you don't know how pitifully they can look at you
one-sided,'--this way." She laid her head on one side, and looked up at
Ivo prettily enough.
"Look at them," said he: "they can't be quiet a minute, they keep
splashing and floundering about all the time. It 'ould make me giddy to
go on that way."
"I can't see," said Emmerence, looking very thoughtful, "how these
ducklings found out that they can swim. If a duck had hatched 'em out,
she might show 'em; but the hen never looked at 'em; and, for all that,
as fast as they could waddle they toddled on till they got into the
water."
Here the thoughts of two infant souls stood at the mysterious portal of
nature. There was silence a little while, and then Ivo said,--
"The ducklings all keep together and never part. My mother said we must
do so too; and brothers and sisters belong together; and, when the
cluck culls, all the chickens run up."
"Oh, the nasty chickens! The great big things eat up all I bring my
poor ducklings. If it would only rain right hard once more and make my
ducklings grow! At night I always put 'em in a basket,--they're too
soft to take in your hand,--and then they crowd up to each other, just
as I crowd up to my grandmother; and my grandmother says when they grow
up she'll pull out the feathers and make me a pillow."
Thus chatted Emmerence. Ivo suddenly began to sing,--
"Far up on the hill is a white, white horse,
A horse as white as snow;
He'll take the little boys that are good little boys
To where they want to go."
Emmerence fell in,--
"The little boys and the good little boys
Sha'n't go too far away;
The little girls that are good little girls
Must go as far as they."
Ivo went on:--
"Far up on the hill is a black, black man,
A man as black as a coal;
He open'd his mouth and he grit his teeth,
And he wanted to swallow me whole."
Then they sang on, sometimes one beginning a verse, and sometimes the
other.
"Sweetheart, see, see!
There comes the big flea:
He has a little boy on his back,
And a little girl in his ear.
"Don't you hear the bird sing?
Don't you hear it say,
In the wood, out of the wood,
Sweetheart, where dost thou stay?
"Don't you run over my meadow,
And don't you run over my corn,
Or I'll give you the awfullest waling,
As sure as you were born."
Many such little rhymes did the children sing, as if each tried to
outdo the other in the number of songs they knew. At length Ivo said,
"Now you drive your duckies home; I'm coming soon too." He was a little
ashamed of going home with Emmerence, though conscious of nothing but
the fear that his silly comrades would tease him. After she had been
gone for some time he followed with his calf.
It gave Ivo pain to see that, as soon as the calf was weaned, the
heifer, its dam, seemed to care no more about it. He did not know that
the beasts of the field cling to their young only so long as they
actually depend on and are in bodily connection with them. It is only
while young birds are unable to fly and get their own food, only while
the young quadruped sucks its dam's milk, that any thing like childlike
or parental love subsists. This connection once severed, the old ones
forget their young. Man alone has a more than bodily relationship to
his child, and in him alone, therefore, the love of offspring continues
through life.
5.
LIFE IN THE FIELDS.
Ivo's life was rich in suggestions, not only at home, among men and
beasts, but also with the silently-growing corn and in the rustling
orchard. All the world, with its glories and its noiseless joys,
entered the open portals of his youthful soul. If we could continue to
grow as we do in childhood, our lot would be replete with all the
blessings of Heaven; but a time comes when the sum of all things breaks
upon us in a mass, and then the remnants of our lives are occupied in
the dreary labor of dissecting, puzzling, and explaining.
During the summer holidays, in haying and harvest time, Ivo was almost
constantly afield with Nat. There his real life seemed to begin; and,
when he looked upward, the blue of his eyes was like a drop fallen from
the sky which sprang its broad arch so serenely over the busy haunts of
men; and it seemed as if this bit of heaven, straying upon earth,
"but long'd to flee
Back to its native mansion."
Something of this kind glimmered through Nat's thoughts one day when he
took Ivo by the chin and kissed him fervently on the eyelids. The next
moment he was ashamed of this tenderness, and teased Ivo and playfully
struck him.
When the cows were hooked up, Ivo was always at hand, and took pains to
lay the cushion firmly on the horns of the heifer: he was glad that the
wooden yoke was not made to lie immediately on the poor beast's
forehead. In the field he would stand near the cows and chase the flies
away with a bough. Nat always encouraged him in this attention to the
poor defenceless slaves.
Often Ivo and Emmerence would stand and dance on the wagon long before
the cows or the dun were hooked up: then they would ride to the field,
gather the hay into heaps, and push each other into it.
Whenever Nat went afield, Ivo stood by him in the wagon. Sometimes he
would sit up there alone, with his hands in his lap, and as his body
was jolted by the motion of the wagon his heart would leap within him.
He looked over the meads with a dreamy air. Who can tell the silent
life beating in a child's breast at such a moment?
Nor did Ivo fail to practise charity in his early youth. Emmerence,
being a child of poor parents, had to glean after the harvest. Ivo
asked his mother to make him a little sack, which he hung around his
neck and went about gleaning for Emmerence. When his mother gave him
the sack, she warned him not to let his father see it, as he would
scold; for it is not proper for a child whose parents are not poor to
go gleaning. Ivo looked wonderingly at his mother, and a deep sorrow
shone out of his eye; but it did not long remain. With a joy till then
unknown to him, he walked barefoot through the prickly stubble and
gleaned a fine bagful of barley for Emmerence. He was by when Emmerence
took a part of it to feed her duckies with, and mimicked them as they
waddled here and there, grabbing at the grains.
One day Ivo and Nat were in the field. The dun--a fine stout horse,
with hollow back, and a white mane which reached nearly down to his
breast--was drawing the harrow. As they passed the manor-house
farmer's, a whirlwind raised a pillar of dust.
"My mother says," Ivo began, "that evil spirits fight in a whirlwind,
and if you get in between them they throttle you."
"We're going to have a gust to-day," said Nat: "you'd better stay at
home."
"No, no; let me go with you," said Ivo, taking Nat's rough hand.
Nat had prophesied aright. Before they had been in the field an hour, a
terrible hailstorm was upon them. In a moment the horse was unhooked
from the harrow, Nat mounted on his back with Ivo before him, and they
galloped homeward, Ivo nestled timidly in Nat's bosom. "The evil
spirits in the whirlwind have brought this storm, haven't they?" he
asked.
"There are no evil spirits," said Nat, "only wicked men."
Strange! Ivo began to laugh aloud for fear, so that Nat became very
uncomfortable. Fright and pleasure are so nearly related that Ivo had
almost an agreeable tingle in the trembling of his soul.
Pale as death, and with his teeth chattering, Ivo came home. His mother
put him to bed, partly to conceal him from his father, who disliked to
see the delicate child that was to be a parson going into the fields.
He had not been in bed many minutes before Nat came with a phial and
gave him a few drops, which threw him into a gentle sleep; and in an
hour he awoke as sound as ever.
Never, perhaps, was Ivo happier than on one memorable day which he was
permitted to spend entirely in the field without coming home to dinner.
At early morning, long before matins, he went out with Nat and the dun,
the latter dragging the plough to Valentine's largest and farthest
field, which is far away toward Isenbrug, in the Worm Valley. It was
the opening of a beautiful day in August; a little rain had fallen
over-night, and a fresh breath of life passed over the trees and
grasses. The red clover was winking at the coming sun, which could not
be seen, though it was broad daylight: he had risen behind the hills of
Hohenzollern.
The plough grasped well: a refreshing steam arose from the brown, dewy
soil. The dun seemed to make little exertion, and Nat guided the plough
as easily as if it had been the tiller of a floating skiff. Every thing
around was bright and clear, and men and beasts might be seen here and
there, working cheerily for their daily bread.
When the matin bell rang at Horb, Ivo stopped. The horse stood still;
the plough rested in the furrow; Ivo and Nat folded their hands: the
dun seemed to be praying too,--at least he flung his head up and down
more than once. They then drew the furrow to the end, sat down on the
fallow, and eat some bread.
"If we were to find a treasure to-day," said Ivo, "like that farmer,
you know, that Emmerence's mother told of, that found a heap of ducats
right under his foot when he was ploughing, I'd buy Emmerence a new
gown and pay her father's debt on his house. What would you do?"
"Nothing," said Nat: "I don't want money."
He went to work again, and found it so easy that he began to sing,--not
of ploughing or sowing, though, nor of any thing connected with work in
the fields:--
"Oh, we are sisters three,--
Kitty and Lizzie, and she,
The youngest, she let the boy come in.
"She hid him behind the door
Till her father and mother were gone to sleep;
Then she brought him out once more.
"She carried him up the stairs,
And into her chamber she let him in,
And she threw him into the street.
"She threw him against a stone,
And his heart in his body he broke in two,
And also his shoulder-bone.
"He pick'd himself up to go home;
'Oh, mother, I fell and I broke my arm
Against such a hard, hard stone.'
"'My son, and it serves you right,
For not coming home with the other boys,
But running about at night.'
"So he went up-stairs to bed.
At the stroke of twelve he was full of fright,
At the stroke of one he was dead."
Here Nat jerked the rein, fixed his hat more firmly on his head, and
sang, perhaps in remembrance of the past:--
"You good-for-nothing boy,
Your drink is all your joy;
Dancing's what you're made for,
And your coat has never been paid for.
"If I'm a little short,
What need you care for't?
When I've emptied my glass
They'll fill it, I guess.
"If I can't pay the score
They'll mark it on the door,
So every one can read
That I'm running to seed.
"So seedy I've grown,
Not a thing is my own:
The world's here and there,
But I haven't a share."
Nat suddenly broke off, and cried, "Hee, oh!" to the horse. It was hard
to tell whether it occurred to him that Ivo was by, or whether he had
forgotten him entirely. So much is certain, however, that this sort of
songs is by no means so injurious to the children of a village as is
generally supposed. From his very cradle, Ivo had heard all sorts of
things spoken of by their most natural designations and without the
least reserve, which to those who grow up in towns are first left
unmentioned entirely, so that ignorance stimulates curiosity, and are
then discussed in ambiguous terms, which aggravate the temptation to
evil by the additional zest of the mysterious. Thus, instead of
festering in his mind, they glided through it without leaving a trace
behind them. Nat was full of reminiscences to-day; and, after a pause,
he sang again, in a muffled voice,--
"I'm forty years to-day;
My hair is turning gray:
If none of the girls will marry me,
I'll set my house on fire;
If none of the girls will marry me,
I'll drown myself in the mire."
Immediately after, he sang again,--
"Sweetheart, sweetheart,
How is't with thee,
That thou wilt not speak to me?
"Hast thou another lover,
To make the time pass over,
Whom thou likest more than me?
"If thou likest him more than me,
I'll travel away from thee,
I'll travel away from thee.
"I travel far over distant lands,
Leave my love in another's hands,
And write her many a line;
You must know
Where I go,--
A horseman bold am I.
"I travel far over distant lands,
Leave my love in another's hands;
Oh, that is hard to do
When my love is fair and true!
"Oh, that is easily done
When love is past and gone!
To sleep without a sorrow
From the even to the morrow;
Oh, that is easily done
When love is past and gone!
"Fine cities too there are
Where I have wander'd far,--
In the Spanish Netherlands,
And in Holland and in France;
But over all this ground
My love nowhere I found.
"Who made the song and who sang it first?
He made it and he sang it first,--
A fine young fellow,--
When his love was at the worst."
The long-drawn notes swept over the lea as if borne on the wings of old
yet unforgotten wishes. But they died away, in all probability, long
before reaching the ear for which they were intended.
Could the old ploughman still carry in his heart the roots of so
deep-seated a passion?
At eleven o'clock there was another halt and another prayer; the horse
was unhitched and received a bundle of clover for his dinner. Ivo and
Nat sat down at the edge of the field, in what would have been a
fence-corner if there were fences in that part of Germany, and waited
for Mag, who soon appeared with their dinner. They ate out of one bowl,
with a good appetite, for they had worked hard. The bowl was so
entirely empty that Mag said,--
"There'll be fine weather to-morrow: you make the platter clean."
"Yes," said Nat, turning the bowl upside down; "you couldn't drown a
wasp there."
After dinner they took a little siesta. Ivo, stretched out at full
length, was listening to the many-voiced chirpings among the clover;
and, closing his eyes, he said,--
"It is just as if the whole field were alive, and as if all the flowers
were singing,--and the larks up there,--and the crickets----" He never
finished the sentence, for he had fallen asleep. Nat looked at him for
some time with an expression of delight; then he brought a few sticks,
fixed them carefully into the ground, and hung the cloth in which the
clover had been tied over them, so that the boy slept in the shade.
This done, he got up softly, hitched the horse to the plough, and went
on noiselessly with his work.
It would be hard to tell whether he kept down the songs which mounted
to his lips, or whether solemn thoughts made him so quiet. The dun was
very true to the rein, and a slight jerk was enough, without a word, to
keep the furrow straight.
[Illustration: The boy slept in the shade and he went with his work.]
The sun was sinking when Ivo awoke. He tore away the tent which was
stretched over him, and looked about him in wonder, not knowing, for a
while, where he was. On seeing Nat he bounded toward him with a shout
of joy. He helped Nat to finish the job, and was almost sorry to find
that Nat had managed to plough without him; for he would fain have
thought himself indispensable to the progress of the work.
At nightfall they quitted the field, leaving the plough behind them.
Nat lifted Ivo on the horse, and walked by his side up the hill; but,
suddenly remembering that he had left his knife where the plough was,
he ran back hastily, and thus found himself again in the valley.
Looking up, he saw the sun set magnificently behind two mountains
draped in pine woods. Like the choir of a church built all of light and
gold were earth and sky; the treasures of eternity seemed to blink into
time; long streamers of all shades of red and purple floated about; the
little cloudlets were like, angels' heads; while in the midst was a
large, solemn mass of vapor like a vast altar of blue pedestal covered
with a cloth of flame. The sight provoked a wish to rise upward and
melt in rapture, and again an expectation to behold the bursting of the
cloud and the coming forth of the Lord in his glory to proclaim the
millennial reign of peace.
On the crown of the hill was Ivo. The horse, bound to the earth and
tearing up its bosom all day, seemed now to stride in mid-air and to
travel gently upward; his hoofs were seen to rise, but not to stand on
ground. Ivo was stretching out his arms as if an angel beckoned to him.
Two pigeons above his head winged their flight homeward: they rose high
and far,--what is high and what is far?--their pinions moved not: they
seemed to be drawn upward from above, and vanished into the fiery
floods.
Who can tell the pride and gladness of the heart when, glowing with the
spirit of the universe, it overpeers every limit and looks into the
vast realms of infinity?
Thus Nat stood gazing upward, free from earth's sighs and sorrows. A
beam of the inexhaustible glory of God had fallen into the heart of the
simple-hearted working-man, and he stood above all principalities and
powers: the majesty of heaven had descended upon him.
The memory of this day never faded from the hearts of Nat and of Ivo.
6.
THE GRAMMAR-SCHOOL.
An unavoidable change soon separated Ivo from the friend of his
childhood. The time had come for taking the first step which led to his
future calling. The change was external as well as internal,--the short
jacket worn till now being replaced by a long blue coat, which, in
anticipation of his growing, had been made too large in every
direction.
As he walked toward Horb, with his mother, in this new garb, he dragged
his heavy boots along with some difficulty, and often lifted up his
hands to prevent the unruly flaps of his coat from flying away behind
him. Valentine took but little further trouble about the future of his
child. He had tasted the idea of having a parson for his son to the
dregs, and would almost have been content had Ivo become a farmer after
all. Indeed, the older he grew the less willing was he to take any
trouble which carried him out of the beaten track of his daily toil.
Mother Christina, however, was a pious and resolute woman, who had no
mind to give up the idea which had once entered her head.
The chaplain lived next to the church. Mother and son went into the
church first, knelt down before the altar, and fervently spoke the
Lord's Prayer three times over. The soul of Mother Christina was full
of such feelings as may have visited the soul of Hannah when she
brought her son Samuel to the high-priest of the Temple at Jerusalem.
She had never read the Old Testament, and knew nothing of the story;
but the same thoughts came up in her mind by their own force and
virtue. Pressing her hands upon her bosom, she looked steadfastly at
her son as she left the church.
In the parsonage she set down her basket in the kitchen, and made the
cook a present of some eggs and butter. Then, being announced to the
chaplain, she advanced with short steps, dropping a shower of curtsies,
into the open parlor. He was a good-natured man, and regaled all his
visitors with sanctified speeches and gestures, during which he
constantly rolled his fat little hands in and out of each other. Mother
Christina listened attentively as if he had been preaching a sermon;
and when Ivo was admonished to be diligent and studious, the poor
little fellow wept aloud, he knew not why. The good man comforted and
caressed him, and the two went on their way composed, if not rejoicing.
Their next visit was to an old widow who lived near the "Staffelbaeck."
On the way, Ivo was treated to a "pretzel," which he devoured while
sitting behind Mrs. Hankler's stove and listening to the negotiations
between her and his mother. The good lady was a dealer in eggs and
butter, and an old business acquaintance of Mother Christina's. It was
agreed that Ivo should get his dinner at her house, and that Mrs.
Hankler was to receive therefor a certain quantity of butter, eggs, and
flour.
The moment Ivo had reached home, he threw off his coat, kicked the
boots from his feet, and hastened to Nat in the stable. The latter
passed his hand over his eyes when he heard that Ivo was now a student.
Next morning our young friend was sad when the time came for his first
visit to the grammar-school. He was waked early, and obliged to dress
in his best clothes. To make the parting less bitter, his mother went
with him to the top of the hill. There she gave him a little roast meat
wrapped up in paper, and two creutzers as a precaution against
unforeseen emergencies.
Our readers have gone to Horb with us often enough to know the way.
But, besides the winding road of only two or three miles which ascends
the steep hill, there is a footpath which turns off to the left at the
hill-top, and where you cannot walk, but only scamper straight to the
Horb brick-yard. Ivo took this path: his heart beat high, and his tears
flowed freely, for he felt that he was entering upon a new and a
different life.
At the brick-yard he wiped his eyes and looked at the roast meat. It
had a delicious odor. He unfolded the paper, and the meat smiled at him
as if it wished to be kissed. He tried the least bit, then a little
more, and in a short time he had tried every thing but the paper. Yet,
had he been ninety years old, he could not have done more wisely: the
lunch restored his spirits and his courage, and he walked on with a
smiling face and steady eye.
The boys at the school inspected the appearance of the new-comer with
the minuteness of custom-house officers. The size of his clothes amused
them particularly.
"What's your name?" asked one.
"Ivo Bock."
"Oh, this is Ivo Book,
Dress'd in the family frock!"
said a boy with a fine embroidered collar. The muscles of Ivo's face
twitched as is usual when a crying-spell is setting in. But, when the
boys gathered around him to follow up their words with practical
pleasantry, he struck at them with his fists hard and fiercely. The
rhymester with the collar now came up and said, "Never mind. Nobody
shall hurt you: I'll help you."
"Are you in earnest, or do you only want to fool me more?" asked Ivo,
with a trembling voice, still clenching his fists.
"In earnest, 'pon honor. There's my hand."
"Well and good," said Ivo, taking his proffered hand. Perhaps the boy's
original intention had been to hit upon a new way of teasing Ivo, or to
oppress him with the grandeur of his protection; but Ivo's firmness
turned the scales.
The arrival of the chaplain brought them all to order. The instruction
given was that usually awarded as the first lesson in Latin grammar. In
this country the problem is to decline "_penna_:" in Germany "_mensa_"
is the word. When it was over, the boy with the embroidered collar, and
his younger brother, accompanied Ivo to Mrs. Hankler's door. It was at
the hands of the sons of the President-Judge that he received this
distinction. Henceforward we may look with composure on his fortunes in
the good town of Horb.
[Illustration: Ivo sat on the step to wait for Mrs. Hankler.]
Mrs. Hankler's door was locked. Ivo sat down on the step to wait for
her. Sorrowful thoughts rose in his mind, though at first of every-day
origin. He was hungry. He thought of them all at home,--how they were
gathering round the table, while he alone was left outside and hungry
in the world, with nobody to care for him. People ran by in a hurry,
without even becoming aware of his existence. They were all going to
the steaming bowls which awaited them: only he sat there as if he had
fallen from the sky and had never had a home. "Every horse and every
ox," said he, "has his food given him when it is time; but nobody
thinks of me. I have two creutzers in my pocket; but then it would
never do to break the money already."[8]
At last his home-sickness was too much for him: he jumped up and
bounded homeward with long strides. As he turned the corner he met Mrs.
Hankler, running over with apologies about having forgotten all about
it and having been detained. "Come with me," was the peroration, "and
I'll cook you some nice turnips, and put some pork in them for your
mother's sake: your mother is a dear, good woman. And when you're a
minister and I am dead, you must read a mass for me: won't you?"
Ivo was happy the moment he heard somebody talk to him about his
mother. He felt as if he had travelled a thousand miles and had left
home ten years ago. The Latin, the wide coat, the quarrels, the roast
meat, the new comrade, the flight: he seemed to have had more
adventures in half a day than formerly in half a year. He ate heartily:
still, he was not quite at his ease with the strange old lady;
something told him, indistinctly, that he had been removed from the
basis of his prior existence, his father's house. A young forest-tree
lifted out of its native soil and carried away on rattling wheels to
adorn some distant hill might express, if it could speak, what was
pressing so heavily on the heart of poor Ivo.
The afternoon studies were easier, being in German, and so conducted
that Ivo could put in a word or two of his own now and then. In going
home he joined the two other boys from his village,--Johnny's
Constantine and Hansgeorge's Peter. Constantine said that it was the
rule for the youngest student always to carry the books for the others;
and Ivo took the double burden on himself without a murmur.
At the top of the hill they saw Mother Christina, who had come to meet
her son. He was relieved of the books immediately. Ivo joyfully ran to
meet his mother, but, suddenly checked himself, for he was ashamed to
kiss her in the presence of the big boys, and even winced a little at
her caresses.
With their caps on one side, and their books under their arms, the two
elder students paraded the village.
Ivo had as much to tell at home as if he had crossed the sea. He also
felt his own importance when he found that they had cooked and set the
table expressly for him. Even Mag, who seldom had a kind word for him,
was now in a better humor than usual: he came from abroad.
Thus did Ivo go to and from the grammar-school from day to day.
A great change had taken place with Brindle about this time: he no
longer spent all his time in the stable, for he had been yoked. Ivo
thought the poor beast suffered from his absence, and was often out of
spirits about it.
But in the grammar-school all things went on as well as well could be.
Ivo speedily filled up his new coat and his new position, to the
admiration of everybody.
His intercourse with Nat could not remain the same, however. Even the
detailed reports of Ivo's doings gradually ceased, as there was not
often much to be told; and Ivo generally sat down quietly to his books
as soon as he got home. With Mrs. Hankler, on the other hand, he was
soon on the best of terms. She always said that "Ivo was as good to
talk with as the oldest." She told him a great deal about her deceased
husband; and Ivo advised her financially whenever a quarter's rent came
to be paid.
With the sons of the President-Judge he kept up a friendship for which
everybody envied him. And Emmerence,--she was now nine years old, went
to school, and minded the schoolmaster's children in recess. At an age
when children rarely have any thing more than dolls to play with, she
had an exacting living baby to attend to; but she seemed to look upon
it all as rare sport. When Valentine was away she was welcome to visit
at the house with the child; not otherwise. The carpenter could not
bear the child's crying. He was growing more and more querulous and
discontented from day to day. Ivo saw Emmerence now and then, but the
two children had a certain dread of each other. Ivo, particularly,
reflected that it was not proper for a future clergyman to be so
intimate with a girl. He often passed Emmerence in the street without
speaking to her.
In other respects, also, he was gradually warped away from his favorite
associations. When he went into the stable, according to custom, to
help Nat feed the steer, the cow, and the dun, his father would often
drive him out, saying, "Go away! you have no business in the stable. Go
to your books and learn something: you're to be a gentleman. Do you
think a man is going to spend all that money for nothing? Hurry up!"
With a heavy heart, Ivo would see the other boys ride the horses to
water or sit proudly on the saddle-horse of a hay-wagon. Many a sigh
escaped his breast while translating the exploits of Miltiades: he
would rather have been on the field by the target-place, raking the
new-mown grass, than on the battle-field of Marathon. He would jump up
from his seat and beat the empty air, just to give vent to his thirst
for action.
He was also enstranged from his home by the occupation of his mind with
matters of which no one around him had ever heard. He could not talk
about them with anybody,--not even with Nat. Thus he was a stranger in
his own home: his thoughts were not their thoughts.
Nat beat his brains to gladden the heart of the poor boy whom he so
often saw out of spirits. Ivo had told him with delight of the pretty
dovecote which the judge's sons had at home: so Nat repaired the old
dovecote, which was in ruins, and bought five pairs of pigeons with his
own money, and peas to feed them with. Ivo fell upon his neck when, one
morning, without saying a word, he took him up into the garret and made
him a present of it all.
Of a Sunday morning Ivo might have been seen standing under the
walnut-tree, in his shirt-sleeves, with his arms folded, watching his
little treasures on the roof, as they cooed and bowed and strutted and
at last flew into the field. From possessions which he could hold in
his hand, which walked the earth with him, he had now advanced to such
as could only be followed with a loving look. It was only in thought he
owned them: caress them he could not. They flew freely in the air, and
nothing bound them but their confidence in his goodness. Is not this a
symbol of the turn which the course of his life had taken?
When he whistled, the pigeons would come down from the roof, dance at
his feet, and pick up the food he threw them. But he could not touch
them to express his pleasure: he had to content himself with cherishing
them in his soul, if he would not scare them suddenly away.
When Ivo entered the church, his soul was so full of love and childlike
confidence that he almost always said, "Good-morning, God." With a
happy home feeling, he then went into the vestry, put on his
chorister's dress, and performed his functions during mass.
A deep-seated fear of God, sustained by a glowing love for the mother
of God, and, above all, for the dear child Jesus, dwelt in the soul of
Ivo. With especial joy he used to call to mind that the Savior too
had been the son of a carpenter. Of all the festival-days he liked
Palm-Sunday most: it made almost a deeper impression upon him than Good
Friday. Huge nosegays as high as a man, made particularly odorous with
wild sallow and torch-weed, were carried into the church. The nosegays
were sprinkled with holy water, and after the ceremony they were hung
up in the stables to protect the cattle from all harm. At home, all
parties were solemn and serious; no one spoke above his voice,--not
even Valentine; everyone was kind and gentle to everybody else, and
this made Ivo happy.
But, with all this, a thoughtful spirit soon showed itself in him, even
in religious matters. One day the chaplain was explaining that St.
Peter carried the keys because he opened the gates of heaven for the
redeemed.
"How so?" asked Ivo. "Where does he stay?"
"At the gate of heaven."
"Why, then, he never gets into heaven himself, if he is kept sitting
outside all the time opening the door for other people."
The chaplain stared at Ivo, and was silent for some time; at last he
said, with a complacent smile, "It is his celestial happiness to open
to others the gates of eternal bliss. It is the first of virtues to
rejoice in and to strive for the good fortune of others: such is the
high calling of the Holy Father at Rome, who has the keys of Peter on
earth as well as the keys of all those consecrated by him and by his
bishops."
Ivo was satisfied, but not quite convinced; and he pitied in his heart
the good Peter who is kept standing at the gate.
A load rested on Ivo's bosom from the day the chaplain told the
children that it was their duty to ask themselves every evening what
they had learned or what good they had done that day. He tried to act
up to the letter of this behest, and was very unhappy whenever he found
nothing satisfactory to report to himself. He would then toss about in
his bed distractedly. Yet he was mistaken. The mind grows much as the
body does: like an animal or a plant, it thrives without our being
able, strictly speaking, to see the process. We see what has grown, but
not the growth itself.
Another institution of the chaplain was wiser. He made the boys sit,
not in the order of their talents, but in that of their diligence and
punctuality. "For," said he, "industry and good order are higher
virtues, for they can be acquired, than skill and talent, which are
born with a man, and so he deserves no credit for them." Thus he
constrained the talented to labor, and inspired those of lesser gifts
with confidence. Ivo, who to very good natural parts added great
consciensciousness was soon near the head of the class, and the
President-Judge was pleased to see his sons bring him into his house.
We made the acquaintance of Judge Rellings in the story of "Good
Government." Ivo, having heard many anecdotes of his harshness, was not
a little astonished to find him a pleasant, good-natured man, fond of
playing with his children and of doing little things to give them
pleasure. Such is the world. Hundreds of men will be found who, when
talking generalities, are liberal to a degree, asseverating that all
men were born free and equal, &c., while the members of their
household, and sometimes of their family, experience nothing but the
most grinding tyranny at their hands. Others, again,--particularly
office-holders,--treat all who are not in office like slaves and
vagrants, and yet are the meekest of lambs in the four walls of their
own dwellings.
[Illustration: At the hill-top he would sit down on his little sledge.]
Though not ill pleased with life in the town, yet Ivo never heard the
curfew-bell of a Sunday evening without a little pang. It reminded him
that to-morrow would be Monday, when he must again leave his home, his
mother, Nat, and the pigeons. His daily walk gradually became invested
with cheerful associations. He always went alone, dreading the society
of Constantine, who teased him in many ways.
In summer he sang as he walked. In autumn there were some pleasant days
when his mother and sister ground corn in Staffelbaeck's mill: at that
season he did not dine with Mrs. Hankler, but met them in the
trembling, thundering mill, and dined with them at the mill table.
Winter was the most pleasant season of all. Nat, who was something of a
Jack-of-all-trades, had shod Ivo's little sledge with an old iron
barrel-hoop. At the hill-top he would sit down on his little conveyance
and sweep down the road to the Neckar bridge swift as an arrow. With
chattering teeth, he often said his rule of syntax or his Latin
quotation for next day as he rode. True, in the evening he had to pull
his sledge up the hill again by a rope; but that he liked to do.
Sometimes a wagon would pass, and then, if the teamster was not very
ill-natured, he would take the sledge in tow.
Ivo acted as a sort of penny postman for half the village: for one, he
would carry yarn to be dyed; for another, a letter to the mail; and for
another, he would inquire whether there was a letter for him. In coming
home, his satchel sometimes contained a few skeins of silk, some herb
tea, leeches in a phial, patent medicine, or some other purchase he had
been commissioned to make. All this made him very popular in the
village, while Peter and Constantine always scorned such uncongenial
service.
One Sunday afternoon there was great excitement in the village when the
President-Judge's two sons came in their red caps to visit Ivo. Mother
Christina was looking out of the window when she heard them ask Blind
Conrad the way to Ivo's house; and, although the room had been put into
good order, she was in great trepidation. In her embarrassment she laid
the stool on the bed, and took a pair of boots from the corner in which
they had been stowed, putting them under the table in the middle of the
room. Hearing the visitors come up the steps, she opened the door with
great bashfulness, but yet with not a little pleasure, and welcomed
them. Then she called out of the window to Emmerence, telling her to
look for Ivo and for his father, and to send them in quickly to receive
company.
Wiping off the two chairs, for the fortieth time, with her white Sunday
apron, she pressed the boys to be seated. She apologized that things
looked so disorderly. "It is the way with farmers' folk," said she,
looking bashfully at the floor, which was scrubbed so clean that it
was an easy matter to trace the joists by the nail-sockets.
Blind Conrad came and opened the door a little, to see what was the
matter, and with an eye to the prospects of a good cup of coffee, or
such other treat as might be looked for; but Mother Christina pushed
him out without much ceremony, bidding him "come some other time."
Poor woman! At other times so strong in her religious force, and now so
humble and abashed before the whelps of the mighty ones of the earth!
But then she had grown old in the fear of the Lord and greater fear of
the lordlings!
The elder of the two boys had, meantime, surveyed the room with great
confidence. Pointing to the door of the room, he now inquired, "What is
that horseshoe nailed there for?"
Folding her hands solemnly and bending her head, the mother answered,
"Don't you know that? Why, that is because if you find a horseshoe
between eleven and twelve o'clock in the day, and make no cry about it,
and nail it to your door, no evil spirit and no devil and no witch can
come in."
The boys stared with astonishment.
Ivo came, and soon after him his father. The latter took off his cap
and welcomed the "young gentlemen;" then, rubbing his hands, he said,
"What, wife! haven't you any thing in the house? Can't you get
something to offer the young gentlemen?"
The mother had only waited to be relieved in entertaining the company.
She hastened to find the very best the house afforded. Emmerence had
had the good sense to drop into the kitchen, thinking that perhaps she
might be wanted, for Mag had gone to take a walk with her beau. Perhaps
she may have been curious also to see Ivo's great friends, for she
shared the joy of the whole family at his exalted position.
Many of the neighbors' wives also found their way into the kitchen.
Ivo's mother left them with complacent apologies, and took a big bowl
of red-cheeked "Breitlinger" apples with her into the parlor. Emmerence
brought two glasses of kirschwasser on a bright pewter plate. The boys
ate heartily, and even drank a little of the fiery liquor, and Ivo's
mother stuffed their pockets with fruit besides. At last she gave the
youngest a particularly fine apple, with "her compliments to his lady
mother, and she was to put it on the bureau."
After a long conversation, the boys took their leave. Valentine nodded
pleasantly when they asked his permission to take Ivo with them: his
mother arranged his collar, and brushed every mote of dust from his
blue coat. Ivo was pleased to hear that he was to have a new one
shortly.
Accompanied by the women, who had lingered behind the half-open door of
the kitchen, Christina now walked into the street and looked after the
three as they walked toward Horb, escorted by Valentine as far as the
Eagle. The squire's wife was looking out of her window, and Christina
said to her, "Those are the President-Judge's boys. They are going to
take my Ivo out to their father in the Dipper. He likes to see them
make friends with him: Ivo is quite smart, and they are quite fond of
him."
Nor is it to be denied that Ivo felt some pride as he walked through
the village hand in hand with his town acquaintances. He was pleased to
see the people look out of the windows, and bid them all "Good-day"
with great self-complacency. Who will think ill of him for this in a
country where the very child in its cradle babbles of the omnipotence
of the functionaries, where their existence and their activity is
shrouded in awe-inspiring darkness, where all ages and all conditions
unite in humble salutations to clerk and constable, knowing that there
is no escape from their ill-will the moment the door of the secret
tribunal is closed upon the unhappy mortal against whom an accusation,
or a mere suspicion, has been uttered?
Mine host of the Dipper saluted Ivo very kindly, rubbing his hands the
while, according to an old habit, as if he were cold. Ivo was now
admitted to the "gentlemen's room," and to the table, where, screened
from the vulgar gaze, the Auditor-General and the President-Judge sat
in undisturbed admiration of each other's respectability.
Two merchants of Horb stood at the entrance of this chamber of peers,
in some little embarrassment. After considerable hesitation, one said
to the other, "Well, Mr. Councilman, what shall we drink'!"
"What you please, Mr. Councilman," answered the other.
The two had just been elected to their present exalted station, and
this was their first appearance at the gentlemen's table. They sat down
with many profound bows, to which the President-Judge returned a sneer
and exchanged a supercilious look with his colleague.
Ivo's satisfaction at being admitted into such great society was
destined to be cruelly dashed. The boys told what they had heard from
Ivo's mother about the efficiency of the horseshoe. The judge, who
liked to play the freethinker in matters of religion, because it was a
liberty not expressly removed by legislation, and because he thought it
a mark of culture, interrupted the story with "Stuff! What do you talk
of such brainless superstition for? Don't let every silly old peasant
cram your heads with her nonsense. I have told you ever so often that
there are no devils and no saints. The saints may pass, but not the
devils, nor the witches."
Ivo trembled. It stung him to the soul to hear his mother spoken of in
that manner and with such irreverence. He wished he had never dreamed
of this great company. He hated the judge cordially, and eyed him with
looks of fury. Of course the great man had no perception of the
disgrace into which he had fallen. He waxed exceedingly condescending
to the new councilmen, who were so charmed with his goodness that their
organs of speech seemed to have lost every check-spring.
To Ivo's relief, the "gentlemen" at last departed, leaving him to
comfort himself with the reflection that he had not bid the judge
"Good-night."
7.
THE CONVENT.
Years glided by almost imperceptibly. Constantine and Peter had passed
their examination in autumn, and were now destined to enter the convent
at Rottweil. An event, however, which formed the theme of conversation
for a long time to come, detained Peter at the village.
The second crop of grass had been mowed in the garden of the
manor-house; the daisy--called here the wanton-flower because it
presents itself so shamelessly without any drapery of leaves--stood
solitary on the frost-covered sward; the cows browsed untethered; and
the children gambolled here and there and assailed with sticks and
stones the few scattered apples and pears which had been forgotten on
the trees.
Peter sat on the butter-pear tree by the wall of the manor-house, near
the corner turret. A bright golden pear was the goal of his ambition.
Constantine, the marplot, wished to snatch the prize out of his grasp,
and threw a stone at it. Suddenly Peter cried, "My eye! my eye!" and
fell from the tree with the limb on which he had been sitting. The
blood gushed from his eye, while Constantine stood beside him, crying
and calling aloud for help.
Maurice the cowherd came running up. He saw the bleeding boy, took him
on his shoulder, and carried him home. Constantine followed, and all
the children brought up the rear. The train increased until they
reached Hansgeorge's house: the latter was engaged in mending a wagon.
At sight of his child bleeding and in a swoon he wrung his hands. Peter
opened one eye; but the other only bled the faster.
"Who did this?" asked Hansgeorge, with clenched fists, looking from his
wailing boy to the trembling Constantine.
"I fell from the tree," said Peter, closing the sound eye also. "Oh,
God! Oh, God! my eye is running out."
Without waiting to hear more, Constantine ran off to Horb for young
Erath, who now held the post of his late father. Finding that the
doctor had gone out, he ran up and down before the house in unspeakable
agony: he kept one hand pressed upon one of his eyes, as if to keep the
misfortune of Peter vividly before his mind; he bit his lips till they
bled; he wished to fly into the wide, wide world as a criminal; and
again he wished to stay, to save what could be saved. He borrowed a
saddle-horse, and hardly had the expected one come home when he hurried
him on the horse and away; but he travelled faster on foot than the
surgeon did on horseback. The eye was declared irretrievably lost.
Constantine closed both his eyes: night and darkness seemed to fall
upon him. Hansgeorge, with the tears streaming from his eyes, sat
absorbed in bitter thoughts, and held the stump of his forefinger
convulsively in the gripe of his other hand. He regarded the maiming of
his child as a chastisement from God for having wantonly mutilated
himself. He expended all the gentleness of which his nature was capable
on poor unoffending Peter, who was doomed to expiate his father's sin.
But Peter's mother--our old friend Kitty--was less humble, and said
openly that she was sure that accursed Constantine was the fault of it
all. She drove him out of the house, and swore she would break his
collar-bone if he ever crossed the threshold again.
Peter persisted in his account of the matter, and Constantine suffered
cruelly. He would run about in the field as if an evil spirit were at
his heels, and when he saw a stone his heart would tremble. "Cain!
Cain!" he often cried. He would fain have fled to the desert like him
too, but always came home again.
It was three days before he ventured to see his companion. He prepared
himself for a merciless beating; but the wrath of the mother had gone
down, and no harm befell him.
He found Ivo sitting by the patient's bedside, holding his hand.
Pushing Ivo aside, he took Peter's hands in silence, his breath
trembling. At last he said,--
"Go away, Ivo; I'll stay here: Peter and I want to talk together."
[Illustration: Peter and I want to talk together.]
"No: stay here, Ivo," said the sufferer: "he may know all."
"Peter," said Constantine, "in the lowest hell you couldn't suffer more
than I have suffered. I have prayed to God often and often to take my
eye away and let you keep yours: I have kept one of my eyes shut when I
was alone, just to see no more than you. Oh, dear Peter, do please,
please forgive me!"
Constantine wept bitterly, and the patient begged him to be quiet, lest
his parents should find out about it. Ivo tried to comfort him too; but
the ruling passion soon appeared again:--
"I wish somebody would tear one of my eyes out, so that I shouldn't
have to be a parson, and sit behind a parcel of books and make a long
face while other people are enjoying themselves. Be glad you have only
one eye and needn't be a parson. But the last cock hasn't crowed yet,
neither."
Ivo looked sorrowfully at the scapegrace.
Peter was, indeed, henceforth unfit for the ministry. For in
Leviticus iii. 1 it is written, "If his oblation be a sacrifice of
peace-offering, he shall offer it without blemish before the Lord." A
clergyman must be without bodily imperfection.
Even when Constantine came to take leave of Peter, before getting into
the carriage which was to take him to the convent, he said, "I wish the
carriage would upset and break my leg. Good-bye, Peter: don't grieve
too much for your eye."
These words of Constantine, which betrayed the abhorrence of his inmost
soul to the clerical function, had made a deep impression on Ivo.
Often, in his solitary walk to school, he would whisper to himself, "Be
glad you have only one eye: you needn't be a parson;" and then he would
close each of his eyes alternately, to make sure that it was not his
case. Constantine was a riddle to him; but he prayed for him in church
for some time.
Meanwhile the time had come for Ivo in his turn to set out for the
convent of Ehingen. His father's house was filled with the bustle of
preparation, as if he were on the point of being married. At first the
sight of his new clothes was a source of pleasure; but soon the thought
of parting outweighed all others, and an inexpressible feeling of dread
overcame him. It was a comfort to think that his mother and Nat, with
the dun, were to accompany him. Having taken leave of the chaplain, of
his companions at Horb, and of Mrs. Hankler, he devoted three days to
going the rounds of the village. All gave him their best wishes,--for
all thought well of him and envied the parents of so fine and good a
lad. Here and there he received a little present,--a handkerchief, a
pair of suspenders, a purse, and even some money: the last he hesitated
to accept,--for, as his parents were well off, it seemed humiliating.
But he reflected that clergymen must accept presents, and rejoiced over
the six-creutzer pieces with childish glee. Having finished his parting
calls, he avoided being seen before the houses he had visited; for
there is something disagreeable in meeting casually with persons of
whom you have just taken a final and long farewell: a deep feeling
seems to be rudely wiped away and a debt to remain uncancelled. Ivo
thus became almost a prisoner for some days, restricted to the society
of his pigeons and the little localities which had become endeared to
him in his father's curtilage.
On the eve of his departure he went to the house where Emmerence lived,
to say "Good-bye." She brought him something wrapped up in paper, and
said, "There, take it: it is one of my ducklings!" Although Ivo did not
object, she pressed him, saying, "Oh, you must take it! Do you remember
how I drove them in from the hollow? They were little weeny things
then, and you used to help me get food for them. Take it: you can eat
it for lunch to-morrow."
Holding the roast duck in one hand, he gave the other to Emmerence and
to her parents. With a heavy heart, he returned home. Here all was in a
bustle. They were to start at one o'clock in the night, so as to be in
Ehingen betimes. On the bench by the stove sat an orphan-boy from
Ahldorf, who was also to enter the convent, with a blue bundle of goods
and chattels beside him. Ivo forgot his own sorrows in his pity for the
orphan, whom nobody accompanied, and who was forced to rely upon the
kindness of strangers. Seeing no other comfort at hand, he held the
roast duck under his nose, and said, "That's what we're going to have
for lunch tomorrow. You like a good drum-stick or a bit of the breast,
don't you?" He looked almost happy; and, to assure the stranger of his
share, he told him to put the duck into his bundle; but his mother
interfered to prevent this, as it would stain the clothes.
They all went to bed early. The orphan, whose name was Bart, slept in
Nat's bed, who stayed up to feed the horse and wake the others. When
Ivo was already in bed, His mother stole softly into the room once
more. She shaded the oil-lamp which she carried with her hand, in order
not to disturb him if he slept; but Ivo was awake, and, as her hand
smoothed the cover under his chin and then rested on his head, she
said, "Pray, Ivo dear, and you'll sleep well. Good-night!"
He wept bitterly when she had gone. A vision of light seemed to have
passed away, leaving him in total darkness. He felt as if a strange and
distant roof covered him already. To-morrow he knew his mother would
not come to him thus, and he sobbed into the pillows. He thought of
Emmerence, and of the other people in the village: they were all so
dear to him, and he could not imagine how they would do when he was
gone, and whether things would really go on without him just as they
always had done. He thought they ought to miss him as much as he longed
to be with them: he wept for himself and for them, and his tears seemed
to have no end. At last he nerved himself, folded his hands, prayed
aloud with a fervor as if he strained God and all the saints to his
bosom, and fell gently asleep.
With his eyes half shut, Ivo struck about him when Nat came with the
light: he thought it absurd to get up when he had hardly begun his
first nap. But Nat said, sorrowfully, "No help for it: up with you. You
must learn to get up now when other people bid you."
He staggered about the room as if he were tipsy. A good cup of coffee
brought him to his senses.
The house was all astir; and Ivo took a weeping farewell of his
brothers and sisters. Bart was already seated by Nat's side on the
board, which had the bag of oats for a cushion: his mother was getting
into the wagon, and Joe, his eldest brother, held the dun's head.
Valentine lifted up his son and kissed him: it was the first time in
his life that he gave him this token of love. Ivo threw his arms around
his neck and wept aloud. Valentine was visibly touched; but, summoning
up all his manhood, he lifted the boy into the wagon, shook his hand,
and said, in a husky tone, "God bless you, Ivo! be a good boy."
His mother threw his father's cloak around them both; the dun started,
and they were on their way through the dark and silent village. Here
and there a taper was burning by the bedside of sickness, while the
unsteady shadows of the watchers flitted across the window. The friends
who lived in all these silent walls bade him no farewell: only the
watchman, whom they met at the brick-yard, stopped in the midst of his
cry and said, "Pleasant trip to you."
For nearly an hour nothing was heard but the horse's tread and the
rattling of the wheels. Ivo lay on his mother's bosom with his arms
around her. Once he made his way out of the warm covering and asked,
"Bart, have you a cloak?"
"Yes: Nat gave me the horse-cloth."
Ivo again sank upon his mother's bosom, and, overpowered by sorrow and
fatigue, he fell asleep. Blest lot of childhood, that the breath of
slumber is sufficient to wipe all its bitterness away!
The road led almost wholly through forests. They passed through
Muehringen, traversed the lovely valley of the Eiach, and left the
bathing-place of Imnau behind, before ever it occurred to Ivo to look
about him. Not until they came down the steep that leads into
Haigerloch did he fairly awake; and he was almost frightened to see the
town far down in the ravine encircled by the frowning hills. As day
broke they felt the cold more keenly; for it is as if Night, when she
arises to quit the earth, gathered all her strength about her to leave
the traces of her presence as deep as possible.
They stopped at Hechingen, at the Little Horse, where a young girl was
standing under the door. Perhaps this reminded Ivo of Emmerence; for he
said, "Mother, shall we eat the duck now?"
"No: we'll have it for dinner at Gamertingen, and get them to make us a
nice soup besides."
The bright sunshine in the Killer Valley, the constant change of scene,
and the novel details of rural life which he saw in the "Rauh Alb"
Mountains, cheered Ivo a little; and when he saw a large herd of cattle
grazing he said to Nat, "Mind you take good care of my Brindle."
"There's an end of my care of him: your father has sold him to
Buchmaier, and he is coming to fetch him to-day and break him in."
Ivo was too well acquainted with the stages of a domestic animal's life
to be much grieved at this news: he only said, "Well, Buchmaier is a
good man, and deals well by man and beast; so I guess he won't work him
too hard. And, besides, he don't yoke two oxen into one yoke, but gives
each his own, so they're not worried quite so much."
The sun was near setting when they reached the valley of the Danube.
Nat became quite lively. With his head bent back, he told all sorts of
stories of the neighboring town of Munderkingen, of which much the same
jokes are told as are sometimes expended upon the Schildburgers; for
these towns are to the Wurtembergers or Suabians what the Suabians are
to the Germans outside of themselves, and something like what the Irish
are to the English and Americans,--a tribe upon which every cobbler of
wit patches a shred of his facetiousness in the cheap and durable form
of a "bull." Ivo laughed heartily, and said, "I wish you and I could
travel about together for a whole year."
But this was soon to cease; for they were at the gates of Ehingen. Ivo
started and grasped his mother's hand. They put up at the Vineyard, not
far from the convent. Hardly had they seated themselves, however,
before the vesper-bell rang: Ivo's mother rose without speaking, took
the two boys by the hand, and went to church.
There is a peculiar power in the universal visibility of the Catholic
religion: wherever you go or stand, temples open wide their portals to
receive your faith, your hope, your charity; worshippers are everywhere
looking up to the same objects of veneration, uttering the same words,
and making the same gestures; you are surrounded by brothers, children
of the great visible holy father at Rome. Halls are always open to
receive you into the presence of the Lord, and you are never out of
your spiritual inheritance.
[Illustration: Christina and the two boys knelt devoutly at the altar.]
Thus Christina and the two boys knelt devoutly at the altar. They
forgot that their home was far away; for the hand of the Lord had
erected a dwelling around and over them.
With an invigorated confidence, the mother once more took the boys by
the hand and sought the convent-gate. There was much stir here, and men
and boys might be seen walking and running to and fro in all
directions, dressed in all the various costumes of the Catholic
portions of the country. The famulus at the entrance, having examined
their passports, brought them to the director. This was an old man of
rather querulous mien, who answered every remark and every question of
Christina with "Yes, yes: right enough." He had been catechized so much
that day that his taciturnity was not to be wondered at. Feeling Ivo
pulling at her skirt, she took courage to request that his reverence
would permit Ivo to sleep at the hotel for the coming night.
After some hesitation he said, "Well, yes. But he must be here before
church in the morning."
Bart took leave of Christina with a specimen of that verbiage of
gratitude which he had learned by heart from frequent practice. This
duty performed, he cheerfully followed the famulus to his room.
Ivo danced with joy at being allowed to stay with his mother. He
continued chatting with her till late at night.
[Illustration: The Convent.]
The next morning a beautiful clear Sunday was shining. An hour before
church began, Ivo went to the convent with his mother, followed by Nat
with the baggage and a bundle for Bart. She helped him to arrange his
chattels in the press, counting over every piece, and often looking
about sorrowfully to find that twelve boys were forced to live here in
one room. At the sound of the convent-bell, mother and son separated,
and the latter went to join his comrades.
After church his mother introduced herself to the stewardess, on
whom as a woman she hoped to exercise some little influence. She begged
her to give the boy a little something to eat between meals
occasionally,--for he would certainly forget to ask for it,--and she
would pay for it all honestly.
Ivo was permitted to join his mother again a little before dinner-time.
She even tried to make interest with the hostess of the Vineyard, and
implored her to give Ivo any thing he might ask for, and keep an
account of it, and it would be punctually paid. The busy hostess
attended to every thing, though she well knew that she could do
nothing.
Ivo ate with a good appetite: he knew that his mother was with him. But
after dinner he walked sadly to the Vineyard; for now the inevitable
leave-taking was to come.
"Well, Nat," said he, "you'll always be my friend, won't you?"
"You may swear to that as if it was gospel," replied he, pushing the
collar over the horse's head: he did not turn around, wishing to
conceal his emotion.
"And you'll give my love to all the people that ask about me?"
"Yes, yes; indeed I will: only don't grieve so much about being far
away from home. Why, it's pleasant to take leave when you know that
there are people at home who love you dearly, and when you haven't done
any harm." Nat's voice gave out; his throat was parched up, and his
neck swelled. Ivo saw nothing of this, but inquired,--
"And you'll mind the pigeons till I come back again, won't you?"
"Sha'n't lose a feather. There now: go to your mother, for we must be
off, or to-morrow will be lost too. Keep up your spirits, and don't let
it worry you too much: Ehingen isn't out of the world, either. Hoof,
dun!"
He led the horse up to the car, and Ivo went to his mother. Seeing her
weep so bitterly, he suppressed his own tears, and said, "Mustn't be so
sad: Ehingen isn't out of the world, either, and I'm coming home at
Easter, and then we shall be so glad: sha'n't we?"
His mother bit her lips, bent over Ivo, embraced and kissed him. "Be
pious and good" were the last words she sobbed out. She got on the car;
the dun started, after looking around at Ivo, as if to take leave also;
Nat nodded once more, and they were gone.
Ivo stood with his hands folded and his head sunk upon his breast. When
he raised his tearful eyes and saw nothing of the loved ones, he ran
out into the street to get one more look at the car: from the town-gate
he saw it speeding on the dusty road. He stopped and turned to go back.
Everybody around seemed so cheerful, and he alone was sad and a
stranger! In the car his mother took her rosary and prayed,--
"Dear, holy Mother of God! Thou knowest what a mother's love is: thou
hast felt it in sorrow and in joy. Preserve my child; he is the jewel
of my heart. And, if I do a sin in loving him so much, let me atone for
it, not him."
When Ivo reached the convent it was time for the afternoon service; but
he found no devotion this time: his heart trembled too much with
weariness. For the first time in his life he found himself in church
without knowing it: he sang and listened unthinkingly.
This one circumstance was a feature of the life on which he was about
to enter: the actions of his own will fell into the background;
directions and precepts dictated his steps. His existence now became
legally and strictly monotonous. The story of one day is the story of
all.
The boys slept in large halls under the supervision of an usher. At
half-past five in the morning a bell rang, which brought in the
famulus, who lighted the lantern hanging from the roof and summoned
them all to prayers. Then there was breakfast at the common table,
succeeded by hours of private study which lasted till eight o'clock.
The schools now began, and continued until dinner-time, after which
there was an hour of "recreation,"--that is, of a walk taken under the
eye of a functionary. After some more hours of instruction the boys
were permitted to play in the yard, but never without being watched by
a person in authority. The constraint indicated by the enclosed space
was never relaxed even during "free time;" nowhere was there room for a
spontaneous pleasure to spring forth, _nowhere a moment of
unreconnoitred solitude_.
At home Ivo had been the pet of the family: when he sat at his books,
his mother made it her especial care to see that no noise was made near
him; scarcely was any one permitted to enter the room, and an
impression was made as if a saint was engaged in working miracles
there. Here, on the contrary, when the studies were resumed after
supper, whispers would be heard here and there, which distracted his
attention and took away the edge of his industry. Those who know the
inscrutable power that often animates the soul which mirrors itself in
its own thoughts or drinks in the thoughts of others, who are
acquainted with that mute intellectual commerce which extends its
organs and spreads its fragrance like a budding flower, will appreciate
the regret of Ivo at never being left to himself. He was no longer his
own property: a society moved him as if he had been one of their
fingers or teeth.
At nine o'clock there were prayers once more, after which every one was
compelled to go to bed. Here, at last, Ivo returned to himself, and his
thoughts travelled homeward, until sleep spread its mantle over him.
Thus it happened that for some days Ivo felt as if he had been sold
into slavery. Nowhere was there a trace of free will; every word and
every thought was hedged in by injunctions and commandments; the
_inflexibility of the law_ raised a cold high wall before him wherever
he turned. It is a consistent deduction from the essence of every
Church which has reached the development of a fixed and unchanging form
of ritual and tenet, to begin in early youth with the task of tapping
the fountain-head of individual self-regulation in the hearts and minds
of its pupils, and of clapping them into the iron harness of its
unbending forms. But the highest effort of education should be to draw
out this self-regulating principle, and not to repress it; to educe the
laws of right and wrong from the workings of the young mind, and not to
nail a foreign growth upon the stock after having deadened the source
from which alone a healthy fruitage could spring.
Ivo was so low-spirited that a single harsh word sufficed to bring
tears to his eyes. Some of the naughtiest of his companions discovered
this, and teased him in all sorts of ways. Many of these boys were of
the coarsest stamp,--had left the most humble abodes behind them, and
found every thing their hearts desired in the good food and the care
taken of all externals. They noticed that Ivo was easily disgusted, and
often amused themselves by getting up a conversation at the table which
made it impossible for the poor boy to taste a morsel. At such times
his mother's arrangement with the stewardess was of the greatest
service to him.
Over-government always leads to circumventions of the law which the
supervisors are forced to wink at: some of these tricks are handed down
by a sort of secret tradition; others are invented with the occasion.
Ivo never took part in these irregularities, nor in the practical jokes
sometimes attempted to be played on the teachers and overseers. He was
quiet and retiring.
His letter to his parents gives a vivid picture of his state of mind.
It was as follows:--
"DEAR PARENTS, BROTHERS, AND SISTER:--I did not wish to write before I
had learned to feel at home here. Oh, I have lived through so much in
these three weeks that I thought I should die! Indeed, if I had not
been ashamed I would have run away and come back to you. I often
thought that I was just like the cow that father bought: she could not
eat any thing either until she had become accustomed to the rest of the
cattle. We have very good eating here,--meat every day except Friday,
and wine on Sunday. The stewardess is very kind to me. I cannot go to
see the landlady at the Vineyard, as we are not allowed to go to
taverns. We are kept strictly in all things:--we are not even permitted
to take half an hour's walk by ourselves after dinner. If I only had
wings, to come and fly over to you! What I like best is to walk in the
road by which we came here: then I think of the future,--when I shall
travel this road again in the holidays. It is very cold here, too.
Would you please send me a flannel jacket, dear mother, slashed with
green in front? I feel the cold much more here than when I used to go
to Horb: there I could do as I liked; here I don't seem to belong to
myself at all. Oh, my head is often so heavy with crying that I feel as
if I were going to be sick! But don't grieve about it, dear mother: all
will go on very well soon, and I am really in good health now: only I
must pour out my heart before you. I will study very hard, and then God
will make all things go rightly: I depend on Him, on our Savior, on the
holy mother of God, and on all the saints: others have gone through
with it all before me, and why should not I? Be happy among yourselves,
and love each other dearly; for, when one is away, one feels how much
those should love each other who are privileged to be together: I would
certainly never be quarrelsome or discontented now, and dear Mag would
not need to scold me. Good-bye. Give my love to all good friends, and
believe me your loving son,
"IVO BOCK.
"P.S.--Dear mother, a new usher has just come,--Christian the tailor's
son Gregory; but his sister does not keep house for him now, it seems:
there is somebody else with him. Please get Christian the tailor to
write to him to be a little kind to me.
"Dear Nat, my best love to you, and I think of you very often. The
cattle here are almost all black; and whenever I see a farmer at work
in the fields I can hardly help running up to him to help him. The
steward has pigeons too, but he kills them all in winter.
"Bart lives in a different room from mine. He is very happy: he has
never been so well cared for in his life. Poor fellow! he hasn't such a
dear good mother and father as I have. If I only had one companion to
my liking here--
"In the evenings we are allowed to visit in families: many of
the boys do so, but I know nobody to go to. Oh, if I were only in
Nordstetten----
"Pardon my scrawling. If I were only with you! I have many things on my
heart still, but will close now: the night-bell is ringing. Think of me
often."
This letter made a great impression at home. His mother carried it in
her pocket, and read it again and again, till it fell to pieces. The
High-German dialect in which it was written came so strangely from her
child that she could hardly realize the fact: but then he was a
"scholar," and the minister preached in the same way in church. The
numerous dashes tried her patience sorely. What could the boy have been
thinking of when he made them?
[Illustration: Nat offered to walk all night to Ehingen.]
Nat at once offered to walk all night to Ehingen, to bring Ivo the
things he had asked for and news from home. Walpurgia, the pretty
seamstress, was taken into the house and set to work. Christina treated
her to the best of fare, for it seemed as if she were feeding the
jacket. Often she said, "Don't save any thing: it is for my Ivo." As it
was near Christmas, some "hutzelbrod" was baked, being kneaded with
kirschwasser and filled with dried apples, pears, and nut-kernels.
This, with a great quantity of fruit, some money, and other
knickknacks, was packed into a bag and laid upon the shoulders of the
devoted Nat, who trudged out of the village late in the evening.
Ivo could hardly believe his eyes when, as the class were taking their
afternoon stroll, he saw Nat coming up the road. He ran to meet him,
and fell upon his neck. Many of the boys gathered round wondering.
"Bock," asked one, "is that your brother?"
Ivo nodded, unwilling to say that Nat was only a servant.
"What an old buck your father must be!" said another boy. The rest
laughed,--all except Clement Bauer, a boy from the principality of
Hohenlohe, who said, "For shame, you jealous daws! Why, a'n't you glad
his brother's come to see him?" He ran to the usher in command and
obtained permission for Ivo to go home with Nat alone. Ivo was
delighted beyond measure to meet with such a fine boy. The thought
awoke in his mind that perhaps Nat had helped him to a friend.
Hand in hand they turned toward the convent, Ivo talking and rejoicing
incessantly. When the things came to be unpacked, he shouted with
delight. He immediately laid up a reserve for the good Clement; but
when the other room-mates returned he shared his treasure with them
all. Nat had also brought a letter for Gregory, the tailor's son, which
Ivo immediately carried to him, and received an invitation to come to
him often and call upon him for aid and counsel.
In the evening he was allowed to go to the inn with Nat, where there
was no end of their chatting. When the bell rang for prayer, Nat
escorted him back to the convent. Ivo ascended the stairs as lightly as
if an unseen hand supported him. He was quite at home here now, since
all Nordstetten, in the person of its most acceptable envoy, had come
to see him. Besides, he now had both a friend and a patron, all owing
to dear good old Nat.
From this time forth Ivo's life was sustained by industry,
cheerfulness, and friendship. His mother hardly suffered a bird to pass
without charging it with something kind for her son. His chest was
never without some little delicacy, nor his heart without some secret
pleasure. A brighter light fell on all things around him, much of which
was owing to the encouraging influence of Clement. Still, the two did
not become intimate so quickly as might have been expected: an
extraordinary occurrence was necessary to bring this about. The other
boys, seeing that Ivo was in favor with Mr. Haible,--such was Gregory's
surname,--left him unmolested, and even sought his good-will.
The study of music afforded Ivo particular pleasure. An orchestra was
organized to perform at the church-festivals. Ivo chose the bugle as
his instrument, and soon acquired considerable skill.
The principal once conceived the idea of giving the boys, who were
condemned to such a dismal barrack-life, a taste of family comfort. So,
after catechism, he invited twelve of the most advanced--Ivo among
them--to come to his room in the evening. This invitation was
understood as a command, and the boys marched in at the appointed hour,
in the order of their seats at school, bowing and scraping.
The principal, who lived with his old maiden sister, had tea ready for
them, to which they were helped, and of which they bashfully partook.
The good old gentleman had unfortunately forgotten all about family
comfort and domestic enjoyment himself; so, instead of asking questions
about home, he conversed about books and studies. Once only, when he
told a magnificent joke of the perplexity into which he was thrown in
early childhood by finding two leaves of his Bible sticking together, a
suppressed giggle passed around the room. He immediately went on to
argue, however, that whenever we find it hard to understand any thing
in the Bible we might be sure there was a leaf pasted down somewhere.
At nine o'clock he said, "Now let us pray." They prayed, and then he
said "Good-night," and the boys went their way. They were not much the
better for their taste of family comfort.
Thus the winter passed by. Sometimes it made Ivo sad to see the
town-boys sledging or throwing snow-balls. When the snow thawed,
however, and nature began again to thrive, his heart reverberated to
the pulses which beat all round him. He yearned for his free sunny
home.
8.
THE HOLIDAYS.
For several weeks before the holidays none of the boys had their minds
fixed upon their studies; all skipped and danced with joy at the
thought of going home. Ivo and Clement often walked hand in hand,
telling each other stories of home. Clement was the son of a scrivener
or actuary,--the lowest grade of those officials who form the great
political and legal hierarchy of the continental states of Europe. He
had had no settled home in his childhood, as his father had been
transferred from town to town three or four times during his life.
On the last evening all the boys were packing their trunks, as if on
the eve of a march or a retreat. In the morning there was divine
service, and, though the singing was loud, it is to be feared that more
thoughts were directed to earthly homes than to the heavenly one.
After taking an affectionate leave of Clement, Ivo set out, taking
short steps at first, according to the rule among pedestrians, all
impatient as he was. Bart kept him company: he was going to an aunt. He
was an unpleasant companion, for he wanted to stop at every tavern-sign
which showed itself. Ivo never assented until they had reached the
valley of the Lower March, where their roads parted. Fortunately he
here found some Jewish horse-jockeys from Nordstetten. They were very
glad to see him, and he them. They took him in their car and gave him a
lift of many miles. He heard of all the births, marriages, and deaths.
Ivo thought that these were the three fates between which vibrates the
life of the children of men; and, without halting at the redundant
spondee, he quoted to himself
"Clotho colum retinet, et Lachesis net, et Atropos occat."[9]
When the road was up hill the travelling traders took their
prayer-straps out of their pouches, fastened them to their foreheads
and arms and offered up their long devotions. Ivo compared the breath
which rose from their moving lips in whiffs of fume, to the incense of
the Bible: he honored every creed, and particularly the Jewish one, as
the oldest of all. He even glanced into the open prayer-book of his
neighbor, and pleased him by showing that he was able to read Hebrew.
Ivo admired the ease with which these horse-jockeys read the language:
even the principal could not have kept pace with them.
On setting him down again, where they travelled in a direction
different from his home, they made him promise not to go all the way to
Nordstetten that day, so that he might not injure his health. Walking
on silently, Ivo praised his beloved native village, in which every
one, Christian and Jew, appeared to be equally good.
Although his thoughts all tended homeward, he was very observant of
things around him, and even found time for some general reflections.
More than once, when a distant village-spire hove in sight, he said to
himself, "How well it is that the church-steeple is always the first
thing to be seen as you approach a village! It shows that Christians
live there, and that they dedicate their best and finest house to God."
At another time he thought, "These fruit-trees around every village are
the best friends of man. Man comes first, cattle next, and then the
orchard-trees,--for they also need the special care of man to prune and
graft them and remove the caterpillars. How strange it is! All around
is grass and puny herbage, and suddenly a great stem rears itself aloft
and its crest is all white with blossoms.
"God's earth is full of wondrous beauty,
A lovely place to dwell upon;
Then to rejoice shall be my duty
Till in the earth I make my wonne."
Though so well entertained by communing with himself, he entered into
conversation with more than one of the travellers he overtook, or who
overtook him. They all were pleased with his open, kindly talk; and he
quite rejoiced to find the world full of such good-humored people.
It was dark when he reached Hechingen. Though it was but five hours'
walk to his home, and he felt no fatigue, he kept his promise to his
friends. He wished, moreover, to come home in the daytime. "It was dark
when I went away," he said to himself as he sat at the inn, "and it
must be light when I return." He was even vain enough to wish that his
father's house was at the other end of the village, so that his green
knapsack and student's dress might attract universal attention.
The sun shone brightly when Ivo awoke. It was a happier waking than
that on which the lantern of the convent used to look down. It was a
beautiful day,--a day of jubilee for the birds in the air and the buds
on the trees.
He longed for wings; and, in default of them, he flung his cap high in
the air as he walked briskly along. He suddenly stopped, sat down on
the wayside, and, repeating the words of Exodus iii. 5,--"Put off thy
shoes from off thy feet; for the place whereon thou standest is holy
ground,"--he obeyed the precept. Like an unshod colt, he 'bounded along
for a time; but soon he found that the life of the convent had unfitted
him for such exercise. Compressing his lips with pain, and resuming his
shoes, he again thought of the beautiful Psalm,--"He shall give his
angels charge over thee, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone."
Psalm xci. 11, 12.
At Haigerloch he bought two "pretzels,"--one for his mother and the
other for Emmerence. "Didn't she give me the duck when I went away?" he
argued to himself, to quiet his ecclesiastical conscience. He avoided
the short turns which the footpaths offered, and followed the highroad,
fearing to miss his way: besides, he had more of the village to pass
through on this route than in going by the way of Muehringen. The
nearer home he came, the more his heart bounded within him. Sometimes
it all seemed too good to be true, and he dreaded some unforeseen
disaster, or even that the weight of his exultation would drag him
down: at such times he would sit down to recover his strength.
People were wrong in saying that it was but two hours' walk from
Haigerloch to Nordstetten. "The fox must have measured this road and
thrown in his tail," said Ivo, repeating the old German proverb: "it is
eight hours' walk at least."
Near the beech farm he saw his Brindle pulling a plough. Running up to
the ploughman, he asked how Brindle worked, and rejoiced to hear him
praised. The brute had forgotten him, however, and let his head droop
earthward under the yoke. Ivo was tempted to give him one of the
pretzels to eat, but was ashamed of showing his weakness to the
workman, and went on.
At the brick-yard he met Hansgeorge's Peter, the one-eyed, who shook
his hand sadly, and said, "Constantine came last night."
Welcomed on every side, Ivo passed on. Every thing warmed his
heart,--the things which moved, and those which moved not: every hedge,
every stack of wood, looked like a friend, and seemed to be telling a
good old story: when his father's house stood before him it trembled in
his eyes, for the tears were running down his cheeks.
[Illustration: Emmerence sat under the walnut-tree with the school
master's child on her lap.]
Emmerence sat under the walnut-tree with the school master's child on
her lap. Instead of coming to meet him, she ran into the house, crying,
"Ivo's come! Ivo's come!"
His mother left the wash-tub, rushed down the stairs, and, with her
hands but half dried on her apron, embraced her darling. His father,
Mag, and his brothers also came up in high glee; and his mother, with
her arms still round his neck, almost carried him into the house.
Emmerence now came up also, saying, "I knew you were coming to-day.
Constantine came yesterday. I saw him first, though,--didn't I, aunty?"
she added, turning to his mother.
Nat now made his appearance, and, with a hearty "God bless you," he
helped Ivo off with his shoes and brought him a pair of slippers.
After the vaulted chambers of the convent, the rooms of the farmhouse
seemed no larger and no higher than the nests of a pigeon's cote: he
stretched himself to reach the ceiling; but, much as he had grown, this
was still out of the question. His mother hastened to make a soup for
him and a "parson's roast," as a pancake is called in those parts,
because it is the dish generally got up for sudden and unexpected
visitors at a parsonage.
Having given his mother one of the "pretzels," Ivo went to the stable
to talk to Nat. The beasts seemed to recognise him: the cow
particularly was pleased to turn her head toward him and let him tickle
her forehead.
"Haven't you brought me any thing?" asked Nat, smiling. Ivo found the
remaining pretzel in his pocket and handed it to him in silence. He was
thus relieved of the scruple which troubled him, that it might be wrong
for him to make Emmerence a present: on returning to the kitchen,
however, he heard Emmerence say,--
"Well, aunty, what are you going to give me for bringing you the good
news?"
"Take the pretzel he brought for me: Ivo knows I am as thankful as if I
had eaten it, but my teeth are giving out."
Ivo was but too well pleased to know that Emmerence had something from
him, and highly indignant that the squalling baby forthwith laid her
under contribution for half the prize. The baby found but little favor
in his eyes at any time: it was so large that when Emmerence carried
it--as it always insisted on her doing--she seemed in constant danger
of losing her balance and falling. So he said, with some solemnity,--
"You do a sin against yourself and against the baby, Emmerence, if you
drag it about all the time: it has strong feet, and ought to learn to
walk; and you will drag yourself crooked if you go on so."
She set the child down instantly, and did not take it up again in spite
of its crying. Wasn't Ivo a young parson now? and hadn't he said it was
a sin?
This little reprimand was almost the only interest Ivo manifested in
her to the end of the holidays. So much, he thought, his conscience
could not possibly disapprove; but he would not go further. The eyes of
the girl were often fixed on him, as if to inquire the cause of his
studied indifference. Once only, in a favored moment, he asked, "What
has become of your puss?"
"Why, only think, that tinker Caspar, 'the Dog Caspar,' stole it and
took its pretty black hide off, and ate poor pussy."
[Illustration: People walked up to him and took him by the hand.]
In the afternoon Ivo enjoyed the full honor of being welcomed by all
the villagers. He loved to stop at every door; it did his heart good to
see people walk up to him as to one who had been in foreign parts, take
him by the hand and admire his healthy appearance. Nor was it mere
vanity that afforded him this gratification: he felt that he had a nook
in the hearts of the eager welcomers, he was more or less beloved; and
thus the prevailing desire of his nature was gratified.
At night the most delicious home feeling always overcame him when his
mother visited his bedside and saw that he was well covered.
"Christmas white, Easter bright," had come true this year. The day
after he came home was Easter Sunday. Every thing was doubly fresh and
green. Once more Ivo stood under the walnut-tree, the leaves of which
were just peeping out of their buds; once more he was wrapt in
contemplation of his pigeons: he could not sing this time, for that
would have been unbecoming his station.
When the afternoon service was over, Ivo set out on a walk to Horb. At
the "Scheubuss," at Paul's Garden, he found several women seated on the
little bridge by the weeping willow which droops its green arches over
the runnel. They all rose reverentially at Ivo's greeting: one of them,
however, stepped up to him, and, after rubbing her hand very hard on
her apron, took that of Ivo. We have not forgotten her, though she has
grown quite old: it was the gawk's mother, Maria.
"God bless you, Ivo!" she said. "How you have grown! I won't call you
Mr. Bock until you are at the seminary in Rottenburg."
"You must always call me Ivo, aunty."
"No, no: that would never do."
The other women approached, and regarded the young "gentleman" with
great attention; but not one ventured to open her mouth.
"How are Matthew and Aloys coming on in America?" asked Ivo.
"Now, how nice that is in you to think of them! I've just had a letter
from Aloys. You know he's been married this long time to Mechtilde, the
daughter of Matthew of the Hill: they have two children. Oh, if I could
only have just one blessed look at them! It's like being half dead to
be so uncommon far apart. I must see Mat's children, and Aloys'; and
Matthew's wife, the American, I don't know at all. My boys are all the
time writing to come and come: if it only wasn't so shocking far to
that America! They say they will meet me at New York; and, if it's
God's will, I think I _shall_ go off after Whitsunday with some
emigrants from Rexingen. If our Lord God wishes to take me away He will
always know where to find me. Isn't it so?"
Ivo nodded; and Maria, taking from her pocket a paper which was very
carefully wrapped up, went on:--"See, here's the last letter: how kind
it would be of you to come in and read it to me once more! The
schoolmaster is tired of it, and the Jew schoolmaster has read it three
or four times too. There's a word in it that neither of 'em can make
out: you can, though, I'm sure; for you've got learning."
Ivo went into the house with her, the other women following, first with
hesitation and then with an air of great firmness and resolution. All
sat down, prepared to listen attentively. Many of the gawk's old
friends will be pleased to hear his letter also:--
"NORDSTETTEN ON THE OHIO, AMERICA,
October 18, 18**.
"DEAR MOTHER:--As you don't know how I'm getting along, I will write
you all about it. At first I never wrote to you what a hard time I had
of it; but now, with God's help, that's all passed and gone. I always
thought, 'What's the use of making poor mammy fret about it? she
couldn't do any good, anyhow;' so I swallowed it all down, and worked
hard and tried to whistle."
Ivo paused a moment. He seemed to be drawing a lesson for his own
guidance from what he was reading. He continued:--
"Now things are all put to rights; and it isn't a trifle, either, to
build yourself a house, and clear all your fields and turn them over
for the first time, and no help or counsel nowhere from a living soul:
but now it looks nicer here than at Buchmaier's. Our arms and legs get
stiff now and then; but we're all in good health, and that's the best
of it. Many of our countrymen are here, and worse off than at home, and
have to work at the canals and railroads. There's lots of swindlers
here, that tell you all sorts of stories when you first come into the
country, until you've spent the last cent in your pocket, and then
they're nowhere. There are great hypocrites here as well as there: the
voyage cleans, out their stomachs, but their souls are as dirty as
ever. But the steamboat-man in Mayence gave us a good introduction to a
society of fine men,--all Germans,--who tell you where it's best to go
and what's best to be done: so none of us were ruined. I want you to
tell all those that talk of coming over not to trust anybody but that
man and that introduction. At first, when I used to go away from my
guide a little, and run about in New York, while we were waiting for
Mat to come on, I used to feel just as if I'd got among a herd of
cattle,--God forgive me!--they were men just as much as I am; but they
jabbered together just like that French simpleton, Joe, in Frog Alley:
he talks a sort of hotchpotchcomambulation too. But it's English what
they talk to each other. I can speak it a little too by this time: it's
just like German sometimes, only you must handle your mouth as if you'd
got your teeth twisted round a green apple. We were a large company at
first; but one's gone here and another there. That's all wrong: we
Germans ought to stick together. I always used to think only the
Wurtembergers were my countrymen; but here they call us all Dutchmen;
and when I see one from Saxony I feel just as if he were from the Lower
Neckar Valley. I guess I'm writing all sorts of things you don't want
to read; but this sort of thoughts go about in my head so much that
they pop out before I know what's what.
[Illustration: I've put up a post with 'Nordstetten' marked on it.]
"Now, I must tell you something else. Did you notice that I wrote
'Nordstetten' at the top of my letter? Yes; so it is, and so it shall
be. I've put up a post not far from my house, with a board and with
'Nordstetten' marked on it in large letters. It won't be long before
other people 'll come and settle here, and then they'll keep the name.
Then we're going to build a church, just like the church at home: I've
picked out the hill for it already, right opposite my barn: we call it
the Church Hill now. Then we'll send for a parson from Germany. And my
fields have just the same names they used to have at home. I and my
Mechtilde often talk about it nights how it'll all come some time or
other. If we don't live to see it, why, our children will; and then
it'll all be my doing, after all. If one of the Nordstetten students
would only come here and be our parson, he'd have a nice place of it;
but he'd have to work in the fields some. We choose our own parsons
here: we take those we like best, and none of your consistories has any
thing to say to us. So the parsons are not the lords over us, neither:
here all are equal; they're no better than we are, only that they've
got learning and been ordained. Three hours' walk from here we have
one: he was born in Rangendingen. The swallows have built nests around
my house already. Last year I wrote on a bit of paper, 'God bless you
all over there,' and my name under it, and tied it to one of their
necks. I thought, in my foolishness, they'd fly to Nordstetten with it
some day; but--lo and behold!--she came back again, and she had another
bit of paper, with [Greek: chaire] on it. Nobody can tell me what that
means: it looks just like kaibe;[10] and that would be a shame,
wouldn't it?"
"Do you know what it means, Ivo?" asked Maria.
"Yes, Chaire: it is Greek, and means 'Hail.'"
The women lifted up their hands in amazement at Ivo's learning.
"But where did the swallow winter?" asked Maria, again.
"Among the Firelanders, I suppose," answered Ivo; and after a pause he
read on:--
"I never knew till I got away from home how finely the larks sing. Only
think! there are no larks here at all, and no nightingales either: but
a great many other fine birds there are, and splendid pine and oak
trees, and the tallest sort of timber.
"Dear mother, I wrote all this a week ago, and when I look over it I
think I'm writing stuff and nonsense; but just now I feel as if I was
sitting with you before Jacob the blacksmith's house at the well, and
people passing by and saying, 'Ha' ye good counsel?' and my heart is so
full that I don't know what I ought to say first and what last. We are
all in very good health, thank God: we like what we eat and drink, and
it feeds us well. We've had to widen all the clothes we brought with us
from Germany. It's a good thing Mechtilde has learned to sew.
"Whenever I eat a good dinner I think how nice it would be if my poor
mother was here: I could just lay out the best bits for her, and say,
'There, mother: that's for you to help yourself; there's a choice
morsel;' and I know you would like living in our house.
"Our Bat is getting on finely: he never had any thing to ail him yet.
Oh, if that dear little Maria was living yet! She would have been a
year old next Michaelmas. She was a sweet little angel; she was only
three weeks old, but when you called her by name she would look at you
so cunning, and grab at your eyes. On All-Souls' day we are going to
put an iron cross on her grave. Oh, my! oh, my! the dear child is in
heaven now, and heaven is the real America, after all!
"I must write more about my household-matters. I oughtn't to think of
the child so much; it works me too hard. I say, as the parson said,
'The Lord hath given, the Lord hath taken away: the name of the Lord be
praised.'
"If the Lord will only keep us all in good health now! The Lord has
always been very gracious to me: as far as the cattle go, I haven't
lost one of them yet. There's nothing I like to think of more than that
the cattle always have plenty to eat here. To the last day of my life I
shall never forget what a misery it was when feed was so scarce, just
the day before I went to Stuttgard, when there wasn't hardly a blade of
grass on the ground. Do you remember what it used to be to get up in
the morning and not give the poor beasts a quarter of a good breakfast,
and then to see the flesh falling off their ribs? I often felt so unked
I could have run away. Here the cows run about pasturing all the year
round, and never know what it is to want; and yet I never had to kill
one of them for having overeaten itself. Over there they stand in
the stable all the year round, and then, when they do get into a
clover-field, they eat till they burst. And just as it is with the
cattle, so it is with men. Over there they have to stand in a stable,
tied down by squires and clerks and office-holders, until their talons
get so long that they can't walk any more, and the minute you let 'em
out they go capering about like mad. This is what somebody was saying
very finely in a public meeting the other day. Mother, it's a fine
thing, a public meeting: it's just as if you were to go to church. And
yet it isn't just so, neither; for everybody may speak there that can
and likes: all are equal there. I want to tell you how they do it, and
yet I believe I can't, exactly: only I must tell you that our Matthew
is one of the principal speakers: they've put him on the committee two
or three times, and the name of Matthew Schorer is one for which the
people have respect. I have spoken in public once or twice too. I don't
know how it is; at first my heart thumped a little, but then I just
felt as if I was speaking to you, just free 'from the liver,' as we
used to say in Germany. What they were disputing about was, a German, a
Wurtemberger, or, as we say over here, a Swobe,[11] came here, and he'd
been an officer, and the king had pardoned him; he'd got up a
conspiracy among the military, and afterward he betrayed all his
comrades: here he gave himself out for a friend of freedom; but a
letter came from over there to say that he was too bad for the gallows,
and the devil had kicked him out of his cart. So they disputed about it
for a long time whether he could be an officer here or not, and at last
I said, 'I can find a handle to fit that hoe. Let him show a letter
from his comrades to say that he did the fair thing by them: I can't
believe that any Wurtemberger could be so mean as to betray his king
first and his comrades afterward.' And they agreed to do just what I
told them; but, when I looked at the fellow's face again, I thought,
'Well, that trouble's for nothing: he looks as if he'd stolen the horns
off the goat's head.'
"I'm an officer in the militia,--a lieutenant: they chose me because I
was in the military over there and understand the business. We
choose our own officers here, for here every thing is free. The
squire in Nordstetten was only a corporal, after all. If I was to come
home---- No; come to think of it, I wouldn't dress like an officer,
neither. I'm a free citizen, and that's better than to be an officer or
a general. I wouldn't swop with a king. Mother, it's a great country is
America. You've got to work right hard, that's a fact; but then you
know what you're working for: the tithes and taxes don't take the cream
off your earnings. I live here on my farm, and no king and no emperor
has any thing to say to me; and as for a presser, they don't know what
that is hereabouts, at all. Good gracious! When I think how he used to
travel through the village with the beadle, with a long list in his
hand, while the people in the houses were weeping and wailing and
slamming their doors; and then he would bring a pewter plate, a copper
kettle, a pan, or a lamp, from a poor Jew's house to the squire! It is
a shame there's so much suffering with us: it seems to me it might
easily be done-away with. And yet I wouldn't coax anybody to come over.
It's no trifle to be so far away from home, even if you're ever so well
off. Every now and then something makes me feel so soft that, when I
think of it, I am ashamed of myself; and then I want to bundle up
right-away and go to Germany. I must see it once more while I have an
eye open to look at it. I can't tell you how I feel: sometimes I almost
go to pieces, and feel like howling as if I was a dog. I know that that
would never do for a man, but then I can't help feeling so, and I
needn't conceal any thing from you, you know. I think, after all, maybe
it only comes of longing to see you so much. More than a thousand times
I've said to myself, 'If only my mammy was here too,--my dear, good
mammy; if she'd only once sit on that bench there!' How glad you'd be
to see the big milk-pans! and, oh, to think of your seeing little Bat,
and the one that's coming soon! If I have ever done you any harm,
forgive me; for you may be sure there's not a living soul on earth that
loves you more than I do.
"I have been resting a little, and now I'm going on. What a fine thing
it is that we've learned to read and write properly! I'm always
grateful to you for having made me learn it. But you mustn't think I'm
out of spirits. To-be-sure, I'm not so full of fun as I sometimes was,
years ago, but then I've grown older, and had a good deal of
experience; but still, sometimes I am so glad, and feel so kindly for
every thing in the world, that I begin to whistle and dance and sing.
Sometimes I feel a little pang when I call something to mind; but then
I say, 'Whoa!' and shake myself like a horse, and away with it. I and
Mechtilde live as happy as two children, and our Bat has bones in him
as strong as a young calf, and muscles like the kernel of a nut.
"On Sunday, when we go to church, we take salt with us, and what we
need besides; and Mechtilde once said we get heavenly salt for it in
the mass and the sermon, and salt our souls with it. Mechtilde often
makes fine riddles and jokes. We've bought a story-book, too, about
Rinaldo Rinaldini: it's a shuddersome story of knights and robbers, and
we've read it move than ten times and the other day, when I overslept
myself, she sang a song out of it and waked me. Talking of songs, I
want to ask a favor of you, but you mustn't laugh at me.
"You see, when a fellow gets out alone into the world and wants to sing
by himself, he finds out, all of a sudden, that of ever so many songs
he only knows the beginning, and that the rest of it he has only just
sung after somebody else; and then I want to pull my head off because
it won't come into my mind; but it won't come in, nohow. There's a good
many things just so you think you know them until somebody says, 'Now,
old fellow, do it alone, will ye?'
"Now, I'd like to ask you--but you mustn't laugh at me--to please get
the old schoolmaster to write down all the Nordstetten songs. I'll pay
him for it well. You won't forget, will you? And then send it to me, or
bring it when you come.
"I must tell you something else, too. Only think, mother! last Tuesday
three weeks, as I was sitting at my wagon and mending the tongue,--you
can't run to the wagoner's here every five minutes: you must do such
things yourself,--what should I hear but somebody say to me, 'Hard at
it, Aloys?' and, as I looked up, who should stand there but Long
Heartz's Jake, who was in the Guards? We didn't use to be the best of
friends; but I forgot all about it, and fell on his neck and almost
hugged him to death. I do believe if George himself was to come I'd
shake hands with him just to think he came from Nordstetten. I called
the whole house together and cut the throat of a turkey. Jake ate his
dinner with me just as anybody else would. The laws about eating with
Jews, and so on, are for the Old World, and not for the New.
"Jake stayed a week and helped me work in the field: he can do it just
as well as a Christian. I was so glad to see he's come to understand
that, for a soldier who has honor in him, it isn't the thing to run
about peddling. He's going to buy land somewhere hereabouts. I'm
helping him do it. I must have my dear Nordstetten Jews here too, for
it wouldn't be Nordstetten without them. After that, he's going to join
the militia. He'll be an officer before long, most likely. In the
evening we used to sit together, I and my Mechtilde, my brothers-in-law
and my sisters-in-law, and their boys and girls, and Jake, and we'd
sing the songs we used to sing at home; and then I felt just as I did
that time Mary Ann got her new distaff. But you mustn't suppose I think
very often of Mary Ann. I love my Mechtilde very much, and she loves me
too. I wish every couple loved each other as much as we do, and lived
as happily together.
"Now, about your coming here. I don't want to beg you too hard: Mat'll
write all about it. But, if it's possible---- No, no, I won't beg you.
Jake tells me that our Xavier goes to see Valentine's Mag: well, she
won't be afraid of the sea I guess, and he can bring her over too. It's
all one now, Nordstetten here or Nordstetten there.
"Write me an answer right soon. Only send the letter to Mat, as you did
before: he goes to town oftener than I do.
"Now, good-bye to you, and I hope this will find you very well indeed.
Think of me sometimes. My Mechtilde and my Bat and my parents-in-law
send you their best loves. My sister-in-law has taught little Bat to
say, when they ask him, 'Where's your grandmother?' 'Over there in the
Black Forest.' I am your loving son.
"ALOYS SCHORER.
[Illustration: Bat's hand.]
"See how I reach my little hand
Far over to your distant land.
"That's my Bat's hand: I drew it, dear mother, just as he laid it on
the paper, because there was room enough."
Ivo was asked to read Mat's letter also; but he promised to do so
another time, and took his leave, the grateful mother, who was wiping
the tears from her eyes, having accompanied him to the door. Outside of
the village he saw his sister Mag walking in the meadow with Xavier. He
now understood what it was that often made her so disputatious and
discontented: her father would not tolerate her acquaintance with "the
American," as he called Xavier.
With a skip and a bound, Ivo shook off the oppressive dignity of his
station. He danced and sung as he had formerly done, always clearing
the heaps of broken stones at the roadside at a bound. The letter of
Aloys had made a great impression upon him. He saw in it the picture of
a truly honest living,--a life rendered happy by hard work and
independence. For the first time he perceived how all the corporal
powers of a student lie fallow, and learned to see that it was this
which often so greatly "unsettles" the minds of those most favored by
natural endowments among the youth of a country. He thought of going to
America to be parson and farmer at one and the same time, to go
visiting his sister, to travel from farm to farm, instructing the
children, and fostering the effort to look upward among all with whom
he conversed.
Absorbed with such reflections, he reached Horb. The town did not look
near so fine, nor the houses so large, as before: he had seen larger
ones. The chaplain was delighted with his former pupil, and Mrs.
Hankler, who was ill in bed, said that it made her well only to see
him. The Judge's sons were no longer there; for, as it may be
remembered, their father had been transferred to another district.
It was night when Ivo returned home. In the village he found
Constantine leading Peter by the hand, and walking the street with the
half-grown boys, singing. He taught them new songs, and made them laugh
uproariously by recounting all sorts of tricks which he had played upon
his teacher at the convent. Ivo walked with them quietly till they
reached his father's house, when he said, "Good-night," and went in.
Throughout the holidays he was left much to himself. He would either
take solitary walks in the fields, or practise at home on a bugle which
he had borrowed from Conrad the baker. His mother always urged him to
go out and not mope about the house. Sometimes he would walk out with
the new schoolmaster. Constantine he never associated with, except when
it was not to be avoided.
A deep sorrow stole into his heart when he became aware of the
half-concealed dissensions existing between his parents. Before leaving
home he had been so habituated to all the incidents of the household
that it did not occur to him to speculate about them. At the convent
his imagination had pictured home-life as a paradise embosomed in
endless peace: all harsh and uninviting associations had disappeared
from his memory. Thus, he returned to contrast with a highly-wrought
ideal the sober realities of every-day existence; and much that he saw
could not fail to shock him, and perhaps to appear even worse than it
really was. He came fresh from a household where all things moved
according to external laws fixed by unvarying regulations,--where
discussion or contradiction was out of the question as much as in the
interior of a piece of mechanism; and, though depressed by the rigor of
these ordinances, he did not understand that in the free constitution
of a family, where each one acts for the whole according to his
individual judgment, much difference of opinion and many an altercation
is almost inevitable. Even the loud tone of voice in which everybody
spoke was not pleasant; and his father's manner, in particular, was
such as to cause him frequently to shake his head. When his mother
listened in silence to Valentine's expositions of his plans of building
houses "for sale" and without previous orders, he would cry out, "There
it is, you see: you never care a button for what I say: whether a dog
barks, or whether I talk, it's all one to you." If she made objections,
he said, "It's the old story: whatever I want to do never suits you."
If Christina treated him gently and kindly, like one who needed
indulgence, he would perceive it at once, and curse and swear. If, on
the contrary, she was firm and decided, and stood her ground, he said,
"All the world knows you don't live for me, but for your children:
wouldn't you be glad if I was to die?" And then he would sit down,
refusing to eat, or drink, or speak: he would go to the inn, but
without getting any thing to eat there,--as he feared it would make
people talk and grieve his wife,--so that he generally went to bed
without his supper.
When such things happened, Christina would look at Ivo with
indescribable pain. She saw all the anguish which her troubles wrote
upon his face, and redoubled her efforts to conceal all things and
smooth them over. The other children were accustomed to such scenes and
no longer distressed by witnessing them.
Seeing the necessity of an explanation with her youngest son, she sat
down one evening by his bedside and said,--
[Illustration: She sat down one evening by his bedside.]
"Do you see? your father is the best and most upright man in the world;
but he has an unlucky disposition, and is not well pleased with
himself, because he sometimes neglects things and spoils a job, and
things won't go as he likes; and then he wants other people to be all
the better pleased with him. When he sees that that isn't so, and it
can't be so, his spirit rises up in him still more: and yet I owe it to
my children not to let things go backward. As for myself, I'm willing
to eat dry bread all my life; but, for the sake of my children, I can't
sit by and see us beggared in five years and my children jostled about
among strangers. I know he loves me better than anybody else in the
world. He would shed his last drop of blood for me, and I for him; but
he wants to mortgage the house and the fields, and to go to work with
Koch, the other carpenter, to build houses for sale; and that's what I
won't do, and no ten horses shall drag me into it. It's my children's
property, and I must be a good mother to them. We're not rich people
any more, and the poor mustn't suffer by our losses, either: they must
have their gifts just as before, if I must squeeze it out of my own
eating. Yes, my dear Ivo, take your mother's advice, and don't forget
the poor. The corn grows on the lea, though you give away some of it;
and our Lord blesses the bread in the cupboard, so that it nourishes
better. You love your father dearly too, don't you, dear Ivo? He is the
best man in the world. You honor him, don't you? You are his pride,
though he don't tell you so, for it's not in him to say it. When he
comes home from the Eagle, where they're always praising you so much
because Christian the tailor's son Gregory writes so well of you, you
could twist him round your little finger. Just make up your mind not to
be distressed by any thing, and don't be sad. What one firmly resolves
to do, one can do, believe me."
Ivo nodded and kissed his mother's hand; but a deep sadness stole over
him. The paradise of his parental home had sunk in ruins, over which
the figure of his mother alone hovered like an angel of light; and once
he said to himself, very softly, "Her name is not Christina in vain:
she is just like the Savior. She bears the heaviest cross with a smile,
and thinks not of herself, but of others."
Thus it came to pass that he looked forward to the end of the holidays
with far less regret than he would have supposed when he first returned
home.
9.
THE FRIENDS.
In the first few days of his renewed convent-life the old home-sickness
returned. He reproached himself with not having enjoyed his holidays to
the full, with having suffered himself to be put out by things which
were not so bad as they seemed; but he had made up his mind to profit
by the example of Aloys, and not add to his mother's troubles by
writing her sorrowful letters.
During his former stay at the convent his thoughts had been so much at
home that he had not identified himself with the peculiar circumstances
and associations of this abode. All this was now otherwise. "My mother
says we can do any thing we really want to do," he said to himself,
"and that shall henceforth be my motto."
Ivo and Clement had welcomed each other warmly in the presence of the
other boys. Everybody had a great deal to tell. At noon, when the class
were taking their usual ramble, Ivo and Clement, as if by a tacit
understanding, lagged behind; and, under a blooming hawthorn, where no
one could see them, they fell upon each other's necks and kissed each
other fervently. The larks roystered in mid-air, and the hawthorn waved
to a gentle breeze. With faces radiant with joy, their arms flung
around each other's necks, they went back to the road and rejoined
their comrades. Ivo made a long imaginary speech, of which he only
pronounced aloud the words "still and holy," and looked into the
shining depths of Clement's eye, and they grasped each other's hands.
Then Clement struck Ivo and ran away to the others. Ivo well understood
this as a hint to conceal their league and covenant from general
observation. They mingled with the others; but, soon finding themselves
side by side again, they struck, chased, and dodged each other, until
they were again separated from the crowd; then they began a sham
wrestle, which soon turned to a warm embrace, and each murmured, "Dear
Ivo," "Dear Clement." So inventive was this young friendship in its
early bud.
Both of the boys now entered upon a new and happy life. Ivo had never
had a brother's heart of his own age; Clement, in the frequent
migrations of his father's family, had never attached himself to any
one but an elder sister. Now Ivo, when he awoke in the morning, looked
up joyfully and said, "Good-morning, Clement," although Clement slept
in another apartment. Though away from home, he was a stranger no
longer. The convent had ceased to be a place of coercion and unpitying
law: he did all things willingly, because his Clement was with him. It
cost him no further resolution to write cheerful letters home. All his
life was a life of pleasure; and his mother often shook her head when
she read his sounding periods. Clement, who had read innumerable
fairy-tales and books of knight-errantry, introduced his friend to a
world of wonders and strange delights. He made two banished princes of
Ivo and himself, and a giant Goggolo of the director; and for a time
they always addressed each other by the names of their imaginary
characters.
The world of wonders and fairy-tales, which strive to outdo the riddle
of existence by still more puzzling combinations and thus in a manner
to expound the world of every day, this self-oblivious dream of a
toying, childish fancy, had not hitherto met the mental gaze of Ivo.
What Nat had told him was too much intertwined with the rude and simple
experiences of field and forest life, and knew nothing of subterranean
castles of gold and precious stones. He was entirely unprepared for the
gorgeous trappings of these magic gardens and these cities at the
bottom of the sea.
The hawthorn was venerated by both as the trysting-tree of their
friendship, and they never passed it without looking at it and at each
other. Ivo, whom we already know as well versed in the Bible, once
said, "We have just had the same luck as Moses. Jehovah appeared to him
in the bush, and it was burning, but yet was not consumed. Do you know
what Jehovah means? I am he who shall be: it is the future of Hava. We
shall be friends in future too, as we are now, sha'n't we?"
"I'll tell you a story," replied Clement. "Once there was a princess on
an island: her name wasn't Leah, like the old lady in the Bible, but
Hawa. She hadn't red eyes, either, but beautiful dark-blue ones. But
she couldn't abide thorns: the least little thorn was a thorn in her
eye, and the moment she saw one she always cried out, 'Oh dear! it is
in me; I feel it in my fine dark-blue eyes.' So to please her they had
to cut off every thing on the island which bore thorns, and to grub up
every bit of the roots; and when the princess died they buried her;
and, to punish her for hating thorns, a thorn grew out of each of her
two eyes, and they bear beautiful blue eyes to this day, just like
those the princess had, and they call them hawthorns."
Thus Clement ended his story with a triumphant smile. Ivo regarded him
with a bright, merry face. Whatever Clement told was so delightful! His
words clung to each other like the pearls of a beautiful necklace: all
Clement did or said was far beyond compare with any thing else in the
wide, wide world.
At Ivo's suggestion they had vowed to each other to be great men, and
they now encouraged each other to the most unremitting industry. Every
thing was easily done, as each did it for the other's sake. Ivo even
kept the head-place in the class for a whole year. Clement was not so
lucky, because his imagination always ran away with him. Whatever he
saw excited him, and he forgot the subject on which he should have been
engaged: when the teacher addressed questions to him he awoke as from a
dream and answered awry.
The secret league, however, could not long remain concealed from their
companions; for, as lovers often think themselves unperceived while
giving the most unmistakable signs of affection, so fared our friends.
Nevertheless, Ivo's high position soon put a period to the bantering
which was at first attempted, and it was not long before others
endeavored to thrust themselves into the league of friendship. But the
gates were closed against them: Clement was particularly vigilant, and
the advances ceased. Only when Bart persisted, with great
submissiveness, in frequenting their company, did Ivo make an
exception. He was favored to walk by their side after dinner, and to be
near them when they were playing in the yard. When Bart had eaten his
fill he was quite a bright lad and anxious to learn. He was ready to do
any thing which could bring him near the head of the class, too. Fond
as he was of Ivo and Clement, therefore, their high position in the
class was one of the causes of his attachment; nor, by a special
stipulation of Clement's, was he ever admitted into the inmost
sanctuary of their friendship.
Leaving fairy-tales behind them, our friends entered upon another
field, somewhat nearer the domain of reality: they began to look for
historic examples to strive after for ideals. Once, on a long walk in
the direction of Blaubeuren, they found themselves on a lofty hill on
the edge of a rooky precipice, with the lovely valley of the Blau
before them, and the cathedral of Ulm and the Danube visible in the
distance. This spot Clement had specially ordained as the one where
they were to disclose their aspirations to each other.
"Who is your ideal, Ivo?" asked Clement.
"Sixtus. My mother always says any thing can be achieved if you really
will it. Sixtus showed that in his own example."
"So you want to be a pope?"
"If it should come about, why not? No harm trying."
"I have a much less saintly personage: my ideal is Alexander the
Great." He did not explain in what respect he desired to emulate him;
for Bart fell in, in a whimpering tone,--
"And whom shall I take for my ideal?"
"Ask the principal," said Clement, solemnly, tipping the wink to Ivo.
The moment they returned home, Bart knocked at the principal's
door; and, on being invited to come in, he said, trembling and
stammering,--
"I beg your pardon, sir; but I wished to ask you,--I wished to choose
an ideal, and I don't know whom to take."
The principal stood still a while, and then said, with uplifted finger,
"God."
"I am very much obliged to you, sir," said Bart, bowing and scraping
himself out. He ran to his friends and told them, joyfully, "I've got
one: I've got an ideal now."
"Whom?"
"God," said Bart, holding up his finger.
"Who told you so?" asked Clement, pulling Ivo by the sleeve.
"The principal."
Ivo, disregarding the stolen hints of his friend, explained to Bart
that God could never be an ideal to any man except in a figurative
sense, because it is impossible for any man to become almighty or
omniscient: God must be the highest and final goal, of course; but the
saints were to be found on the way to him, and were nearer to us and
more accessible to our prayers, and perhaps we might come in some
degree to resemble them.
"Saintly Ivo, I'll have nothing to do with you," said Clement, angrily,
turning away. He was vexed to have his good jokes spoiled in this way,
and did not speak a word to Ivo all that night and the next morning.
In many other respects Bart was the occasion of disagreements between
his friends. Clement had taken it into his head that the interloper
deprived him of a part of the friendship of his Ivo. He now seized
various opportunities of feeding this jealousy. Once he did not
exchange a word with Ivo for a whole week; while his eyes followed him
everywhere as with a passion bordering on insanity. On the last evening
he threw a bit of paper on the book Ivo was reading, on which he had
written, "Come to the top of the church-steeple at the stroke of twelve
to-night, or we part forever."
Ivo tossed about his bed in an agony of fear lest he should oversleep
the time. When the first stroke of twelve was heard, he stole from his
chamber; Clement came out of the one in which he slept at the same
instant. They went up the turret-stairs in silence, and, when the last
stroke had sounded and died away, Clement began:--
"Give me your hand and promise me to have nothing more to do with Bart,
or I'll throw myself down this instant."
Ivo took his friend's hand, shuddering.
"Not a word! Yes or no!" muttered Clement.
"Yes, yes. But I pity the poor fellow. You've grown very strange this
last week."
Clement embraced and kissed him, descended the steps in silence, and
returned to his chamber.
Next day Clement was, as he had always been, cheerful and warm. He
never permitted Ivo to speak by daylight of their nightly meeting.
Bart's grief at his dismissal was not of long duration.
While Clement's restless spirit thus flitted about in search of
adventure, Ivo experienced a different sort of disquietude. His body
had grown with almost greater rapidity than his mind, and he was tall
and broad-shouldered; but, when he sat at the desk with his books, the
blood seemed to foam through his veins in torrents, often obliging him
to get up and restore his internal balance by violent motions. He would
fain have carried a heavy load suspended in his arms; but nothing
offered resistance to his powers except sometimes a knotty construction
in a classic author. Gymnastic exercises were not very assiduously
cultivated, nor did Ivo take much interest in them: he longed to
accomplish some real task with a definite object. In walking with his
friend he would often complain that he was not allowed to plough or to
reap. Inured from his childhood to bodily activity, during his visit to
the grammar-school the long daily walk had compensated for the inaction
of his arms: now he felt like a giant whose club has been taken from
him and a sewing-needle thrust into his fingers.
Once he said to Clement, "Do you know I am so much troubled at having a
scruple in regard to the Bible? it says that the great chastisement for
original sin is that in the sweat of his brow shall man earn his bread:
now, to my mind hard work, instead of a punishment, is the greatest
delight."
"Oh," said Clement, "that's in the Old Testament. It's meant for the
Jews, and it just suits them; for hard work is their favorite
aversion."
Thus early did he stumble on the familiar device of the theologians
when hard pushed in regard to some passage in the Old Testament.
Clement did not suffer the matter to rest here, however. He confessed
his own longing to incur dangers and to wander through distant
countries. They even talked frequently of a flight from the convent.
They pictured to themselves the romance of arriving on a distant
island, struggling with wild beasts and subjugating the virgin soil. Of
course the project was never executed. The laws of the convent and the
ties of home were too strong for them.
The warmth of their friendship increased from day to day and bridged
over all the chasms which the difference of their dispositions might
have caused. Ivo forfeited his place at the head of the class without
regret, and allowed even Bart to rise above him. This external
abasement almost pleased him, for it marked his distaste for his
studies. The consciousness of being better than he seemed was grateful
to him and gave him a certain independence of the outward world. He
formed a secret league with the wood-cutters, the lowest servants of
the convent. He swung the axe with a vigor as if he would have cleft
the globe. At length one of the professors detected these
irregularities; and Ivo atoned for them in the lock-up of the
establishment.
Thus, from having been one of the best and most diligent of the pupils,
Ivo had sunk to be the lowest in the class and the most obstreperous.
At the arrival of the holidays the friends would part with almost
feverish sorrow, consoling themselves with the hope of meeting again,
and yet wishing never to return to the convent. On the way home, the
world without had lost its lustre in Ivo's eyes, and the people he met
no longer appeared so good and kind: the world within him had altered.
At home he was not so shy of Constantine as formerly, and the state of
things in his father's house had ceased to weigh upon his spirits:
having learned that no man on earth is entirely happy within himself,
he had no more reason to wonder at the marks of unhappiness which
characterized the social relations of life and of men.
The gorgeous fabric of the ideal had sunk into ashes before him.
Occasionally a fervent prayer would lift him above the jars and
discords of earthly being; but even into these heavenly arcana would
the misgiving of an insufficiency pursue him: he was very unhappy.
People took his disordered air for a mark of over-application. It stung
him to the soul when his mother begged him not to study too hard: he
could not explain to her what troubled him; it was not even clear to
himself. Thus, in the fulness of youth and health, he felt tired of
life and weary of the earth: he had not mastered the riddle of
existence, and fancied that death was the only solution.
In his last vacation before going to Tuebingen, he experienced a heavy
loss: he no longer found Nat in the house. Mag, having overcome the
opposition of her father, had married Xavier and gone with him to
America. There was thus a lack of female help about the house, and
Valentine's sons were old enough to do the field-work themselves. Nat
was discharged: no one knew whither he had gone: the pigeon-cote was
empty, and the beasts in the stable seemed to share Ivo's sorrow for
his departed friend.
[Illustration: Emmerence had grown up to be a strong, hearty girl.]
On the other hand, Emmerence now lived in the house as
maid-of-all-work. She had grown up to be a strong, hearty girl, a
little short and square in figure,--what is usually called "buxom:" she
would have been classed with the comelier half of the village girls. It
was long since Ivo had bestowed any attention upon her, so entirely had
Clement occupied his heart. Whole vacations had passed without his even
exchanging a word with her. Now he sometimes eyed her askance, but
always turned away the moment she detected him. Once only, when he
found her so cheerfully engaged in the stable, he said, "That's right
in you, Emmerence, to take good care of the cattle: only don't forget
the dun and the cow."
"I know they're your favorites," she replied; "I'm so glad you haven't
given up liking them." And, as if to wake a reminiscence of his
childhood, she sang, while filling the cow's manger,--
"Far up on the hill is a white, white horse,
A horse as white as snow;
He'll take the little boys that are good little boys
To where they want to go.
"The little boys and the good little boys
Sha'n't go too far away;
The little girls that are good little girls
Must go as far as they."
Ivo went silently to the field in which he had once spent a whole day
ploughing with Nat: it seemed as if some clue to his whereabouts must
be hidden among the stones. He envied his brothers who were at work
here, who shared their joys and sorrows at a common board, who had no
one to obey but their natural superiors.
On his return to the convent he attached himself still more closely to
Clement, as if to indemnify himself for the loss of his earlier friend.
The last summer spent in Ehingen was a little less monotonous than the
others. Clement, whose home was in a largely Protestant town, had
acquaintances among the pupils of the neighboring Protestant convent,
(for by that name the classical school was still called,) of
Blaubeuren, who were a little less rigidly restrained than those of
Ehingen. They sometimes came to Ehingen and went to the principal, one
of them saying that he was a "fellow-countryman" of Clement's, and the
other that he sustained the same mysterious relation to Ivo, and so on:
the principal allowed the "countrymen" to make a half-holiday of it:
they would saunter to the next village, and there, with festive
songs and over the social glass, Ivo exchanged many a pledge of
good-fellowship with the Protestant conventuaries. Neither they nor he
were free,--although the Blaubeuren men had one or two immunities more
than the others.
The time of student-life stood before the eyes of all these youths much
like a taper-girt Christmas-tree before the visions of a German baby:
they stretched out their hands impatiently to grasp the gilded nuts
suspended from the boughs; and, though their clerical vocation was
destined to cut down much of the liberties to which they looked
forward, yet even what remained was far too slow in coming.
At last autumn set in. On the eve of their departure, Ivo and Clement
went to the hawthorn where their friendship took its rise, and each of
them broke off a twig and set it in his cap: then, taking each other's
hand, they renewed their vow of eternal devotion. Ivo also promised to
pay Clement a visit at Crailsheim during the holidays.
To quit a place of long abode, whether we have been happy or unhappy in
living there, is always attended with regret: the mantle of the past
drops away, and we know that we shall never return to the spot the same
as we leave it: these houses, these gardens, and these streets are the
birthplaces of a lot in life. Here the friends had first met, here
their minds had risen to heights unthought of before, and here they
separated with heartfelt sorrow. They vowed that in old age they would
travel hither again and seek out the silent playgrounds of their
youthful thoughts.
10.
A MEETING.
Having rested but a few days at Nordstetten, Ivo set out to visit his
friend, whose home was at the other end of Wurtemberg, on the borders
of Franconia. This brought him for the first time to the hill-top which
had occupied his thoughts on the evening before Gregory's first mass,
when he had thought that from there he might climb into heaven at once.
Now he knew that there is no place on earth whence the entrance into
heaven is open: alas! the goal itself now eluded his sight, and he
asked, hopelessly, "Whither?" He looked for heaven upon earth, and knew
not how to grasp it.
In silent thought he wandered through the towns and villages, watching
the busy doings of men with curious eyes: the riddle of existence
became more and more inexplicable. The vintagers were out in the
fields, singing songs, firing off salutes of triumph; but Ivo only
asked, "Are you making the wine which shall turn into blood?"
On the evening of the third day he was wandering toward the good town
of Schwaebisch-Hall, in a bright sunset, just as that had been which he
had seen in the field with Nat. He stood still, and thought sadly of
the humble friend he had lost forever. His eyes fell upon a shepherd
who stood with his back to the road, leaning upon his staff and looking
into the fire of the sky. He sang,--
"Up yonder, up yonder,
At the heavenly gate,
A poor soul is standing
In sorrowful strait."
Something like a thrill of premonition passed through Ivo's veins: he
ran into the field to ask the shepherd how far it was to Hall. The dog
barked at him, and the shepherd turned round, saying, "Be quiet,
Bless." With a cry of "Is it you?" Ivo lay in the arms of Nat.
There was no end of questions and answers. Late in the evening Ivo
said, "Oh, I must go already; I must see to get a night's lodging
somewhere."
"Why?" asked Nat, pointing to his red van: "don't you like the Red Cart
Hotel? Stay with me; I'll huddle into one corner, and you shall sleep
well enough; or, if you'd rather, I'll stay up all night: there's a
beautiful star going to rise at two o'clock."
[Illustration: Is it you?]
Ivo was quite ready to sleep with Nat.
"Are you hungry?" inquired Nat, again. "There's a cellar to my house."
He brought bread and milk and made a little fire to warm the milk for
Ivo. Then, taking away the prop by which the rear end of the van was
held above ground during the day, he said, "There! now we can sleep
soundly: the face must be turned toward sunrise."
It often happens that we begin to talk of the most indifferent things
precisely when our minds are full of the most important matters. Ivo
asked, "What do those queer characters mean, formed by the brass studs
in this leather strap?"
"Those are the three great heavenly signs, and they protect the cattle
against evil spirits. That's all I know about them."
As formerly in the days of childhood, Ivo sat at the field-side with
Nat and partook of his frugal fare: but it was night; they were far
from home, and many things had occurred in the mean time.
"How is Emmerence doing?" asked Nat.
"She is my mother's maid now."
"If you weren't going to be a parson, by George, you ought to have
married her."
"So I would have done," said Ivo, with a firm voice, the darkness
concealing the blush which overspread his features.
In answer to Ivo's inquiries in regard to Nat's fortunes, the latter
answered, at length:--
"You're old enough now to be told all about it. Who knows whether I
shall ever see you again? and I want you to hear it all from my own
lips; for you're my heart's brother. I wasn't born in your parts, but
on the other side of the Black Forest, toward the Rhine. As you come
out of Freiburg, and go through the 'Kingdom of Heaven' and the 'Valley
of Hell,' just as you get to the top of the 'Hell-Scramble' you see on
your right a valley in which runs the Treisam, turning the wheels of
ever so many foundries, saw-mills, and gristmills; and, if you go up
the hill on the other side,--they call it the 'Wind-Corner,'--you see a
great farm-house, the Beste farmer's house,--and he was my father. You
may think it's a pretty fine sort of farm: it has sixty or seventy
cows, and no need of buying a handful of hay.
"They don't live in villages there, as you do and as they do hereabout.
Each farmer lives by himself in the midst of his own lands. The house
is all made of wood: only the foundation is of stone. The windows are
close to each other on the east side: a porch runs all round the house,
and the roof hangs far over. It is a straw roof, which has grown gray
with age, and makes the house warmer than the finest castle. If you
ever can, you must go there some day, just to see where your Nat was
raised. Our fields reach far up the hill and away down to the Treisam,
and we had two hundred acres of woodland,--enough to cut ten thousand
florins' worth of wood every year. It was glorious. Wherever you look,
it's all your own, and all in apple-pie order. We were three children.
I was the oldest, and I had a brother and a sister. In those parts,
when the father dies or gives up farming, the farm isn't divided, but
the eldest son takes it all, and the father makes an estimate how much
money he ought to pay his brothers and sisters. If one of the children
is dissatisfied and goes to law, the Government divides the farm. But
such a thing was never done except once or twice, and never turned out
well. Four hundred yards from our house, on a little patch of field, a
widow had a lonely cabin, and lived there with her only daughter. They
were the third generation of the descendants of younger children, and
poor, very poor, but good as angels,--or, at least, I thought so. The
mother was one of those lean, lank women that can always be pleasant
and agreeable: as for Lizzie,--no, there wasn't a false vein about her;
I will say that to my dying day. They supported themselves by making
straw hats; for over there, on the other side of the mountain, in the
Glotter Valley, the women-folks wear round, yellow straw hats, just as
the gentlemen do in the cities, and the men wear black straw hats. A
hat made by Lizzie of the Wind-Corner always sold for three groats more
than another; and if a girl was ever so ugly and put one of her hats on
it made her pretty. Lizzie had hands as delicate and smooth as a
saint's; and yet she could work hard enough in the fields, too. When
she sat at the window sewing, I often used to stand outside and watch
her, and if she stuck her finger it seemed to go through all my bones.
My father soon saw how matters stood between me and Lizzie, and would
not hear of it; but I would sooner have died than live without Lizzie:
so my father sent me away to the saw-mill. The saw-mill doesn't belong
to our inheritance, but my father bought it. There I stayed; and
through the week I never cast eyes on a living creature except the
child that carried me my dinner and the workmen bringing down the logs
and hauling off the boards. At night I used to run for miles, just to
have one word with Lizzie. Then, all of a sudden, my father died, and
left the whole property to my brother; and I was to have ten thousand
florins, and my sister the same. You can't see ten thousand florins:
it's hardly as much as you can cut timber for in a year. My sister
married a watchmaker in Naustadt. I was wild with rage, and said I
wouldn't go out of the house: I would go to law. One night I went over
to Lizzie, and, when I looked into the window, who do you think was
sitting in there, with his arm round Lizzie's waist, kissing her? My
brother! And the old witch was standing beside them, smirking till her
face was as long again as usual. I up and into the house, out with my
knife, and my brother lay on the floor with a cut in his side,--all
done before I knew where I was."
Nat sighed deeply, and was silent a long time. At last he
continued:--"My brother never moved: Lizzie fell on her mother's neck,
and cried, 'Oh, mother, this is your doing! Go away, Nat: I can't see
you any more.'
"I ran away as if the devil was dragging me in chains, and every now
and then I stopped and wished to hang myself on a tree. I met George
the blacksmith, and went home with him, and hid myself in his house
till the next day. A thousand times I prayed to God to take my life and
save me from the guilt of my brother's death. I laid my hand on my
heart, and swore from that time forth to lead a penitent life; and the
Lord heard me. Next morning, very early, George the blacksmith came to
the shed where I was lying buried in the hay, and said, 'Your brother
is living yet, and may get well.'
"I went off over hill and dale, left every thing to my brother, and
hired myself to Buchmaier as a shepherd. I did not like to be among men
any more, but wanted to live alone in the fields. Singout, my dog, was
my only friend. I used to tell you about him, you remember? I lost him
shamefully."
Here Nat stopped again: his new dog crept to his side and looked sadly
into his face, as if to show his regret that he could not compensate
him for his loss.
"As I lived alone in the fields," Nat went on, "I used to study the
herbs, and to gather them and make drinks of them: once in winter one
of the hands at Buchmaier's had the ague so badly that it almost shook
him out of his bed; and I helped him. From that time on the people in
the neighborhood used to come to me whenever one of them was sick, and
made me give them a drink. Do you remember the time you came home sick
from the fields? Then I helped you too, and that was the first time
afterward that I gave any thing to anybody. The doctor heard of it that
time and complained of me at court. Then I received a notice to do no
more quackery, on pain of great punishment. After that I never listened
to anybody's begging or crying.
"Something happened about that time: you can't remember it; you were
too little. Dick, who lives out in one of the houses off the main
street of the village, had two sons. One was like a count: he was with
the Guard in Stuttgard, and was home on furlough. His best friend was
his younger brother,--a wild, half-grown boy whom they called Joachim.
The guardsman went to see pretty Walpurgia the seamstress: you know
her, I guess, she has such a white, delicate face, and always runs
about in slippers: but she had another lover besides, from Betra.
Dick's boys, the two brothers, once lay in wait for this chap to give
him a good drubbing; but the Betra boy held his own: so little Joachim
takes out his knife, makes a stab at him, and stabs his brother through
the body.
"I was lying in my shepherd's van, and suddenly I heard people crying
and calling. I got up, and there was a crowd of men, and Joachim among
them, all begging me to do something for the wounded man. All this made
me think of that awful night at home: Walpurgia even looked a little
like Lizzie; and, in short, I let little Jake mind the sheep, and went
with them. As I saw the guardsman lying at the point of death, my heart
seemed to turn within me. I cried like a child, and people praised my
good heart: they didn't know what was the matter with me, and I
couldn't tell them. I gave the guardsman a drink to keep off
mortification; but afterward the doctors got at him, and he died after
all. In short, they locked me up and put me in the penitentiary for a
year. Joachim got into the penitentiary too. He was bad, and tried for
a long time to put all the blame on the Betra man; but at last it was
proved that it was nobody but him. Brother-heart," said Nat, taking
Ivo's hand, "what I suffered in the penitentiary is more than can be
told; you couldn't find worse company in hell itself. But I bore it all
willingly, and thought it was a chastisement for my past life.
[Illustration: She took a lantern and went to pray on John's grave.]
"Once I made shrift to the parson, and told him all about it. He said
that I had done the greatest wrong in not getting all the property into
the hands of the Church. I would rather be torn to pieces than go to a
confessional again after that. When I got out of prison, my first
thought was to find Singout again: Dick had taken charge of him. They
told me that after I was gone the dog had gone mad, and they had
knocked him on the head. Dick's people would have liked to keep me, but
their household was all out of gear: the mother didn't gee daylight for
a year, and only at night she took a lantern and went to pray on John's
grave. She wore black all her life, as you may remember. As I was going
out of the village again alone, and without even my dog, your mother
met me. She know I wasn't bad, though I had been in the workhouse: and
in this way I came to work in your father's house. I would not be a
shepherd any more. I wanted to live among men. What happened afterward
you know. I have a good place again now, on the Deurer farm here; but
yet I always feel as if I ought to go back to my brother, and as if my
penitence wasn't of the right kind until I took service in his house."
Nat paused, and pressed his hands to his eyes. Ivo said, "You ought to
go into a monastery and be a monk; that would be the real thing for
you."
"A priest!" said Nat, with more severity than was usual to him. "I'd
rather have my hand cut off. To live on piety is poor fare. Don't take
offence at my silly talk: I am a stupid fellow. You are going to be a
parson, and you are right: your heart is pure. But come," he said,
looking up to the stars, "it is near eleven o'clock: let's go to
sleep."
With much agitation of mind, Ivo took his place beside Nat in the van.
"Do tell me," said Nat, "you've got learning: how is it that love
brings all the trouble on men that they have? Wouldn't it be better if
there were no such thing?"
Ivo was puzzled: it was a subject on which he had never reflected. In a
sleepy tone he answered, "It comes from the fall,--from original sin. I
will think about it, though. Good-night."
Ivo's weary soul and jaded body fell an easy prey to the advances of
sleep. When he awoke next morning all yesterday had turned into a
dream. Nat was gone from his side; and, when he looked out of the van,
the shepherd stood whistling by his sheep.
After a simple morning relish the two friends separated, and Nat cried
after Ivo, "If you ever go to Freiburg, come to the Beste farmer's:
there you'll find me."
Ivo spent some happy days with Clement. Once only he shook his head at
his young friend. He had told him of his meeting with Nat, when Clement
exclaimed, "Thunder and Doria! what a magnificent adventure! You are a
child of fortune, and I envy you. It is a fine piece of the terrible,
that story of the serving-man: a ghost or a spook is all that is
wanting."
Ivo could not understand how the hard realities of human fortune could
be abused as footballs for the diversion of overheated imaginations.
11.
THE COLLEGE.
Without the escort of any of his family, Ivo went to his new place of
abode. He had outgrown the ties of family, and went his way independent
of them. The good city of Tuebingen seemed to smile upon him. He
dreamed of the delights which awaited him there, although he well knew
that a cloister-life, with only some partial alleviations, was all he
had to hope.
The life of free science was now within his reach. He attended various
philosophical lectures; but, in the recesses of his mind, all he heard
assumed a theological, or, more strictly speaking, a Catholic
signification. The drowsy lucubrations of the old professors, who
seemed to be planting definitions like dry posts, idly imagining that
they would bear fruits and flowers, were not calculated to raise his
mind to the heights of science whence the structures of theology are
seen in their circumscribed and confined positions.
He attached himself more closely than ever to Clement, with whom he was
now privileged to take a daily walk without supervision. Other
acquaintances turned up also: among the rest, the sons of the
President-Judge. They were condescending. Their father had become
Government-Councillor, and had received the order of merit: he was "Von
Rellings." Although this did not ennoble the sons, they courted the
society of the nobility, and were especially devoted to the son of a
mediatized prince then studying at Tuebingen. Ivo met them one day as
they were riding out with their noble companion. He ran up to them and
held out his hand; but, as they had the whip and reins to hold, they
could only give him one of their fingers. With an encouraging nod the
elder said,--
"Ah! you've come here too, have you? Glad to see it."
And, putting spurs to their horses, they rode away. Ivo remembered the
day on which he had walked with them through the village, and regarded
the treatment he now received as a well-deserved punishment for his
then vain-glory. Just as he had then superciliously acknowledged the
salutations of the passing peasants, so the Rellingses now gave him the
go-by to devote themselves to their illustrious acquaintance. Thus Ivo
met with the rare mischance of finding the differences of station to
intrude themselves even into the charmed circle of his university life;
for in general this is the very point where alone these subdivisions
are forgotten, and where young minds mingle untrammelled by any thing
unconnected with their natural gifts and tendencies.
Another old acquaintance who greatly affected Ivo's companionship was
Constantine. He knew every thing but what he ought to have studied: how
to skulk the recitation and gain an hour for the tavern; how to get a
free evening and join a gay carouse: all his efforts were for a time
directed to the noble task of converting the new "freshmen" into
well-seasoned sophomores. With Ivo he succeeded but indifferently; but
Clement was doubly tractable: his adventurous spirit found in such
pranks its most acceptable field of action. To let himself down from a
window by a rope of handkerchiefs tied together, to sing and yowl in
the taverns, then to go roystering through the streets, and finally to
return to the cloister with double risk of detection, was the dearest
joy of his heart. He knew not whether most to enjoy the pleasure of
giving vent to all the wild fancies that were in him, or the
satisfaction of setting the laws at defiance.
Though Ivo frequently admonished Clement to think more of the future,
yet once he was persuaded to join in one of these nightly excursions
himself. They were, as Constantine phrased it, "hard as bricks," wore
many-colored caps, and Ivo was the noisiest of them all. But just this
time they were caught in returning, and Ivo had to expiate his sins for
several days in the "carcer."
Constantine was delighted to find that his friend had so thoroughly
"seen the ropes." He often said, "You'll never see me a parson: the
shears are not sharpened that will shave my head; only I must wait for
something first." At another time he cried, "If you were the right sort
of fellows we'd all make an agreement to leave the cloister, every one
of us, and let the Lord see how to get through with his vineyard by
himself. I don't see why that shouldn't do as well, anyhow."
"What do you mean to be?" asked Ivo, who was blushing up to the eyes at
this ungodly speech.
"Just a Nordstetten farmer, and nothing more."
"To say the truth, I should like that best myself; but it is not to
be."
"I'm going to make it be if you'll just wait a little," said
Constantine.
Many of the college-men received visits from their parents, who were
generally peasants and came in their ordinary costume, sometimes but
meanly clad. It pained Ivo to see that the students were generally
ashamed of their parents and disliked going out with them. When his
mother came, he walked hand in hand with her through the town and never
left her all day.
One February morning Constantine came to Ivo's room, which still wore
the appellation of "Zion" conferred upon it in more religious times.
Taking from his pocket a bunch of artificial flowers tied with red
ribbons, he said, "This is what Hannah of the Hauffer has sent me. I am
a recruit: I should have come out this year, but have drawn a clear
ticket. And now, hurrah! I'm going out of the convent."
"How so?"
"Why, you lambkin pure as snow once followed to the pasture, I'll tell
you how so; but, on your drinking-oath, you must swear to let nobody
know it. If I were to leave of my own accord, I should have to pay my
board and lodging and be a soldier: now I am free from the latter, and,
if I manage to get myself expelled from this Wallachian hostelry, I
shall have nothing to pay; as for the principal, I've an extra plum or
two for him."
He stuck the red-ribbon bunch into his hat and walked swaggeringly
across the convent-yard. He did not return all day, but occupied
himself with the other students who had been drawn as recruits that
year in walking arm in arm across the market-place with them, and
singing, drinking, and shouting everywhere. Late at night he came home,
and was immediately summoned into the awful presence of the principal.
That august personage was alone. Constantine remained near the door,
holding the latch behind him with both his hands. The principal stepped
toward him with a volley of denunciations. Constantine laughed,
stumbled forward, and trod so heavily on the principal's toes that he
screamed with pain and intensified his epithets; but Constantine
continued to advance upon him, and backed him round the room without
mercy. The poor principal seized the only chair in the room and
attempted to make a shield of it; but Constantine only pressed him the
harder, and drove him from side to side, crying, "Ya, hupp!" like the
ring-master of a circus. At last the victim succeeded in reaching the
bell-rope: the "famulus" came, and Constantine was thrown into the
darkest "carcer."
For four weeks he had to languish here. When Ivo went to see him, he
confessed that it was sinful to wreak his ill-will against the law upon
its innocent administrator. Ivo said, justly, "It is doubly sinful.
These old folks are the jailers who watch us; but they are in the
prison themselves and worse off than we: the key to let them out is
lost."
"Yes," said Constantine, laughing. "You know the old rhyme says,--
'England is lock'd,
And the key-hole is block'd;'--
and so I've gone to work and staved in one of the walls."
Constantine was expelled from the convent in disgrace.
When Ivo came home at Easter, Constantine gave him a hand in which
three fingers were tied up. He had greatly distinguished himself in a
row between the Nordstetters and Baisingers, which dated from the feud
of the manor-house farmer, and a bottle had been shivered in his hand.
The "college chap," as he was called, had already taken rank as the
wildest scapegrace in the village. He had assumed the peasant-garb, and
took a pleasure in divesting himself of every lingering trace of higher
cultivation. With his two comrades--George's son Peter, and Florian,
the son of a broken-down butcher--he played the wildest pranks: the
three were always in league, and never admitted a fourth to fellowship
with them. The behavior of Constantine toward Peter was particularly
interesting. A mother's eye does not watch with more solicitude over
the welfare of an ailing child--a gentle wife is not more submissive to
a petulant husband--than Constantine was to Peter: he even suppressed
his liking for George the saddler's Magdalene because he found Peter in
love with her, and did every thing in his power to aid him. When
Constantine was furious and apparently beyond all pacifying, Peter had
but to say, "Please me, Constantine, and be quiet," and he was as tame
and docile as a lamb.
Ivo had some difficulty in getting rid of Constantine; but at last he
succeeded. He was quiet and serious: Constantine's wildest sallies
failed to win a smile from him, and at last he gave himself no more
trouble about the "psalm-singer."
On his return to the convent he found that a great change had gone on
in Clement. He had been attached, while at home, to the daughter of the
judge at whose court his father was employed, and his whole being was
now in a glow of devotion. He would leave the convent and study law: he
bitterly despised the ministry, and made it the object of the most
vindictive sarcasms: he cursed himself and his poverty, which seemed to
chain him to a hated calling: with all the irregular impetuosity of his
character, he rattled unceasingly, and yet idly, at the chains which
bound him. He saw nothing but slavery on every side: he walked from
place to place abstractedly, pale as death, and often with gnashing
teeth. With all the power of his love, Ivo strove to rescue his friend;
but, soon convinced that a higher agency was at work, he contented
himself with grieving for his heart's brother, whose tortures and whose
frenzy he could but half appreciate. In the lectures, Clement sat
staring into vacancy: while the others, with the conscienscious
eagerness of German students, strove to record every word that fell
from the teacher's lips, he occasionally wrote the name of Cornelia,
and then crossed and recrossed it till it became illegible.
The spark of discontent which had slumbered in Ivo's heart threatened
to burst into flame; but as yet the firm walls of obedience, and the
habit of resignation to the dictates of fate, kept it half smothered
beneath the ashes. But even here the fundamental difference in the
character of the two friends displayed itself on all occasions.
Clement sought amusement and noisy distractions, as means of
_self-forgetfulness_; while Ivo became more and more retired and
meditative, as if he knew that _knowledge of self_ was the only escape
from his dilemmas. Yet, although he kept the road, he travelled but
slowly. His soul was hung in sables: he was less fond of life than
formerly, and often declared that he should like to die and sleep the
sleep that knows not waking.
"After all," he remarked one night to Clement, who lay beside him, "the
best thing in the world is a bed. A bird in a cage is to be pitied, for
he doesn't rest well even when he sleeps. He sits on his perch and must
hold on with his claws; so that he still has something to do, and is
never perfectly at rest. So, too, man does not rest well when he sits;
for he must always exert some of his muscles to keep himself upright:
it is only when he lies down that all exertion is dissolved and every
muscle relieved of its strain. That is the reason birds are so fond of
their nests and men of their beds.
"Plato calls man a featherless biped: never mind; he decks himself with
borrowed feathers.
"Nat once told me that if you cage a bird of prey in a mill, where he
cannot sleep, you can make him as tame as a sucking dove: that is just
like the tyrant we used to read about at Ehingen, who had his prisoners
waked out of sleep every hour of their lives. How ingenious men are in
devising tortures! When it comes to giving pleasure, their wits are far
less ready. The greatest miracles, in my eyes, were the saints of the
pillars, who never sat down. That is the quintessence of self-denial.
Just think of standing all one's life, until one's feet gather fur on
them! 'Thank the Lord for a soft nest, a good rest, and a quick zest,'
is what they taught us to say at home."
Clement listened to this dissertation in silence, only murmuring
"Cornelia" from time to time. Ivo fell soundly asleep.
The world-spirit looks down at night upon convents and weeps with
averted face.
At the last stroke of eleven Clement glided into the convent-yard. It
was a balmy night in summer: a thunderstorm had rent the clouds, and
their shattered masses still lingered in mid-air, now veiling, now
releasing, the beams of the full moon. Clement knelt and cried,
trembling and wringing his hands, "Devil! Beelzebub! Ruler of Hell!
Appear and bestow thy treasures upon me, and my soul is thine! Appear!
Appear!"
He listened with bated breath, but all was silent: nothing stirred, and
nothing was audible but the distant baying of a watch-dog. Clement long
remained cowering on the ground: at length, seeing and hearing nothing,
he returned shivering to his bed.
Next day he sat at his desk pale and haggard. The black characters in
his open book seemed to crawl around each other like snakes before his
jaundiced eye. A letter was brought him. He had hardly read it when he
sank fainting from his chair. An engagement-card slipped from his hand,
on which was engraved "Cornelia Mueller and Herman Adam, betrothed." He
was carried to his bed, where Ivo waited, trembling and in tears, until
his friend drew breath again. A fever now ensued, in which Clement's
teeth chattered and his frame writhed with convulsive starts. For three
days he was delirious. He spoke of the devil, and barked like a dog:
once only he said, gently closing his eyes, "Good-night, Cornelia." Ivo
read the letter, as the footing upon which he and Clement stood fully
justified him in doing; and here, at last, he found a slight clue to
the jumble of occurrences which bewildered him. A wealthy uncle of
Clement's mother had died, leaving her all his property: the brightest
prospects opened to the future of the family. Ivo rarely left his
friend's bedside, and, when compelled to do so, Bart usually took his
place.
It was a painful duty. Clement generally brooded in a half-doze, with
his eyes open, but apparently seeing nothing. He would ask Ivo to lay
his hand upon his burning forehead, and then, closing his eyes, he
said, "Ah!" as if the touch had expelled torturing spirits from the
narrow tenement of his brain. At times he started up and furiously
denounced the world and its heartlessness. If Ivo undertook to pacify
him, he only turned his wrath against the comforter, struck at him with
trembling hands, and cried, "You heartless loon, you can torture me,
eh?"
Ivo bore all this calmly, though with tears. Sometimes he even
experienced a sort of inward satisfaction at the thought that he was
favored to suffer in the cause of friendship.
When Clement awoke on the fourth day, it seemed as if, somewhere in the
infinity of space, and yet very, very near to him, a niche had opened
filled with light: something around him, and something from within him,
cried, "Clement!" He was restored to himself. For years after he was
wont to tell how at that moment God seemed to shine upon him with all
the rays of His glory, and to bring him back to Him and to himself.
When he had recovered his composure, he said, lifting up his hands, "I
hunger after the Lord's table." Calling for the confessor, he told him
all,--how he had conjured the devil to aid him, how the devil had heard
his prayer and then struck him to the earth. In deep contrition, he
begged for a heavy chastisement and for absolution. The confessor
imposed a slight penance, and urgently exhorted him to look upon what
had taken place as a warning to flee from all worldly wishes and devote
himself to the service of God alone.
Could any one have observed the face of Clement as he lay with his eyes
closed in faith, while the confessor spoke the benediction over him and
made the sign of the cross over his body in token of the forgiveness of
his sins,--could any one have watched the tension of his muscles and
the pulsation of his checks,--he would have felt with Clement the happy
change which was going on within him. It seemed really and truly as if
the ethereal hand of God were upon him, gently luring out the burden
which oppressed him, and inspiring him with a new life and a better
courage.
The new Clement was a different being from the old one. He moved about
noiselessly, often looking around as if in dread of something. Then
again he would suddenly stand still. Ivo could not encourage him; for
not even to him had Clement dared to disclose the whole enormity of his
wickedness.
After the next holidays, Clement was changed again. He looked fresh and
blooming as before; but fires of a mysterious import darted from his
eyes. One day, as they walked in the little wood called the "Burgholz,"
he drew his friend to his breast, and said, "Ivo, thank God with me,
for the Lord has given me grace. It is our fault if the Lord does not
do miracles in us, because we do not purify ourselves to be the vessels
of his inscrutable will. I have made a vow to be a missionary and to
announce to the heathen the salvation of the world. I have seen her
again who stole my soul from the Lord; but in the midst of my gazes the
world vanished from my eyes, the All-Merciful laid his hand upon me and
gave me peace. I was drawn up into a mountain. There I sat until the
sun went down and the night came on. All around was still and dead.
Suddenly, afar off in the woods. I heard the voice of a boy singing,
but not in earthly tones,--
"'Where Afric's sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand.'
"I knelt down, and the Lord heard my vow. My heart was no longer in my
flesh: I held it in my hand. Kissing the rock beneath and the tree
beside me, I inhaled the Spirit of God from them: I heard the leaves
rustle and the clefts wail in whispered sorrow, weeping and yearning
for the day when the cross shall be erected as the tree of life,
standing aloft between earth and heaven, when the Lord shall appear and
the world be saved,--when the rocks shall bound, and the trees sing
songs of joy."
Falling on his knees, Clement continued:--"Lord, Lord, be gracious unto
me! lay thy words upon my tongue, make me worthy to feel the love of
the seraphs; pour out thy goodness richly over the brother of my heart;
crush him; let him feel the swords which have pierced thy breast, and
which rend the heart of the world. I thank thee, O Lord, that thou hast
wedded me unto holy poverty: yea, I will devote myself wholly to the
bliss of the folly that is in thee, and will suffer men to revile and
persecute me until the tenement of my body shall be taken away, until I
shall have outlived the corruption of this life. Lord, thou had made me
rich that I may be as one of the poor. Blessed are the poor! Blessed
are the sick!"
Kissing the feet of his friend, he remained prostrate for a long time,
with his head pressed upon the earth: then he rose, and both went home
in silence.
A nameless fear agitated the mind of Ivo: he felt the fulness of the
self-sacrifice to which Clement had given himself; but he saw also its
dreadful aberration: a sword pierced his heart.
He willingly followed his friend into the nocturnal regions of man's
feeling and thought: it seemed a duty to keep him company and be at
hand to aid him.
The lives of the saints were the first object of their studies. Once
Ivo said, "I am rejoiced to see that revelation is still upon its march
through the haunts of men; saints arise wherever the Lord has revealed
himself and thereby imparted his wonder-working power, and whoso truly
sanctifies himself may hope to be favored in like kind. Nowadays every
town has once more its true patron saint, as of old, among the Greeks,
its false tutelary deity. God is personally near us everywhere."
Clement, without answering, kissed Ivo's forehead. Presently, however,
he spoke warmly of the heroes who with empty hand had conquered the
world.
The life of St. Francis of Assisi enlisted their special interest: the
story of his conversion from the stormy life of the world, and the
manner in which he first cured a leper with a kiss, was particularly
attractive to Clement. Ivo was pleased by the childlike harmony of the
holy man with nature, and by his miraculous power over it; how he
preached to the birds, and called upon them to sing the glory of God;
how they listened devoutly until he had made the sign of the cross over
them and blessed them, and how then they broke into a sounding chorus;
how he contended in song with a nightingale for the honor of God until
midnight, and how at last, when he was silent from fatigue, the bird
flew upon his hand to receive his blessing. Whenever he read of the
lamb rescued by the saint from slaughter, which always kneeled down
during the singing of the choir, Ivo thought fondly of his Brindle.
On reading that the saint was so highly favored as miraculously to
experience in his own body the wounds of Christ, the pierced hands and
feet, and the thrust of the lance in his side, Clement wept aloud. He
repeated his vow to become a Franciscan monk, and called upon Ivo to do
the same, so that, according to the rules of the Order, they might walk
about the world together, courting tortures and troubles and living
upon alms.
With insatiable thirst Clement drank of the streams of mysticism and
hurried his friend along with him.
12.
THE COLLEGE CHAP.
In the holidays Ivo was again powerfully attracted to the realities of
life. It was not so easy then to exclude the doings of the outer world,
and wrap oneself up into self-suggested thoughts and feelings. Such
exaltations are, in fact, only feasible outside of the family circle,
and therefore outside of the sphere of real life. Scarcely had he
returned to the village, when the family ties once more asserted their
claims, and the manifold and interlaced fates and fortunes of the
villagers forced themselves upon his interest and sympathy. He knew
what lived and moved behind all their walls. He awoke to his former
life as from a dream.
One evening he met Constantine standing before his house, chewing a
straw and looking sullen.
"What's the matter?" asked Ivo.
"Pshaw! Nothing you can do any good to."
"Well, you'd better tell me."
"You've no taste for the world, and can't understand it. Whitsuntide is
almost come, and then there's the bel-wether dance, and I haven't a
sweetheart. I might have had one, but I was too saucy; and yet I don't
want any other, and I'd be unconscionably mad if she were to take up
with some one else. Such a bel-wether dance as this will be I would'nt
give a copper for."
"Who is the proud beauty?"
"You know her well enough: Emmerence?"
Ivo barely repressed a start. He asked, quickly,--
"Have you gone with her long?"
"Why, that's what I'm telling you. She won't look at me. She's just as
prudish and coy as a Diana."
"Do you mean to act fairly by her, and marry her?"
"What? Fairly? Of course. But I can't talk about marrying yet. Don't
you know the old student-song?--
"I will love thee, I will love thee;
But to marry, but to marry,
Is far, far, far, far above me."
"Then I must agree with Emmerence."
"Fiddle! No offence, but you don't know any thing about it. These girls
must be content just to get sweethearts like me. The squire's Babbett
would stretch out her ten fingers to get hold of me: but she couldn't
represent the Church any more, as at Gregory's first mass, and I don't
want her."
During this colloquy Peter and Florian had come up to where they were
standing.
"Ah!" said the latter, "does the doctor give us the light of his
countenance? I thought the like of us weren't worth his while to waste
words in talking to."
"Yes," added Peter; "all the boys in the village say that the like of
you was never seen, Ivo. You behave as if you were born in Stuttgard
and not in Nordstetten."
"My goodness!" said poor Ivo, thus beset on all sides, "I never thought
of such a thing as being proud. Come; let's go get a drink."
"That's the way to talk," said Florian. "It's my blowout, for I am
going off to-morrow."
The villagers opened their eyes at seeing Ivo passing through the
street in company with the trio. It was an extraordinary quartette.
"Have we so much honor?" said the hostess of the Eagle, as Ivo entered
with the others. "I'll put a candle into the back-room right-away.
What'll you have? A stoup from the other side the Rhine?"
"We'll stick to Wurtemberg for the present," said Constantine, "and Ivo
is going to drink with us. He's a Nordstetten boy, like ourselves."
"Not like you for good luck," replied the hostess.
"I'll give you a riddle, you chatter-box: why are women like geese?"
retorted Constantine.
"Because such gooseheads as you want to rule 'em," answered the
hostess.
"Babbett, just you be glad stupidity isn't heavy to carry, or you'd 'a'
been laid up this many a year. I'll tell you why they're like. Geese
and women are first-rate, all except their bills. Go get us a quart of
sixen."
"You're not good for a creutzer," said the hostess, laughing, as she
went to execute the order. We have perhaps already recognised her as
the Babbett who played a part in the story of the gamekeeper of
Muehringen. Caspar had bought the Eagle; and Babbett was an excellent
hostess. She could entertain all the guests, and had an answer ready
for every question and a retort for every sally. The "gentlemen" no
longer confined their custom to the Dipper, but now honored the Eagle
with their visits likewise.
When all had "wetted their whistle," Florian began the song--
"A child of freshest clay
Doth at our table stay:
Hey! Hey!"--
with which students usually welcome a new arrival. This was followed by
"Ça, Ça! be merry,"
in which the words
"Edite, bibite"
had been paraphrased into "eating it, beating it." This introduction of
university civilization into the retreats of village life was the work
of Constantine. The boys were very proud of their new songs. Ivo joined
in, lest he should appear "stuck up."
The three comrades were well drilled. Peter sang the air; and, though
he had a fine voice, he spoiled it by bawling,--for peasants when they
sing, and parsons when they preach, are equally apt to suppose that an
overstrained voice is more beautiful and impressive than a natural one.
Constantine always moved up and down as he sang, clenching his fists
and buffeting the air. Florian rested his elbows on the table and sang
with closed eyes, to exclude all outside distraction.
The first pint having been despatched in short order, the college chap
cried, "Babbett, one more of them: it takes two legs to walk on," and
then sang,--
"Wine, ho! Wine, ho!
Or I'll stagger to and fro.
I won't stagger, and I can't stand,
And I won't be a Lutherand.
Wine, ho! Wine, ho!
Or I'll stagger so."
Then, without a pause, he sang again:--
"She I don't want to see,
She's every day with me;
And she I love so dear,
She's far away from here.
"Can't get a pretty one,
Won't take a homely one;
Must have some sort o' one:
What shall I do?"
"Why, Constantine, are you so smart at Polish begging?" asked Babbett.
"Is it true that Emmerence sent you next door with a 'God help you'?"
"I'll bet you three pints of the best that she'll go to the bel-wether
dance with me, and with nobody else."
Florian sang,--
"Fret for a pretty girl?
That would be a shame:
Turn to the next one,
And ask for her name."
Peter fell in:--
"If I have no sweetheart,
I live without distress;
There's morning every day,
And evening no less."
Constantine sang,--
"When it snows the snow is white,
And when it freezes the frost is bright;
What noodles do with fear and fright
I do with all my might."
Florian began:--
"It's just a week to-day, to-day,
My sweetheart told me to go away:
She cried, and she sobb'd,
But I was gay."
And
"Three weeks before Easter
The snow will be flush,
My girl will be married,
And I in the slush."
"That's not the way," said Constantine: "turn round the handle:"--
"Three weeks before Easter,
There'll be slush in the snow:
The jade will be married
And I'll courting go."
Laughter and applause from all sides of the room were the reward of
this poetic effort. Peter then struck up:--
"Sweetheart, you thief,
You're all my grief;
And while I live,
No comfort you'll give."
And
"If I but knew
Where my sweetheart has gone,
My heart wouldn't be
Half so weary and lone."
Florian sang again:--
"If you would live like a little bird,
And have no cares to shend ye;
Just marry, till the summer's round,
Whome'er the spring may send ye."
Constantine sang again:--
"I come to see you;
It pleased me to come;
But I won't come any longer:
It's too far from home.
"It wouldn't be too far,
And it wouldn't be too rough,
But, just understand,
You're not near good enough."
Ivo sat at the table, absorbed in unpleasant reflections. He called to
mind how at this hour he was usually to be found at his solitary lamp,
struggling to penetrate the mysteries of creation and redemption,--how
far he was then removed from all the doings of men, from all the wishes
and aims of individuals; and he contrasted all this with what he now
saw of the life led by his natural comrades in age and station. The
nucleus of all their thoughts and actions was love, whether they made
it the subject of wanton jibes or of strains of tender longing. Once
more existence lay before him, severed, as by a sharp steel, into two
irreconcilable halves,--the secular and the ecclesiastical. Babbett,
who had watched him closely, had not failed to perceive the irksome
twitches of the muscles of his face: she now approached the singers,
saying,--
"Why, a'n't you ashamed of yourselves? Can't you sing a single decent
song?"
Constantine replied,--
[Illustration: Can't you sing a single decent song?]
"Well, if you don't like it,
I like it the more;
And, if you can do better,
Just put in your oar."
"Yes," said Florian: "we'll sing a good song if you'll join in."
"Oh, yes, I'll join in."
"What shall it be?" asked Peter.
"'Honest and true.'"
"'Is my wealth and my store'? no, I don't like that," said Constantine.
"Well, then, 'Ere the morning dew was wasted.'"
"Yes." Babbett sang lustily, and the others fell in:--
"Ere the morning dew was wasted,
Ere the night-blown grass was shrunk,
Ere another's eye had tasted,
On my love mine eyes were sunk.
"Shoot the fox and rabbit early,
Ere they travel in the wood;
Love the girls ere they grow surly,
Or forget how to be wooed.
"Till with vines the millstone teemeth,
And the mill-race runs with wine,
While life's current in us streameth,
Thou art mine and I am thine."
Ivo thanked Babbett warmly for the pretty song; but Constantine
immediately followed it up with
"I'm as poor as a mouse:
There's no door to my house,
There's no lock to my door,
And I've no sweetheart more.
"It's all up with me
Over land and sea:
When the Danube dries up
Our wedding shall be.
"And it will not dry up,
And is wet to this day;
To find another sweetheart
I must up and away."
"Now let's have 'A boy he would a walking go,'" said Babbett.
"Keep your boy at home," replied Constantine.
"Oh, you! If you'd been kept at home, they wouldn't have turned you out
like a dog in the wrong kennel."
"Strike up," said Florian; and they sang:--
"Blithe let me be,
If 'tis but well with thee,
Although my youth and freshness
Must wither hopelessly.
"No streamlet on the hill-side
But finds its course to run;
But not a hand to open
My pathway to the sun.
"The sun, the moon, the stars,
And all the firmament,
Shall hang in mourning for me
Till my long night be spent."
Ivo fidgeted in his chair: this song was the expression of his own
fate.
"Don't go," said Constantine, perceiving his uneasiness.
"Babbett, you don't do like the host at Cana: you give the good wine
first and the bad afterward. You've brought Lutheran and Catholic wine
together: that'll be a mixed marriage."
"'When the mice have had enough, the flour is bitter,'" answered the
hostess.
"'Tell you what," cried Constantine; "we'll drink hot wine now."
"You've had enough for to-day," said Barbara.
"What we can't drink we can pour into our shoes. Let's make a night of
it. Are you for it?--and you? and you?"
Every one nodded, and sang,--
"Brothers, let's go it
And drink while we're young;
Age will come quickly
And dry up the tongue.
For the gentle wine
Was made for good fellows:
Brothers, be mellow,
And drink the good wine."
The "warm wine" which was brought would have provoked a smile from any
American or English boon companion. It bore about the same relation to
mulled wine which water-gruel has to pepper-pot. The heat it had
received from the fire was counterbalanced by the infusion of water
until a child might have fattened upon it unharmed. But Germans can
sing more drinking-songs over a cup of vinegar than would be heard in
an American bar-room where brandy enough has been swallowed to account
for a dozen murders.
Constantine welcomed the arrival of the beverage with a song, which he
accompanied with his fists on the table:--
"I and my old wife,
We go the whole figure;
She carries the beggar's pouch,
And I sing the jigger.
Bring some Bavarian beer;
Let's be Bavarians here;
Bavarians, Bavarians let us be here.
"She's gone to town to beg,
I wait and snicker;
What she'll bring back with her
I'll spend for liquor.
Bring some Bavarian beer," &c.
It grew late. A boy had brought Ivo the key to his father's house. The
beadle had come to announce the hour for silence, but Constantine
quieted him with a glass of wine: the same deep artifice succeeded with
the watchman, who came an hour later. Constantine began to mimic the
professors and boast of his student's pranks. Ivo rose to go. The
others tried to hold him, but Constantine made room for him: in Ivo's
absence there was nothing to interfere with his making himself the hero
of the adventures of other students. He called after him, however, to
"take the room-door into bed with him;" but Ivo did not hear it, for he
was already in the open air.
The soft light of the summer moon was poured over the land, and seemed
to strew the earth with calm and quiet. Ivo frequently stood still,
laid his hand on his beating breast, and took off his cap to permit the
gentle gales to fan him. When, at home, he undertook to undress
himself, he felt doubly how his quick pulses were chasing each other:
he left the house once more, therefore, to find refreshment in the
peaceful silence of night. He walked along the highroad and across the
fields: he was happy, he knew not why; he could have walked on forever:
with his heart beating joyfully, the love of life was revived in him,
and carried him aloft over the lovely, peaceful earth. Having returned
home at last, he saw that the door of the first-floor chamber was open.
Almost unconsciously, he entered, and stood spell-bound; for there lay
Emmerence. The moon shone on her face: her head lay under her right
arm, and her left hand rested on the frame. Ivo's breast heaved: he
trembled from head to foot; he knew not what befell him; but he bent
over Emmerence and kissed her cheek, almost as gently as the moonbeam
itself. Emmerence seemed to feel it, for, turning upon her side, she
murmured, "A cat, cat, cat." He waited a while to see if she would
wake. But she slept on, and the august stillness recalled him to
himself. Striking his forehead, he left the room. Arrived at his own
bedside, he threw himself upon the floor, and, torturing his inmost
soul, he cried, "God forgive me! let me die! I have sinned! I am a
castaway, a villain! Lord God, stretch out thy right hand and crush
me!"
Shivering with cold, he awoke, and found it broad day. He crept into
his bed. His mother brought him coffee, found him looking very ill, and
urged him not to get up; but he would not be dissuaded, for he had made
up his mind to go to church that morning.
In passing the stable he heard Emmerence singing within:--
"No house to live,
No farm to tend,
No gauds to give,
No money to lend,
And such a lassie
As I am
Will never find a friend."
"What makes you so down-hearted?" Ivo could not refrain from asking.
"Didn't you sleep well?"
[Illustration: What makes you so down-hearted?]
"I don't know any thing about sleeping well or ill. I am tired when I
go to bed, and my eyes shut. I just happened to think of the song, and
so I sang it."
"You needn't deny it: you would like to have Constantine for your
sweetheart, wouldn't you?"
"Him! I'd rather take the French simpleton, or Blind Conrad: I've no
mind to make up the balance of his half-dozen. I don't want any
sweetheart: I am going to remain single."
"That's what all the girls say."
"You shall see whether I am in earnest about it or not."
"But if you can get a good husband you oughtn't to be too dainty."
"What could I get? Some old widower who has furnished the gravedigger
with two or three wives already. No! whenever I can't stay in your
house any more, my mind's made up: I promised Mag when she went away to
go to America. But I'm so glad to see you care about what's to become
of me: sure, if you _are_ going to be a clergyman, that's no reason why
you should never look after your old friends."
"I should like nothing better than to do something for your comfort and
happiness in the world."
Emmerence looked at him with beaming eyes. "That's what I always said,"
cried she: "I knew you were good, and I never would believe you were
proud. Ask your mother: we talk of you often and often. Don't your ears
ever tingle?"
Thus they chatted for some time. Emmerence told him that she read his
letters to his mother, and that she almost knew them by heart. Ivo
thought it his duty to say that he too had not forgotten her, and that
he hoped she would always be good and pious. He said this with a great
effort of self-command, for the girl's warm-hearted candor had made a
great impression upon him.
The church-bell rang, and some old women who passed with their
prayer-books under their arms made Ivo aware that he was too late for
matins.
"Where are you going to work to-day?" he asked, before leaving.
"Out by the pond."
He went into the fields, but in the opposite direction: a violent
yearning drew him toward the spot where he knew Emmerence to be; but he
only walked the faster, to suppress the cry of his heart. At length he
returned home and took up a book; but he could not rivet his thoughts
to the subject. He began a letter to Clement, intending to pour out his
heart to his friend; but he soon tore it up, and consoled himself with
the reflection that he would soon see Clement again.
Contrary to all his former habits, Ivo was now rarely at home. He
frequently spent half a day at a time in Jacob's smithy. Smithies in
Germany, as here, are the resorts of various drones, old men, and
idlers: wagoners from a distance, and from the village, come and go, to
have their horses shod or their tools or vehicles repaired. As the
bellows fan the fire, so the arrivals and departures keep up the stream
of conversation. Ivo often asked himself how things would have been if
the wish of his early childhood had been fulfilled and he had become a
blacksmith. He resolved, when in the ministry, to frequent these places
and endeavor at times to edge in a wholesome word of counsel or
encouragement. Sometimes the thought struck him that possibly it would
not be his lot to take orders, after all. "So be it, then," he would
say: "only let me never be like the 'college chap.'"
13.
DISCORD.
On his return to the convent, Ivo suffered several days to pass before
informing his now pale and wasted-looking friend Clement of the
emotions which had gone on within him: he had a natural dread of this
disclosure.
As they walked in the Burgholz together, Clement grasped Ivo's hand and
said, "I saw in a dream how Satan laid his snares to entrap you."
Ivo confessed his love for Emmerence.
"Alas!" cried Clement, "alas! you too are pursued by the tempter. If
thine eye offend thee, pluck it out. You must trample this spark of
hell-fire out of existence, though life itself should follow."
Ivo went to confession. He never disclosed the penance imposed upon
him; but he agreed readily to Clement's proposal to sleep on the ground
in future and to subject themselves to various deprivations. Clement
always slept upon the ground in a sitting posture and with his arms
spread out to represent the form of the cross.
With the whole force of his will, Ivo disengaged his thoughts from the
affairs of this world, and succeeded in confining them once more to
subjects of ecclesiastical learning. But a new demon soon dogged him
even into the sacred precincts. He never dared to tell Clement of this
last machination of the evil one; for Clement would have raised a fresh
hue and cry. This made a rupture of their intimacy inevitable, and
accident soon brought it about. Clement was speaking of the Godhead of
Christ as manifested in his having assumed the bitterness of death upon
his cross, and said that this was needed to complete the revelation of
him as God and as the Savior of the world.
"I see nothing so superhuman in death upon the cross," said Ivo, very
calmly. "It is holy and grand, but it is not superhuman, to die
innocently in the promotion of a great cause. I should have esteemed
him equally if there had been no occasion for a martyrdom to prove the
truth of his divine mission, and if the blind Jews had acknowledged him
without it, and had suffered him to live. Not the crucified, but the
living Christ, His divine life and divine doctrines, are my salvation
and my faith."
Clement stood trembling from head to foot: his lips swelled, and his
eyes rolled wildly. With clenched fist he struck Ivo's face, making
sparks of fire start from his eyes and causing his cheek to tingle. Ivo
stood unmoved, or motionless; but Clement fell to the ground before
him, seized his hand, and cried,--
"Down into the dust, forsaken one! Verily, the heaviest chastisement
which could befall thy blasphemy has the Lord visited upon thee by my
hand: it was not my will, but the Lord's, which hurled my arm against
thee. Thou art the brother of my heart, and by me thou must be smitten;
for thou must feel two-edged swords piercing thy flesh.
"If thou thrust me away, the Lord's wrath is thereby visited upon thee
still more: thou shalt lose the best friend thou hast. Do what thy
spirit will, put me away, and thou shalt be doubly wretched. The Lord
must plunge thee into the depths of darkness, that thine eye may be
opened to receive the light. He must give thee sadness to drink and
gall to feed upon, until the spirit of lies shall depart and the slime
of sin fall away from thee. Lord, let this offering be pleasing in thy
sight: I offer thee half of my heart,--my friend. Thou art my friend, O
Lord! Forgive me that my soul still clings to one who is the food of
worms. Be gracious unto me, O Lord! give me the full cup of sorrow, and
lead me in the thorny path to thee, thee!"
Ivo stood sadly regarding his friend, whose rashness grieved but did
not surprise him. He offered to raise him up; but Clement refused, and
Ivo soon saw the entire meaning of this fit of ecstasy. With a
sensation of indescribable pain, he thought he saw the corpse of his
friend in the place of his living body; and then again his own
disembodied spirit seemed to stand before his own lifeless frame and
look upon its last convulsive movements. He was giddy. He offered again
to assist Clement in rising; but the latter sprang to his feet, and
demanded, peremptorily,--
"Will you do penance? Will you wash the rust from your soul with tears
of repentance?"
"No."
"To hell with you, then!" cried Clement, again seizing him by the
throat. Ivo, however, defended himself stoutly, and the savage said,
imploringly, "Smite me; tread me under foot: I will undergo all things
willingly: but I must save you, for the Lord wills it."
Ivo turned on his heel without another word, and quitted his friend in
silence.
For days Ivo walked about in thoughtful silence. The string of his
heart which had the fullest tone was cruelly snapped asunder: he had
buried the bright promise of youthful friendship. Besides, the excess
of religious frenzy which he had witnessed had given fresh vitality to
many half-slumbering doubts and scruples. He was "doubly wretched," as
Clement had foretold; but he knew not how to help himself.
The chaplain of Horb had come to Tuebingen as a professor: he had never
lost his preference for Ivo, who now sought his friendship and
acquainted him with his troubles.
Strange to say, it was the Virgin Mary who had provoked his doubts
especially. He first inquired "whether, as a saint, she was also
omnipresent?" as he thought she ought to be, seeing that prayers were
everywhere offered up to her.
The professor looked at him with some astonishment, and said, "The
notion of omnipresence is a purely human one, deduced from bodily
things, and, in strictness, applicable to them alone. In coupling
'_omnis_' (all) with 'present' we merely seek to comprehend the
totality of existence: we do not really add to the number of our ideas,
though we may seem to do so. Nothing which is not earthly can become,
as such, the subject of our conceptions: for the same reason, we cannot
legitimately undertake to subject a spirit to the measure of what is,
in fact, a merely physical standard,--that of 'presence.' We must
renounce, once for all, the idea of comprehending supernatural things
logically: faith is the proper organ of their function, and no other."
Ivo was entirely satisfied with this answer, and only ventured timidly
to ask how the _Virgin_ Mary could be spoken of, when the Bible makes
mention of brothers of Christ.
The professor answered, "The Greek word [Greek: adelphos][12] is not to
be taken literally: it is an Oriental expression, taken from the
Hebrew, and signifies as much as 'kinsman,' or 'friend.'"
"Then I suppose the expression [Greek: huios theou][13] is not to be
taken literally either, but is also an Oriental expression?"
"By no means! Such an idea is at once repelled by the Messianic
passages of the Old Testament, the Gospels, and the tenets of the
Church. And, besides," added he, watching Ivo's features narrowly, "the
incarnation of God has no other purpose than to give a hold to our
human faculties, because, as I said before, we can form no conception
of that which is not earthly: its essence is and must remain a mystery,
which we can do nothing but believe in, and faith will be given you, if
you take pains to keep your soul pure, childlike, and innocent."
"But that is not so easy," said Ivo, with some timidity.
"I will give you some advice which is founded on experience," answered
the professor, laying his hand upon Ivo's shoulder: "as often as a
thought arises within you which threatens to drift you away from the
moorings of faith, banish it immediately by prayer and study, and do
not suffer it to abide in your heart. We stand with our God much as we
do with our friends: once estranged from them, it is not an easy matter
to revive the old affection."
The advice and the illustration made a great impression on Ivo; but
they came too late.
It must not be supposed, however, that inquiries of this kind carried
Ivo out of the pale of the Church, and to the furthermost bounds of
thought. He remained a believing spirit: he was firmly convinced of the
reality of the miraculous: and only the soul which holds fast to this
conviction is really within the pale prescribed for the genuine
Churchman: faith is the surrender of the mind to the inexplicable, to a
miracle.
His distaste to a clerical life was caused, in a far greater degree, by
other considerations, which now pressed upon him with increasing
vividness: he longed for a life of active energy. An early chain of
reflections which had first manifested itself to his consciousness at
Ehingen once more appeared on the surface of his thoughts. "Not the
hard drudgery of hands," said he to himself, "is the punishment of sin;
but, because mankind have once tasted of the tree of knowledge, they
are now condemned everlastingly to seek it, without ever enjoying it to
repletion. In the sweat of their brows they seek food for their minds:
the dry rustling leaves of books are the foliage under which the fruit
of knowledge is supposed to be concealed. Happy he to whom the
Christmas-tree, with its tapers lighted by unseen hands, has proved
this better tree of knowledge. Labor, Labor! Only the beast lives
without labor: it goes forth to seek its food without preparing it:
man, on the contrary, mingles his powers with the generative forces of
mother earth, lends his aid to the activity of the universe, and thus
the blessings of labor, rest, and peace of soul, fall to his share.
Blind Roman, how vapid was your motto, that life is warfare! how tawdry
the triumphs you held over subjugated brethren! Life is labor. True,
even that is a strife with the silent forces of nature; but it is a
strife of freedom, of love, which renovates the world. The stone's
obduracy yields to the chisel's industry, and helps to form the shelter
of the homestead. And more than all let me praise thee, tiller of the
soil! Into the furrowed wounds of the earth thou strewest sevenfold
life. The heart glows, the spirit moves, in thee. And as we subjugate
the earth and make it serve us, so also we learn to govern and guide
the earthly portion of our own natures; and as we wait for rain and
sunshine from above to make our work take root and flourish, so it is
thy will, O God, to pour out thy grace over us, to make the seed sown
in our spirits to thrive and sanctify our bodies. Give me, O Lord, a
little speck of earth, and I will plough it seven times over, so that
its hidden juices may sprout forth in blades which bow their heads
before the breath of thy mouth: I will raise the warts of my hands
aloft to praise thee, until thou shalt draw me up into thy kingdom."
"I should like well enough," he once said to himself, "to be a parson
on Sunday; but to spend a whole week occupied with nothing but the Lord
and the nothing we know about him,--to be as much at home in the church
as in one's bedroom,--why, that is to have no church and no Sunday at
all. Oh, heavens! how happy was I when I used to go to church of a
Sunday and say, 'Good-morning, God!' The sun shone more brightly, the
houses looked better, and all the world was different from what
it was on working-days." Perhaps he thought of Emmerence, for he
continued,--"A Lutheran parson's life wouldn't suit me, either. To
support a wife and a houseful of children on preaching? No, no!" Then
his theological scruples returned, and he said, "Theology is the bane
of religion: what need of so much subtlety? Love God: love thy
neighbor. What more?"
Thus his whole being was racked and tossed. The thought of Emmerence
would drive the fever-heat to his face, and then icy coldness returned
when he thought of his own future. He was at a loss how to inform his
parents of his irrevocable determination to leave the convent: it was
hard to explain to them that he could not look upon a clerical life as
his vocation, and that he did not find the faith within him strong
enough to justify such a step.
This train of thought was interrupted by a letter from the squire of
Nordstetten to the principal, requesting permission for Ivo to come
home, as his mother had to undergo a severe surgical operation, which
she wished to be performed in his presence.
Harrowed by anxiety, Ivo hastened home with the messenger who had
brought the letter. He learned that his mother had broken her arm some
time previously by falling down-stairs; that she had disregarded the
injury, and that now she could only be saved by another artificial
fracture and resetting of the limb; that she would have preferred death
had she not thought it her duty to reserve herself for her children.
Ivo was stung to the soul to find that the messenger always spoke of
his mother as if she were already dead or, at least, beyond all hopes
of recovery. "You couldn't find a better woman wherever cooking is
done," was the curious proverbial expression which formed the burden of
his answers.
The meeting between mother and son was heart-rending. "So, now! I can
bear it all better," said she, "because you are here."
The surgeon came next day. He offered to blindfold the patient; but she
said, "No: put the bed into the middle of the room, where I can see the
Savior, and you will see that I won't budge nor murmur."
After much reluctance, her wish was complied with. In one hand--the
hand of the injured arm--she grasped the rosary, while the other
clasped that of her son. Her eyes rested on the crucifix, and she said,
"Dear Savior, Thou hast borne the most cruel pain with a heavenly
smile: dear Savior, give me Thy power, hold me when I would tremble;
and, when the sharp swords pierce my soul, I will think of thee, O
Mother of God, and suffer in silence. Pray with me, dear Ivo."
Without uttering another word, she suffered the operation to be
performed; and when the bone cracked under the terrible pressure, when
all around sobbed and wept, when Valentine was led half fainting into
the adjoining room, and his suppressed sobs became louder as the door
closed upon him, Christina was silent and motionless: only her lips
quivered, her eyes were directed steadfastly upon the cross, and a holy
brightness seemed to issue from them.
When all was over, and even the surgeon broke out into praise of the
patient's fortitude, she sank upon her pillow, and her eyes closed; but
a brilliant glory still rested upon her face. All the bystanders were
dumb with admiration. Valentine had returned. He bent over his wife
till he felt her breath, and then looked up with a heavy sigh and a cry
of "God be praised!" Ivo kneeled at the bedside, looked up to his
mother, and worshipped her. All folded their hands: not a breath was
heard, and it seemed as if the living Spirit of God were passing
through every heart.
When Christina awoke with the cry of "Valentine," the latter hastened
to her side, pressed her hand upon his heart, and wept. "You forgive
me, don't you, Christina?" he said, at length. "You shall never, never
hear an unkind word from me again. I am not worthy of you: I see that
now better than ever; and if the Lord had taken you away I should have
gone mad."
"Be calm, Valentine. I have nothing to forgive you: I know how good you
are, though you are not always yourself. Don't grieve now, Valentine:
it's all right again. Our Lord only wished to try us."
She recovered with wonderful rapidity. Valentine kept his word most
faithfully. He watched over his wife as over a higher being: the
slightest motion of her eye was his command. He could scarcely be
induced to allow himself the rest he needed.
Emmerence and Ivo took turns in sitting up with his mother; and she
once said, "You are dear, good children: the Lord will certainly make
you happy."
Often also, when his mother slept, and the one came to relieve the
other, they had long conversations. Ivo confessed to her the longing of
his mind for active employment; and she said, "Yes, I can understand
that; I couldn't live if I hadn't plenty of work to do: I don't want to
praise myself, but I can work just as hard as any in the village."
"And if you only had a house of your own you'd work harder still,
wouldn't you?"
"Yes," said Emmerence, pushing up her short sleeves, and stiffening her
powerful arms, as if to set about it at once: "yes, then; but even so I
can do just as much work as turns up."
"Well," said Ivo, "do you think of any thing while you work?"
"Yes, of course."
"What, for instance?"
"Whatever happens to come into my head: I never thought of remembering
it afterward."
"Well, give me an instance."
Usually so confident, the girl was in a perfect flurry of
embarrassment.
"Are you ashamed to tell me?"
"Not a bit; but I don't know any thing to tell."
"What did you think this morning when you were cutting the rye? What
sort of thoughts went through your head?"
"Well, I must think; but you mustn't laugh at me."
"No."
"At first, I guess, I thought of nothing at all. You might break me on
the wheel, and I couldn't remember any thing. Then I came upon a nest
of young quails,--dear little bits of things. I put them on one side,
out of the way of the boys. Then I was wishing to see how surprised the
old ones would be when they came to find their house in another spot.
Then I thought of Nat's song, which you can sing too, about the poor
soul. Then I thought, 'Where may Nat have gone to?' Then,--then I
thought, 'I'm glad it's only half an hour till dinner-time,' for I was
getting mighty hungry. There! that's all: it isn't much, is it?" She
tugged bashfully at her sleeves, and could not raise her eyes to his
face. Ivo asked again,--
"Don't you sometimes think how wonderful it is that God causes the seed
which man throws out to bear sevenfold, and that the young crop sleeps
under the snow until the sun wakes it in spring? How many millions of
men have already lived upon the juices of the earth, and yet have not
exhausted them!"
"Oh, yes, I often think that, but it wouldn't have occurred to me of my
own accord: the parson says it often in sermons and in the catechism.
You see, when you have to work at all these things yourself you don't
find time for such reflections, but only think, 'Will it be ripe soon?'
and 'Will it bear much?' The parsons, who don't work in the field,
don't carry out the dung, and don't do any threshing, have more time
for such thinking."
"But you must seek such thoughts a little, and then you will find them
oftener. Won't you, Emmerence?"
"Yes, indeed I will: you are right: it is always well to admonish me.
If you ask me often, you'll soon find I shall have more to tell you.
I'm not so very stupid."
"You're a dear girl," said Ivo. He was on the point of taking her hand,
but restrained himself with an effort, though he could not prevent
himself from being more and more absorbed in admiration of her frank
and sterling ways.
With a heavy heart Ivo returned to the convent. He admired the heroic
endurance of his mother, and vowed to imitate it. But another subject
occupied him. Through suffering and pain the paradise of his parental
home had uprisen from its ashes, and he saw what an inexhaustible
source of happiness is found in the attachment of two loving hearts
which cling together the more closely the more rudely they are tossed
by life's storms and changes. The undying sorrow of his heart broke
forth again. He thought of Emmerence; and, sitting in the dark valley
of pines, he wept. Down in the dingle was heard the harsh clang of a
saw-mill; and Ivo wished that the boards being sawed there might be
nailed into his coffin.
In the next holidays he was again almost constantly at home. Life was
happy and peaceful there now. Valentine was regenerated, and a petulant
word was never heard. Each member of the household behaved with tender
consideration to all the others, and the Palm Sundays of early
childhood seemed to have returned. But this very calm was to Ivo a
source of unrest; in this very peace grew for him a tree of discord. He
saw, with unmantled clearness, the solitary gloom of his own future,
and knew that the happiness he witnessed was never to be his.
Two important events enhanced the interest of this vacation. Johnnie,
Constantine's father, had had a house built for his son. Valentine and
his sons had erected it; and Joseph, who became master-builder about
this time, spoke the customary poem or oration.
The whole village had assembled before the building: the master and the
journeymen were on the summit, engaged in fastening the crown of a
young fir, hung with ribbons of all colors, to the peak of the gable.
All were on the alert for Joseph's first performance. After a simple
salutation, he began:--
[Illustration: Joseph's first performance.]
"Here you see I have climb'd up unbidden:
If I had had a horse I would have ridden;
But, as I never had a horse,
I may as well talk about something else, of course.
The highest power in the State,
The Kaiser,--God keep him, early and late,--
And all the lords and princes round about,
The carpenters' trade could never do without.
A journeyman-carpenter here I stand,
And I travel through every prince's land.
I look about me with care,
Whether I can make a living there.
If I had every lassie's good-will,
And every master's craft and skill,
And all the wit of my friend the beadle,
I could build a house on the point of a needle;
But, as I can do nothing of the kind,
I must first have my house design'd.
He who would build on roads and streets
Must give every one a chance to try his wits.
I like what is fine,
Though it be not mine;
Though it cannot be my treasure,
It can always give me pleasure.
So I'll drink its health in some yellow wine:
Comrade, just fill up this glass of mine.
Builder! I drink to your satisfaction,
Not that I envy or wish you detraction,
But for good feeling and brotherhood.
Long life to the Kaiser and all his brood!
Destruction to every enemy,
And good luck to this worshipful company,
And to all the people, from far and near,
That have come to look at the building here.
Now I drink over all your heads:
Look out! what comes down's no feather-bed;
What goes up must come down:
Every man take care of his crown.
Now I'll think no more about it,
But drink the wine and throw away the glass without it."
Having dropped the glass, among the cheers of the crowd, he went on:--
"By God's help and his gracious power
We have finish'd this house in good time and hour.
And so we thank him, one and all,
That he has suffer'd none to fall,--
That none has been unfortunate
In life or limb, health or estate;
And also to our Lord we pray
Us henceforth still to keep alway;
And now I commend this house into his hand,
And all the German fatherland.
And hope the owner may use it so
As to make a good living out of those who come and go.
And I wish you, all together,
Health and success in all wind and weather.
And almost I had done great wrong
To have left the lassies out of my song,
Who have wound for us these garlands fine,
And hung them with roses and eglantine:
The flowers in our hats we mean to wear
In honor of our lassies fair."
With the rosemary in his hat, and the apron of skins, Joseph came down
to receive the applause and congratulations of his friends. His
intended, Hansgeorge's Maria, took both his hands, gazed into his face
with radiant eyes, and then looked triumphantly round on the
bystanders.
Turning to Ivo, Joseph said, "I can preach too, if it comes to that:
can't I, Ivo? This was my first mass, you see."
Ivo sighed deeply at the mention of the first mass.
All now returned home, except those specially invited by Constantine to
partake of a grand dinner. Ivo, however, could not be persuaded to
accept this invitation: he stood still a while, looking at the airy
rafters, and thinking how happy Constantine must be in the possession
of a house of his own. "As for these parsonages," he said to himself,
"they are like sentry-houses, which belong to no one, and where no one
leaves a trace of his existence: a solitary sentinel takes the place of
his predecessor until he is relieved in his turn. But let me not be
selfish: if the joys of a home are not for me, I will work for the
welfare of others.
"I like what is fine,
Though it be not mine;
Though it cannot be my treasure,
It can always give me pleasure."
A week later was Joseph's wedding. It was a merry time. Christina sat
at the head of the table, beside her son Ivo, who was and remained the
pride of the family. Ivo danced a figure with his sister-in-law, and
another with Emmerence. She was overjoyed, and said, "So we've had a
dance together: who knows whether we shall ever have another?"
Ivo's second brother now brought his sweetheart to him, and said,
"Dance together." When they had done so, his mother came to him and
said, "Why, you dance splendidly! Where did you learn it?"
"I never forgot it: the spin-wife used to teach me, you remember, in
the twilight."
"Shall we try it?"
"Yes, mother."
All the others stopped to see Ivo dance with his mother. Valentine
rose, snapped his fingers, and cried,--
"Gentlemen, play a national for me, and I'll send an extra bottle.
Come, old girl!"
[Illustration: Valentine took his wife and danced the old national
dance.]
He took his wife by the arm, skipped and jumped, and danced the old
national dance, now wellnigh forgotten: he smacked his tongue, struck
his breast and his thighs, swayed himself on his toes and his heels
alternately, and executed all sorts of flourishes. Now he would hold
his lady, now let her go, and trip round and round her with
outstretched arms and loving gestures. Christina looked down modestly,
but with manifest enjoyment, and turned round and round, almost without
stirring from the spot on which she stood. Holding a corner of her
apron in her hand, she slipped now under his right arm, now under his
left, and sometimes they both turned under their uplifted arms. With a
jump which shook the floor, Valentine concluded the dance.
Thus was their vacation full of joy, in the house and out of it.
14.
THE QUARREL.
Once more Ivo was compelled to leave these things behind and return to
the convent. He no longer met Clement there, the latter having obtained
permission to leave a year before the usual time, in order to enter a
Bavarian monastery.
A new pang awaited him in the fate of Bart, of whom we, like him, have
lost sight for some years. The poor, good-natured, but weak-minded,
youth was in a terrible condition. He gnawed his finger-nails
incessantly, and rubbed his hands as if they were cold: his walk was
unsteady and tottering; the color of his face was a livid green; his
cheeks were sunken; while the red nose and the ever-open mouth made the
lank, ungainly lad a fright to look upon. He was not far from
imbecility, and had to be transferred to the hospital. It was intended
to make an effort for his recovery and then discharge him from the
convent. Ivo shuddered when he went to see him. The only signs of
mental vigor he displayed took the form of frenzied self-accusation.
The very air of the place now seemed infected. The design which had
long worked within Ivo's breast at last became an outward act, and he
wrote a letter to his parents, informing them of his unalterable
resolution to leave the convent, as he could not become a clergyman:
further than this he entered into no argumentations, well knowing that
they would lead to no result. He would have been called ungodly if he
had disclosed them fully, and thus the pain he caused would have been
double. With a firm hand he wrote the letter; but with trembling he
dropped it into the letter-box in the dusk of evening. As the paper
glided down the opening, it seemed as if his past life was sinking into
the grave; and every life--even a hopeless one--dies with a struggle.
With a firm effort, however, he recovered his courage and looked the
future in the face.
Some days after, Ivo had a visit from his parents. They took him with
them to the Lamb Tavern. There Valentine ordered a room; and, when they
were all in it, he bolted the door.
"What's the matter with you?" he said to Ivo, sternly.
"I cannot be a minister, dear father. Don't look so angrily at me: you
have been young too, surely."
"Oh, that's where the shoe pinches, is it? You blessed scamp, why
didn't you tell me that eight years ago?"
"I did not understand it then, father; and, besides, I would not have
had the courage to say it."
"Courage,--eh! We'll make short work of it, my fine fellow: you _shall_
be a minister; and there's an end."
"I'd rather jump into the river."
"No occasion for that. You shall never go out of this room alive if you
don't give me your hand upon it to be a clerical man."
"That I won't do."
"What? That you won't do?" cried Valentine, seizing him by the throat.
[Illustration: Valentine seized him by the throat.]
"Father," cried Ivo, "for God's sake, father, let me go: do not force
me to defend myself: I am not a child any more."
Christina seized her husband's arm. "Valentine," said she, "I shall cry
'Fire!' out of the window if you don't let him go this minute."
Valentine released his hold, and she went on:--"Is this the gentleness
you promised me? Ivo, forgive him: he is your father, and loves you
dearly, and God has given him power over you. Valentine, if you speak
another loud word you've seen the last of me, and I'll run away. Ivo,
for my sake, give him your hand."
Ivo pressed his lips together, and big tears stole down his cheeks.
"Father," he sobbed, "I did not designate myself for a clergyman; nor
are you to blame, for you could not know whether I was suited for it or
not. Why should we reproach each other?"
He went up to Valentine to take his hand; but he only said, "Very fine;
but what does the gentleman intend to be?"
"Let me go to the school for veterinary surgeons for a year, and I
shall manage to get settled somewhere or other as veterinary surgeon
and farmer."
"A good idea; and I'm to pay off the convent, I suppose? Two hundred
florins a year? Then they can sell my house; and it'll be a glorious
thing to say, 'Yes: Ivo's to be a cat-doctor, and so it is no great
matter if the house does go by the board.' And what do you mean to
study with? Live on the old Kaiser's exchequer?--or do you suppose I'm
to pay? You can go to law with me and ask your motherly portion; but
I'll make up a little account against you then, to show what you've
cost me."
"I shall petition the ministry to have the indemnity to the convent
charged upon my future inheritance."
"We've had our say, and you needn't talk any more," interrupted
Valentine. "If you won't obey, only don't make yourself believe you
have a father in the world. You've been my pride till now; but, after
this, I can never look into any man's face again, and must only be glad
if people are good enough not to talk about you." The tears trickled
down his cheeks; and, pressing both his hands to his face, he
continued:--"I wish a clap of thunder had struck me into the earth
before I had lived to see this day!" He laid his head upon the
window-sill, turned his back upon them, and struck fiercely at the wall
with his foot.
Such, again, is man! Valentine had no hesitation in displaying his
grief and hatred to his son; but he had always been ashamed to show his
love and his satisfaction, and had buried them in his heart like the
memory of a crime. Do not educated and uneducated men equally resemble
him in this?
Hitherto Christina had contented herself with admonishing each party to
silence and gentleness by looks and gestures; but now she began, with a
firmer voice than her countenance might have led one to expect,--
"Ivo, dear Ivo, you were always good and pious: there never was a vein
of evil in you. I won't say that I always thought it would be a good
word for me in heaven if you were clerical: that's neither here nor
there: it is you we must consider. For the sake of Christ's blood,
examine yourself: be good, be true, and our Lord will help you and will
purify your heart of all things that should not be there. Oh, you
always had such a pious mind! You see I can't speak much: it seems to
tear out my very heart. Be good and pious again, as you always were; be
my dear, dear Ivo." She fell upon his neck and wept. Ivo answered,
embracing her,--
"Mother dear, mother dear, I cannot be a minister. Do you suppose I
would have given you all this unhappiness if I could have done
otherwise? I cannot."
"Don't say you cannot: that isn't pious. Only set your will to it, make
up your mind firmly, and shake off all evil desires, and indeed you
will find it easy. The All-Merciful will help you, and you shall be our
pride and our joy again, and a good child before God and man."
"I am not bad, dear mother; but I cannot be a minister. Do not rend my
heart so. Oh, how gladly I would obey you! but I cannot."
"Let him go to the devil, the rascal!" said his father, tearing
Christina away from her son. "Can you see your mother begging and
imploring this way?"
"Tear me to pieces," cried Ivo, "but I cannot be a minister."
"Out with you, or I'll lay hands upon your life!" cried Valentine, with
foaming mouth. He opened the door and pushed Ivo out.
"It is over," said Ivo, breathing hard as he went tottering down the
stairs. A noise was heard above: the door opened, and his mother came
down after him. Hand in hand they walked to the convent, neither of
them speaking a word. In taking leave, she said,--
"Give me your hand upon it that you'll think of it again, and that you
will not lay hands upon yourself."
Ivo gave the required promise, and went in silence to his cell. The
floor rocked under his feet; but the purpose of his soul remained
unshaken not to let thoughts of childlike affection sway him in the
choice of his vocation for life. "I have duties to myself, and must be
responsible for my own actions," thought he. "I could die to please my
mother; but to enter upon a pursuit the root of which must be the
firmest conviction that it is my appointed mission, is what I dare not
and must not do."
But in the middle of the night he suddenly awoke; and it seemed as if a
cry from his mother had roused him. He sat up in his bed; and now the
calling he was about to abjure suddenly presented itself to his mind in
its most elevated and holy aspect. He thought of being the loving,
comforting, helping friend of the poor and distressed, the father of
the orphan and the forsaken, the dispenser of light and happiness in
every heart: he lost sight of all theological dogmas, and even dreamed
of taking part in the holy strife of liberating the world from
superstition and human authority: he battled down the love of earth
within him and resolved to live for others and for the other world:
not a day would he suffer to pass without having refreshed some
heavily-laden soul or gladdened some weary heart.
"Wherever a poor child of clay shall weep in bitter sadness, I will
absorb his woes into my heart and let them fight their struggle there.
I will dry the mourner's tears; and Thou, O Lord, wilt wipe the tears
from my face when my spirit halts and I weep at night over my poor
lonesome life."
Thus Ivo said to himself, and his heart was bright and clear. He seemed
to have suddenly acquired the power of casting aside all earthly care,
and winging his way to the fountain-head of bliss; and then again he
experienced a sensation of triumph and of longing for the strife, as if
he must go forth at once to battle. In an ecstasy of joy he called to
mind the delight his return to his calling would awaken at home: his
thoughts became indistinct, and he was again in the region of dreams.
Next morning he wrote a letter to his parents, announcing, with solemn
earnestness and warm contrition, the recantation of his purpose, and
praising the high character of the duties upon which he was resolved to
enter. What he could not do to please his parents, he had achieved of
his own free will. When he again heard the letter glide down into the
box, he seemed to hear the swoop of the judicial sword: he had
sentenced and executed himself. He returned, shaking his head. The
elasticity of his spirit was bruised and broken. With all the power of
his will, he returned to his studies, and succeeded for a time in
quieting his mind.
At home the letter provoked the greatest exultation. But scarcely had
the first flush of excitement passed away before a careful observer
would have detected symptoms of uneasiness in the behavior of his
mother. She often smiled sadly to herself, went thoughtfully about the
house, and spoke little. Often, of an evening, she asked Emmerence to
read the letter; and when she came to the words, "I will sacrifice my
life to God, who gave it me; I will give you, my dear mother, the
greatest earthly happiness," Christina sighed deeply.
One Saturday evening Christina and Emmerence sat together peeling
potatoes for the next day: Emmerence, who had just read the letter once
more, remarked,--
"Aunty, it always seems to me as if you were not quite happy to know
that Ivo is going to be a clergyman, after all. Just tell me what you
think about it. I see there is something the matter: you needn't
conceal it from me."
"You're right. You see, I'll tell you. Before him" (meaning her
husband) "I couldn't breathe a word about it, or the house would be on
fire in a minute. It always seems to me as if I had done a great sin: I
have made his heart so heavy. And he is such a good child: there's
never a drop of bad blood in his heart; and now for love of me he's
going to be a clergyman, when his heart clings to the world; and surely
it's a great sin."
"Why, that's dreadful! Why, I wouldn't have a moment's peace. I'd make
up my mind to set matters right immediately."
"Yes, but how? You see, I should like to tell him so, and unbeknown to
him," (meaning her husband.) "I don't want to trust all this to the
schoolmaster; and yet I can't write myself any more."
"Easy enough to help that. I'll write. I can write very well, and you
can dictate to me."
"Yes, that's true: I never thought of that. You're a good child. Come;
we'll set about it directly."
But another trouble soon arose, for nowhere was a pen to be found.
Emmerence was ready to go to the schoolmaster to have one made and tell
the schoolmaster's wife some story or other, if she asked questions;
but Christina would not consent. "We can't begin with sinning," she
said. With the same answer she dismissed Emmerence's second proposal,
to steal one of the schoolmaster's pens, as she knew exactly where he
kept them, and put a dozen fresh quills in its place. At length
Emmerence cried, getting up, "I know where to get one. My sister's boy,
Charlie, goes to school, and has pens; and he must give me one."
She soon returned in triumph, with a pen in her hand. Sitting down at
the table, she drew up the wick of the lamp with a pin, squared herself
to begin, and said, "Now dictate, aunty."
Ivo's mother sat behind the table in the corner under the crucifix, and
tried to peel an additional potato. She said,--
"Write 'Dear Ivo.' 'Got that?"
"Yes."
"'I'm thinking of you now. Not an hour and not a day passes but I think
of you; and at night, when I lie awake in bed, my thoughts are with
you, dear Ivo.'"
"Not so fast, or I can't get it down," clamored poor Emmerence. She
raised her blushing face, looked into the light, and gnawed her pen.
These were the very words she would have written had she penned the
letter in her own name. Laying her face almost on a level with the
paper, she now began to write, and at last said, "'Dear Ivo.' Go on."
"No; first read to me what you have written."
Emmerence did so.
"That's right. Now write again, 'I am not quite easy about your having
changed your mind so quickly'--Stop! don't write that: that's not a
good way to begin."
Emmerence rested her chin on her hand and waited. But Christina said,--
"You've found out what I mean by this time. Now just you write the
letter yourself: that's what the schoolmaster always does."
"I'll tell you what," began Emmerence, rising: "a letter like this
might get into wrong hands, or be lost; and we don't know exactly how
to write it, anyhow. The best way will be for me to go to Ivo and
tell him all about it. To-morrow is Sunday; so I sha'n't miss any
working-time: the feed is cut for the cows; I'll put it into the trough
over-night, and my sister can see to them for one day: the potatoes are
peeled. I'll fix it so that you'll have nothing to do but put the meat
over the fire. It's only seven hours' walk to Tuebingen by the valley,
and I'll travel like a fire-alarm: Sunday is long, and to-morrow night
I'll be back in good time."
"All alone will you go? And at night?"
"Alone? Our Lord God is everywhere, and he will hold his hand over a
poor girl." Almost angrily, she added, "I must go at night, or I
wouldn't be back to-morrow; and then he" (meaning Valentine) "would
scold."
[Illustration: Rosary.]
"I can't say no; I feel as if it must be so. Go, in God's name. Take my
rosary with you: there's a bit of wood in it from Mount Lebanon, which
I inherited from my great grandmother: that'll protect you." Taking her
rosary from the door-post where it hung, she handed it to Emmerence,
and continued, "Don't run too hard. Stay till Monday if you're tired:
there's time enough. I've a six-creutzer piece which I'll give you; and
here, take this bread with you: there's a blessing on bread taken from
the box. But what shall I say when people ask what's become of you? I
couldn't tell a story."
"Just say that I've something very important to do: people needn't know
every thing. I'll make haste, so as to be gone before he comes home."
With astounding readiness, Emmerence tripped up and down stairs and
arranged all things as she had proposed: then she went into her room to
put on her Sunday clothes. Christina helped her. As the girl drew her
prettiest collar out of the chest, something wrapped up in paper fell
upon the floor. "What is that?" asked Ivo's mother.
"A bit of glass Ivo once gave me when we were little bits of children,"
said Emmerence, hastily concealing it.
When the toilet was finished, Christina, untying her apron-strings and
tying them again, said, "I don't know how it is; but you ought not to
go, after all."
"Not go! Ten horses wouldn't hold me now. Don't balk, aunty: you've
agreed to let me go: it would be the first time for you to break your
word."
After going into the front room once more to sprinkle herself with holy
water by the door, she started on her way. At the front door Christina
made another effort to detain her; but she strode off briskly with a
"God bless you!" Christina sent her good wishes after her, as she
watched her till she disappeared at the lower end of the garden.
She had chosen this road to avoid meeting any of the villagers. As she
walked through the target-field, the moon retired behind a large cloud;
so that, when she entered the forest which covered the descent to the
Neckar, it was almost "as dark as the inside of a cow." At first she
shuddered a little, and it seemed as if some one were treading closely
at her heels; but soon, finding that it was her own steps which she
heard, she picked up her courage, and skipped securely over the roots
which crossed the narrow wood-path. Emmerence "had good learning," and
did not believe in spooks or spirits; but in Firnut Pete she had the
most undoubting faith, for she knew how many people had been compelled
to work for him. By shrugging her shoulders from time to time she made
sure that the goblin was not seated upon them. She also believed in
Little Nick, who rolls himself before people's feet like a wild cat or
a log of wood, so that, when you undertake to sit down upon it, you
sink into slime.[14] She held the rosary wound firmly round her hand.
[Illustration: Emmerence knelt down and prayed fervently.]
In the glade where stands the fine old beech on which an image of the
Virgin is fastened, Emmerence knelt down, took the rosary into her
folded hands, and prayed fervently. The moon came forth full-cheeked,
and seemed to smile upon the praying one, who arose with fresh courage
and went on upon her journey.
The road now followed the course of the Neckar, on either bank of which
the black fir woods rose to the tops of the hills; while the valley
was, for the most part, so narrow as scarcely to hold more than the
road, the river, and, at times, a narrow strip of meadow. All was
silent, except that at times a bird chirped in its nest, as if to say,
"Ah, I feel for the poor birds outside." The dogs gave the alarm as she
passed the solitary farm-yards; the numerous mills rattled and thumped,
but the heart of the girl outbeat them all.
Emmerence, who had never been more than two hours' walk from home
before, was tossed by varied emotions. At first she praised her native
village: "it lies upon the hills, and the fields have a soil like
flitches of bacon." She only regretted that the Neckar did not flow
across the mountain, so that the water might not be so scarce.
The stars twinkled brightly: Emmerence looked up to them, and said,
"What a splendid sight it is to see those millions of stars just like a
thousand lights twinkling on a rusty pan,--only much finer and more
holy; and up there sits our Lord God and keeps watch. How much one
loses by sleeping in the course of a year! And if you don't look about
you you don't even see it when your eyes are open. He was right: I look
out for things much more diligently now, and great pleasure it gives
me." A shooting star came down. Raising her hands, Emmerence cried,
"Ivo!" She stood still and looked blushing to the ground: she had
revealed the inmost wish of her heart; for it is well known that what
you wish when a shooting star falls will surely come to pass.
Still walking briskly on her way, Emmerence said again, "Oh, if I only
had such a mill, wouldn't I work like a horse? Oh, my goodness! how
fine it must be to look at one of these little properties and say,
'It's mine!' I should just like to know whom he would marry if he
shouldn't be a minister. God is my witness, I'd run this errand for him
just as willingly if he were to take another. Just as willingly? No,
not quite: but still right willingly. He is right not to be a minister:
to have nobody in the world to yourself, and belong to nobody, is a
sorry piece of business. If it was our Lord God's wish that people
shouldn't get married, he'd have made nothing but men and let them grow
on trees. Well, if these a'n't the most wicked thoughts!" Emmerence
closed her soliloquy, and ran the faster, to escape from her own
reflections. With an effort, she directed her attention to external
things, and, listening to the rush of waters which moved forward
unceasingly like herself, "What a strange thing," thought she, "is such
a stream of water! It runs and it runs. Ah, you'd like to just lumber
along the road without working, wouldn't you? No, you don't, my
darling; you must carry the rafts and drive the mills: every thing in
the world must work, and so it should be. Why, that's Ivo's trouble,
too: he wants to work hard, and not only preach and read mass and pore
over his books. That isn't work at all, nor any thing like it. I'll
tell him all about it; but what I think he shall never, never know."
Daylight came on, and with it all her natural high spirits returned.
She smoothed down her clothes, stepped into the river, washed out her
eyes, and combed her hair. She stood a while dreamily regarding her
image, which the waters were struggling vainly to carry off with them:
her eyes were riveted upon the billows, but she saw them not; she was
in a brown study, for a thought had withdrawn her glance from
surrounding things to objects which hovered before her soul. In passing
on, Emmerence often looked around in a kind of wonder at finding
herself on strange ground at the first dawn of morning, where no one
knew her nor of her. Though her limbs assured her she had been walking,
her eyes seemed to think she had been spirited there by magic.
It was a beautiful morning in August: the larks carolled in the air,
and the robins shrilled in the brakes. All this, however, was so
familiar to Emmerence that she did not stop to contemplate it, but
walked on, singing,--
"The lofty, lofty mountains,
The valley deep and low!
To see my dearest sweetheart
For the last last time I go."
In Rottenburg she rested a while, and then set out with renewed energy.
Not until she saw Tuebingen did she stop to consider how she should set
about getting to see Ivo. She called to mind, however, that Christian's
Betsy was cook at the district attorney's: the cook of a district
attorney, she thought, must surely know what to do, when all the world
is always running to her master for advice. After many inquiries, she
found Betsy; but Betsy had no advice to give, and submitted the case to
the judgment of the groom. The groom, rapidly calculating that a girl
who wanted to confer with a Catholic priest in secret was not likely to
be hard to please, said, "Come along: I'll show you." He tried to put
his arm round her neck; but a blow on the breast which made it ring
again induced him to change his mind. Muttering something about
"hard-grained Black Foresters," he turned on his heel.
"'Tell you what," said Betsy, the astute lawyer's cook: "wait here for
an hour till the bell rings for church, and then go to church and sit
down in front on the left of the altar, and you'll see Ivo up in the
gallery: tip him the wink to come out to you after church."
"In church?" cried Emmerence, raising her hands! "Jesus! Maria! Joseph!
but you've been spoiled in the city! I'd rather go home again without
seeing him."
"Well, then, do your own thinking, you psalm-singer."
"So I will," said Emmerence, going. She took her way straight to the
convent, asked to see the principal, and told him frankly that she
wished to talk to Ivo.
"Are you his sister?" asked the principal.
"No: I'm only the housemaid."
The principal looked steadily into her face: she returned his look so
calmly and naturally that his suspicions, if he had any, were disarmed;
and he directed the famulus to conduct her to Ivo.
She waited for him in the recess of a window on the long vaulted
corridor. He came presently, and started visibly when he saw her.
"Why, Emmerence, what brings you here? All well at home, I hope?" said
he, with a foreboding of evil.
"Yes, all well. Your mother sent me to give you a thousand loves from
her, and to say that Ivo needn't be a clerical man if he doesn't want
to be one with all his heart. Mother can't make her mind easy: she
thinks she has made his heart so heavy, and that he only does so to
please her, and that was what she didn't want, and he was her dear son
for all that, even if he shouldn't be a minister, and----Yes: that's
all."
"Don't look so frightened, Emmerence: talk without fear. Give me your
hand," said Ivo, just as one of his inquisitive comrades had passed.
"We are not strangers: we are good old friends, a'n't we?"
Emmerence now related, with astonishing facility, how she had tried to
write the letter, and had wandered all night to see him: she often
looked to the ground and turned her head as if in quest of something.
Ivo's eyes rested on her with strange intentness, and whenever their
glances met both blushed deeply; yet they had a dread of each other,
and neither confessed the emotions of their hearts. When her story was
all told, Ivo said, "Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I only hope
a time may come when I may requite a little of your kindness."
"That's nothing. If it was for your good, and you were to say, 'Just
run to Stuttgard for me to the king,' I'd go in a minute. I just have a
feeling now as if--as if----"
"As if what?" asked Ivo.
"As if every thing must turn out for the very best after this."
Without speaking a word, the two stood face to face for a while,
holding in their hearts the fondest converse. At last Ivo drew himself
up, with a heavy sigh, and said,--
"Say to my mother that I must think over all these matters again, and
that she must not be uneasy any more. Take good care of her, and don't
let her work too hard with the arm that was broken. Next to my mother,
you and Nat are the dearest persons in the world to me."
Ivo as well as Emmerence looked down at these words, while the former
continued:--"Have you heard nothing of Nat?"
"No."
The time allowed for their interview had passed by before they were
aware of it. "You are going to church, a'n't you?" asked Ivo.
"Yes; but afterward I must make haste to get home."
"If I can arrange it, I'll see you once more after church, down in the
Neckar Bottom, on the road to Hirsau; but, if it can't be, good-bye.
God bless you! Don't walk too fast, and,--be a good girl."
They parted. Although an hour before Emmerence had scolded Betsy so
lustily, she now took her seat in church on the left of the altar, and
was rejoiced at Ivo's nod of recognition.
[Illustration: For an hour she waited in the Neckar Bottom.]
For an hour she waited in the Neckar Bottom; but no one came. She
started on the road home, often stopping to look back: at last she
resolved to do so no longer. "It is better so," she said. "I'm always
afraid I haven't told him the matter just in the right way; but it's
better so." Though she did not stop to look back any more, she soon sat
down to eat her bread upon a hill which commanded a view of the whole
length of the road to the city. Brushing the crumbs from her dress, she
then rose up hastily and pursued her journey.
We cannot accompany her farther than to say that she arrived in good
health and spirits. Our business is with Ivo, who was oppressed with
heavy thoughts. He had in a manner domiciliated himself in the calling
from which it seemed impossible to escape. The message from his mother
had again unsettled the firm foundation of his will, and once more made
him doubtful of himself. The sight of the girl of his heart had aroused
a fresh straggle within him. He might easily have gone to the Neckar
Bottom after church; but fear of himself and of others kept him away.
The pure, fresh action of the will which Ivo had vindicated before his
parents was broken by his voluntary return, and it was not easy to
reunite the fragments: It is very difficult to return to a project once
firmly entertained but afterward abandoned. There is no vital thread to
bind the future and the past: it is like the second crop of grass,
which may be more tender than the first, but gives no nourishment.
15.
RELEASE.
A frightful casualty was required to restore Ivo to his early
resolutions.
On St. Bartholomew's day, Bart had escaped from his keepers in the
hospital. Racked by qualms of conscience, he sprang from a window and
dashed out his brains. To prevent the effect of this deed upon the
reputation of the convent, and in charitable consideration of Bart's
partial derangement, it was resolved to give him a burial in the usual
form. The conventuaries, wearing crape, followed the corpse to the
sound of funeral music. Ivo blew the horn: its tones fluttered in the
air like the shreds of ribbons rudely torn. At the grave Ivo stepped
forward and made a heart-rending speech in memory of his lost comrade.
At first he stumbled a little: all his pulses were trembling. For the
first time in his life Death had really rolled a corpse at his feet,
crying, "Learn, by death, to study life!" As he had fancied Clement
lying dead at his feet, so now in reality the corpse of a companion of
his youth, with whom he had spent so many years, lay before him. First
he spoke in praise of life,--of the free, glad air of heaven,--and
desired to banish death far from the haunts of men; but soon his speech
warmed, and his words flowed as from a living spring; and, with
griefless fervor, he praised the lot of the orphan now happy with his
Father in heaven. Consecration overtook him before the hand of a priest
had touched his head. He soared upward to the throne of the universal
Parent, knelt, and implored grace for his friend. In short and broken
sentences he then prayed for grace to himself, and for his own happy
end and that of all men.
To the sound of a triumphal march the conventuaries returned home.
Though the contemplation of death was one of their chief exercises,
yet, like the standing-armies of earth, they, the standing-army of
heaven, were not left long to the influence of sorrow, but were
required forthwith to renew their strides toward the goal of their
efforts. Ivo's courage also returned. Fate had robbed him of the two
associates who had stood nearest to him,--of the one by spiritual, and
of the other by bodily, suicide. He was alone, and therefore
untrammelled. When the others, who had looked upon life and death with
less of seriousness, went in a body to a tavern to observe an old
custom of drinking a hundred quarts of beer, each at one draught, to
the memory of their comrade, Ivo, with his bugle under his arm, went
alone across the bridge, and walked on and on. The sun was sinking: his
last rays still lingered on the earth: but the moon was high in the
unclouded sky, as if to tell the children of earth, "Be not afraid: I
shall watch over you and shed light upon your silent nightly paths
until the sun returns." Ivo said to himself, "Thus do men cry and
clamor whenever an opinion is wrecked or a doctrine dislodged. A new
light is always at hand, though sometimes unseen to them; but they
dread eternal night, because they do not know that light is
indestructible."
When the darkness had fairly set in, he stood still for a moment, but
immediately resumed his march, saying, "On, on! never turn back." He
turned into another road, to avoid his home. He thought of his mother's
grief; but he would write to her from Strasbourg, whither he had
resolved to go. He meant to support himself by his instrument, or to
hire out as a farm-hand, until he should have laid up money enough to
go to America. His books were forgotten as if he had never seen them.
He thought no more of theological dogmas and systems. He seemed to have
been born again, and the remembrances of the past were like a dream.
Thus he walked on all night without resting; and, when at the first
dawn of morning he found himself in a strange valley, he stood still,
and prayed fervently for God's assistance. He did not kneel; but his
soul lay prostrate before the Lord. As he walked on, he hummed a song
which he had often heard in childhood:--
"Now good-bye, beloved father,
Now good-bye: so fare ye well.
Would you once more seek to find me?
Climb the lofty hills behind me,
Look into this lowly dell,
Now good-bye: so fare ye well.
"Now good-bye, beloved mother,
Now good-bye: so fare ye well.
You who did with anguish bear me,
For the Church you did uprear me:
Let your blessing with me dwell.
Now good-bye: so fare ye well."
Sitting on a stone, Ivo reflected on his fate. He had gone away
recklessly: there was not a copper in his pocket, and nothing which
afforded even a hope of money except his bugle. He could hardly expect
to escape the necessity of asking the assistance of the charitable.
Even in the purest heart, and with the consciousness of perfect
rectitude, begging is a dismal prospect: he blushed scarlet at the
thought. Nor must we forget that he was the son of rich parents, and
could not but think of the plentiful supplies at home. He sang, with a
sad smile, a snatch of the old song,--
"The world's here and there,
But I haven't a share."
A drove of oxen came down the road, two brindles leading the way. Ivo
joined the drovers and asked where they were going. They were on the
way to a rich butcher in Strasbourg, and now on the direct road to
Freiburg. Ivo had gone round many miles, but was still on the right
road. He now asked the men to let him travel with them and help them,
and to pay his expenses: they looked at the strange man in black, with
the bugle under his arm, from head to foot, and whispered something to
each other.
"As for going to Algiers with the foreign legion, there's no use in
that at all," said one.
"Much better sit out your two or three years at home: they can't pull
your head off." The complacent smile with which this was said proved
conclusively that the speaker's personal experience vouched for its
correctness. It was clear that they took Ivo for a criminal,--a notion
which he did not venture to dissipate, as their pity was indispensable
to him. They said they could not make a bargain, but must refer him to
their employer, whom they expected to meet at Neustadt.
Ivo followed humbly in the train of the oxen: the graduate of the
penitentiary committed the sceptre into his hands, and he ruled over
the subject herd with mildness.
"Where did you get those brindles?" he asked.
"Ah," said the enemy of Algiers, "you can see what sort of a stable
they came from, can't you? They were bought from Buchmaier, at the
Hornberg fair."
Ivo ran up to the beasts, and recognised his favorite by the upturned
hair in the middle of the forehead. He almost feared that the fate of
the poor animal would be his own, and that death awaited him also; but
he could not and would not turn back.
But what was his astonishment when, on arriving at Neustadt, the
drovers saluted their employer, who was looking out of the window of
the inn, and he recognised him as Florian! He could not believe his
eyes, until Florian came up and welcomed the odd-looking drover with
shouts of laughter.
Ivo told his story, and Florian, striking the table, cried, "Hurrah for
you! Another bottle, waiter. I'll see you through, take my word for it.
But how do you expect to get to Strasbourg without a passport? Here,"
(slipping out of his blue smock,) "put that on: that will make them all
take you for a Strasbourg butcher. And," added he, laughingly taking up
the heavy belt filled with money which lay before him, "carry that on
your shoulder, and you'll be as good as one of us in earnest."
Ivo was well satisfied, and, after a hearty meal, he travelled on with
Florian in good spirits. Florian was rejoiced to find such an
opportunity of vaunting his prosperous circumstances, and of playing a
trick on the Nordstetters: besides, he was really delighted to be of
use to Ivo.
The day was hot. On the top of the Hell-Scramble they stopped for
dinner. To escape Florian's unceasing invitations to help himself from
the bottle, Ivo went into the adjoining smithy to chat with the
blacksmith, as he had been wont to do at home. Suddenly he called to
mind that this was the place and this the man with whom Nat had once
been concealed: he was on the point of asking about him, when the
blacksmith said to his boy, "There: take these two ploughshares over to
the Beste farmer."
"How far is that?" asked Ivo.
"A good mile."
"I'm going with you," said Ivo. Running into the tavern and telling
Florian that he would soon return and overtake him, he doffed his
butcher's smock and took his bugle under his arm.
As they walked down the wood-path, he heard the torrent roar and the
mills rattle; every tree seemed to stand between him and Nat. "Is the
Beste farmer a fine man?" he asked the boy.
"Oh, yes; a finer man than his brother who is dead."
"What's the Christian name of the one that's on the farm now?"
"I don't know: we always call him the Beste farmer: he's been in many
strange countries, as a serving-man and as a doctor."
Ivo fairly shouted with joy.
"Since when has he been here?" he asked, again.
"These two years. He worked for his brother a year, till he died: they
do say he did it, for he's half a wizard: he wanted to kill him many
years ago, and, as there were no children, the property came to him.
Otherwise, though, he's a very fine man."
It was painful to be told that his dear Nat was under the suspicion of
fratricide after all, as if to punish him for having once in his life
meditated the sin; but Ivo soon reflected that such could only be the
gossip of envious tongues and of old women.
[Illustration: The saw-mill.]
They passed the saw-mill where Nat had spent so large a portion of his
youth. Ivo was particularly pleased to see a fine walnut-tree flourishing
in front of it, under the protection of the overtopping hill-side.
They ascended the hill on the other side. Ivo knew that a mile among
neighboring farmers is of an elastic character; but he had not expected
to find the distance greater than four miles,--as he did. Being very
impatient, he relieved the boy of the heavy ploughshares, to enable the
latter to keep up with him. The pitchy scent of the sun-stricken firs
recalled the memory of home: he saw himself again seated on the harrow
with Nat, in the field in the Violet Valley, singing and rejoicing.
The associations of childhood danced around him. Having reached the
"Wind-Corner," Ivo saw the well-known little cabin, from the window of
which a pale female face was looking. It was Lizzie of the Corner,
returned to her former solitude.
"How strange," thought Ivo, "that the Church should venture to prohibit
what the Bible expressly enjoins! According to the Old Testament, the
brother of a decedent was required to marry the childless widow; and
this the canonical law expressly forbids. Nat and Lizzie could never
marry." With a brush of his hand Ivo banished from his mind all
remembrances of theological difficulties.
In the neighborhood of the great farm-house the roads were in fine
condition. The stately building did not appear until they were almost
at the door. Ivo saw Nat raking hay, while several farm-hands were at
work around him. He did not run toward him, but set his bugle to his
lips and played the tune of the old song,--
"Up yonder, up yonder,
At the heavenly gate,
A poor soul is standing
In sorrowful strait."
Then he cried "Nat," and they were in each other's arms.
* * * * *
After long pathless wanderings, our story has reached a smooth highway
which will bear it rapidly to its close. Ivo remained with Nat, who
treated him like a brother. As one of the richest farmers in the
country, he could do much for him without feeling a sacrifice. He went
to Nordstetten as his proxy, and brought Emmerence, with whom, on a
bright, happy day, Ivo was united.
All the villagers, and even his parents, were reconciled to his change
of pursuits. It is strange how easily people are satisfied with their
friends the moment they pay their own expenses.
Nat presented Ivo with the saw-mill, where he now worked to his heart's
content, in company with his Emmerence. Often of an evening he sits
under the walnut-tree and plays his bugle, which fills the valley with
its melody. Far around, at the isolated farm-houses, the boys and girls
stand in the moonshine listening to the plaintive tones. Emmerence once
drew Ivo's attention to this; and he said, "You see, music is an emblem
of human life as it should be. I play for our own satisfaction; and yet
if I know that the sounds gladden the hearts of other men also, I am
still better pleased, and play with more life and spirit. Let every man
attend to his own business well, and he will help others too, and make
them happy. I am not disinterested enough to be satisfied with playing
tunes for other people to dance by. I like to dance myself."
"Yes," said Emmerence: "you are a learned man, and yet I understand
you. When the boys used to sing while gathering fir-nuts in the Neckar
valley, I always thought, 'Well, they sing for themselves; and yet it
makes me happy to hear them too, and every one who has ears;' and so do
the birds sing for themselves, and yet we are delighted; and if every
one sings his part well in church it all chords well together, and is
beautiful."
Ivo embraced his Emmerence with transport.
"If only winter never came here," she said; "for it is rather
solitary."
"Well, in winter you must come and live with me," said the well-known
voice of Nat.
FLORIAN AND CRESCENCE.
1.
THE GIRLS AT THE WELL.
[Illustration: The Red Tailor.]
On Saturday afternoon the house of the Red Tailor was alive with
singing. Doors were opened and closed with a bang, windows thrown up,
chairs and tables moved here and there, and the broom rattled among the
lifeless bones; but over all was heard a rich, full, female voice,
travelling up and down stairs, into rooms and out of passages. Song
followed hard upon song, grave and gay meeting with equal favor. At
last the singer was forthcoming,--a girl of stout proportions but the
utmost symmetry of form. A jacket of knitted gray yarn set off the
swelling outlines to the best advantage: one corner of the apron was
tucked up and left the other hanging jauntily. With the milking-pail in
her hand, she went to the stable. The words of the songs were now more
distinctly audible. One of them ran thus:--
"I climb'd up the cherry-tree;
For cherries I don't care.
I thought I might my true love see:
My true love wasn't there.
"It isn't long since the rain came down,
And all the trees are wet;
I had a true love all my own:
I wish I had him yet.
"But he has gone abroad, abroad,
To see what luck would do;
And I have found another love:
He's a good fellow, too."
With a water-bucket under her arm, she made her appearance again,
locked the door of the house, and concealed the key under a stack of
kindling-wood. The well before the town-hall was empty and locked up;
the upper well, also under lock and key, was only opened by Soges every
morning and evening, and water distributed to each family in proportion
to the number of its inmates. This scarcity of water is a great evil,
particularly in the heat of summer. On the way our heroine was stopped
by Anselm the Jew's Betsy, who cried,--
"Wait, Crescence: I'll go with you."
"Hurry up, then. When is your intended coming back?" returned
Crescence.
"At our Pentecost,--this day fortnight."
"When is it to be?"
"Some time after the Feast of Tabernacles. You must dance with us all
day, mind. We'll have one more good time of it: we've always been good
friends, haven't we?"
"Betsy, you ought to have married Seligmann and stayed here. A bird in
the hand's worth two in the bush. Going all the way to Alsace! How do
you know what's to become of you after you get there?"
"Why, how you talk!" replied Betsy. "With my four hundred florins, how
am I to choose? And over there it counts for almost a thousand francs;
and that's more like. Are you going to live in the village always? When
your geometer gets an appointment, won't you have to go with him? Oh,
did I tell you?--my intended went with Florian to the Schramberg market
the other day from Strasbourg. Florian had I don't know how many--at
least three hundred--ducats in his girdle, to buy beeves with. He
carries himself like a prince, and his master trusts him with all his
property. And they do say he's going to give him his daughter."
"I wish him much happiness."
"Now, you needn't make believe you didn't like Florian's little finger
better than the whole geometer."
"What if I did? He's got nothing, and I've got nothing; and 'twice
nothing is nothing at all,' says George the blacksmith."
The two girls had reached the well, where many of their companions were
already awaiting the arrival of the officer of Government.
"Have you heard, Crescence?" cried Christian's Dolly--"Florian's come
back an hour ago: you've got a full team to drive now."
"You preach to your grandmother," retorted Crescence: "such a beanpole
as you may open every shutter of her windows and '11 never catch a
gudgeon."
"That's it," said a girl with forward air and manners, who bore the
ominous designation of "Corpse Kitty," because she fitted the shrouds.
Passing her hand over her mouth, she went on:--"Give her her change,
Crescence: we know it's all cash-down where you come from." She
accompanied the words with a significant gesture.
"Oh, you're nervous because nobody will lend you any thing," replied
the assailed one. "You're a sweet one, Dolly, to set _her_ a-going."
"Well, what did you fly at Dolly that way for?" said Melchior's Lenore:
"she didn't mean any harm by it. Can't you take a little fun?"
"Has Florian really come home?" asked Crescence, softly.
"Of course he has," cried Corpse Kitty, aloud. "Just look out, you
hemp-toad: you'll find you've 'most done carrying your head as high as
a sleigh-horse: Florian will take the geometer's bearings before you
know what's what."
Soges now appeared as another Moses to open the well for the daughters
of Jethro: he did not seem to woo any of them, however, for he was not
by any means in a bland or amiable frame of mind.
"Give Crescence the cream of the water: she's got to have the
geometer's standees washed to-night," cried Kitty.
"Let her talk," said Lenore: "you can't worry her more than by not
listening to her. She's just like the dogs: they bark at you, and if
you walk on quietly they run home again and bark at the next person
that comes along the road. She's after making everybody out as bad as
she is herself, if she can. But you must be on the look-out about
Florian now, or you'll get into trouble."
"Yes," said another girl: "he's brought lots of money with him, and the
first thing he did was to give his father a gold ducat. The money must
'a' looked scared when it got into that room. The old fellow's so poor
that the mice all ran away from him."
"Florian can dress and undress himself five times over and not take all
the fine clothes out of his chest," said a third.
"And he speaks French 'most all the time."
"And he has a watch, with a chain, and all the tools of his trade hung
to it in silver for charms."
"And he's got a black mustache you can hardly help kissing."
A dispute interrupted this torrent of items.
"What're you pushing me so for?" said Corpse Kitty to Kilian's Annie:
"I'm not a rich chap."
"Hold your jaw, you!--you've been to the House of Correction twice
already, and the third time's written on your forehead now."
"I'll mark your forehead," screeched Kitty, striking at Annie with her
bucket; but she parried the blow, and struck another. A fierce struggle
ensued: the buckets were dropped, and the combatants "clinched" hand to
hand. After looking on passively a while, the others interfered, Soges
particularly dealing official blows to the right and left with great
vigor and impartiality. Like two fighting-cocks torn asunder, the
hostile parties looked daggers at each other as they picked up their
buckets. Annie brushed her hair out of her face, crying bitterly, and
complaining that nobody was safe, nor ever would be, until Corpse Kitty
was in the House of Correction for life.
Crescence's turn having come at last, she carried the heavy bucket home
on her head and a still heavier load in her heart. Tears were rolling
down her cheeks; but she pretended that they were drops from the
bucket, and always wiped the lower rim of it with her apron. There was
confusion in her heart now, and she foresaw still greater troubles in
the future.
Having returned home, she went through with her work, but without
singing another note.
Lest our readers should be at a loss to divine what a titled personage
like a geometer should be doing in the village, it is proper to remind
them that the general survey of the country took place about this time.
Every nook and corner of the land was mapped, labelled, and numbered;
and in the course of the operation a new element was infused into the
life of the people. A race of "city fellows," belonging neither to the
order of parsons nor to that of schoolmasters, made their way into the
village: they were generally young, smart, and fond of enjoyment; and
the importance they soon acquired among the female portion of the
community has already become apparent.
These gentlemen received the sounding title of "geometers." A surveyor
was a plain surveyor; and as these people, for some reason or other,
were to appear to the peasantry in the light of a superior rank of
beings, and, as it was important to disseminate a knowledge of and
taste for the classics, they received the Greek addition. Crescence's
playmate had married a geometer-general (should he not have been called
a hypergeometer?) and lived at Biberach: this had made Crescence
acquainted with one of his colleagues, and her parents were most
anxious to push matters, for a better "providence" could not have been
hoped for. The Red Tailor in his mind's eye already saw his daughter as
Madame Geometrix-General.
2.
FLYING OFF THE HANDLE.
It was dark. Crescence stood by the fire in the kitchen: the College
Chap came in with very audible steps, and said,--
"Crescence, how are you? I want a pound of that tobacco. Have you got
any left?"
"Yes, walk in: my mother 'll wait on you."
"I won't poison your soup if I do stay here a bit," he said aloud: then
he continued, very softly, "Florian's got home. Come out a little after
a while, and you shall hear us."
Without waiting for an answer, he went into the room. When he came out
again, Crescence was gone.
A little later the voices of the three comrades were heard before the
Red Tailor's house, singing, whistling, and laughing. Florian's, which
had long been wanting, was doubly clear and full. Finding all their
efforts unavailing, Peter cried under the window,--
"Crescence, isn't this your goose running about here?"
The College Chap, crouching behind the wood-pile, was cackling with the
accent of a native.
The window was opened; but, instead of Crescence, the tailor's wife
looked out, and said,--
"Crack your jokes before somebody else's house."
With a roar of laughter the College Chap returned to the middle of the
road.
Within, Crescence sat with the geometer, paying but little heed to his
blandishments: at last she feigned a headache and went to bed.
Tired of their fruitless watch, the three boys in the road bent their
steps toward the inn. They had not gone far before they encountered
Josey, the French simpleton. The College Chap cried, seizing him by the
collar,--
"_Qui vive? la bourse on la vie?_"
"_Paridadoin mullien_," calmly replied the person addressed, meaning to
say, "What do you want?"
"Here's a jolly lark!" cried the student, triumphantly. "Let's take
Josey with us and make him do the geometer. Come; we'll treat you to a
mug of beer."
"_Moin paroula goin_," answered Josey,--as if to say, "I've no
objections." His words were all formed by accident; and he eked them
out with nods and grins. Originally Josey was not more than half a
simpleton; but the half which Nature had denied had been carefully
educated into him by the wags of the village. If any villager has a
mole in his disposition, he may be assured that his townsmen will
stretch it into a mountain for their common behoof and education.
Nobody knew, or cared to know, what had given Josey the notion that he
was master of all the living tongues. Some contended that he had been
dry-nurse so long as to have acquired the baby-lingo by incessant
practice. Be that as it may, it was impossible to address him in any
real or imaginary language without receiving an instantaneous reply.
This apart, he was as good a field-hand as many others; and, whether he
understood the language of the beasts or not, they understood him and
did his bidding. In church Josey was the only member of the
congregation who nodded at every word of the Latin mass, to imply that
he understood it to perfection.
This individual was for this evening the fourth member of the usually
so exclusive confederacy of three.
"_Bon soir_," said Florian, as they entered the bar-room. He received a
kindly welcome at all hands. The assembled guests scanned him from head
to foot, and nodded to each other with looks that seemed to say, "A
fine fellow, Florian; yes, if you want to come home you must go abroad
first."
One who sat behind the stove said to his neighbor, "This is a better
way to come back than that thief Schlunkel's: he's been twice to the
penitentiary, and has just come back. I wish we were rid of him again."
Florian ordered a bottle of wine for himself and his comrades, while
Josey was regaled with a mug of beer at an adjoining table.
When Babbett brought the refreshments, he remarked, in an
under-tone, but yet loud enough to be heard by all, "_Comme elle est
jolie!_--_bien jolie!_"
"_Qui?_" returned the College Chap. The company nudged each other,--to
think they could talk French so well together.
Florian treated the whole company,--to their great satisfaction, for,
though frequenters of the tavern, they sat there as dry customers: the
stimulus made their hearts glad, and the sensation was reflected upon
the spirits of Florian. He seemed to have expended his stock of French;
for "Snuff the _chandelle_" is not pure Parisian.
The point of the joke was lost, nevertheless; for the geometer, who put
up at the Eagle, was not there.
"Are you going to stay with us, Florian?" asked Babbett.
"_Nous verrons_: we shall see."
"Tell us something of your travels," said Caspar, the host, who felt it
incumbent on him to promote the conversation. "Have you been to Paris?"
"Of course," answered Florian, in a tone of voice in which a shrewd
observer would have detected the ring of false metal; "but I didn't
like it there. Nancy's the finest place yet. Go into a tavern there,
and the walls are all looking-glasses, the tables are marble, and you
eat and drink out of nothing but silver. You ought to go there once:
you'd open your eyes and ears."
These signs of absorbing attention now showed themselves in Florian's
own features; for the geometer, with his two colleagues, entered the
room. They passed through to the little back parlor, where a table was
set for them.
Florian seized his glass, made it clink against those of his friends,
and said, "_A votre santé._"
Caspar had lost his interest in Florian's narration, and hastened to
meet the new-comers and light them to their supportable, which was set
in the back room. Florian, twirling his mustache, asked Constantine,
very softly, "Which is it?"
"The lobsided one, with long hair, that came in first."
For a time all were silent, and nothing was heard but the clatter of
knives and forks behind the screen.
But suddenly Constantine began to sing:--
"Oh, man of geometry,
Pull up your pegs:
How can you see straight with such
Shocking round legs?"
A burst of laughter filled the room, instantly succeeded by another
silence. The knives and forks behind the screen were breathless also.
Florian got up and said to Josey, "_Comment vous portez-vous, Monsieur
Géomètre?_"
"_Quadulta loing_," replied Josey, who continued to talk gibberish,
amid renewed peals of laughter.
"'Wish you joy of your berth," said Constantine, taking the mop from
the slop-bucket. "Here: just survey this table for me: you can do it
very well, you know, for there's no need of brains."
Amid constant and increasing merriment, Josey entered upon his labors,
and proceeded until Babbett came up, saying,--
"Have done with this, now, and crack your jokes somewhere else. Be
quiet, Josey, or go about your business."
Josey struck the table and jabbered grimly. The screen was suddenly
pushed aside, and Steinhaeuser, the admirer of Crescence, appeared,
restrained by his two comrades from assaulting the mocker. Caspar tried
to pacify him, and, as soon as he had partially succeeded, he stepped
up to the three, and said, with more decision than might have been
expected,--
"I'll tell you what: this sort of thing can't be done on my premises;
and the sooner you know it the better. Drink your wine quietly, or I'll
show you what's outside of the door. I won't have my guests insulted
while I'm master of this house. No offence to one; but I will have
order."
"_Juste_," said Florian: "all right: I'll find the gentleman somewhere
else in good time. You hear, you lobsided lout over there? If I catch
you within half a mile of Crescence again, I'll knock your crooked legs
into a cocked hat, and then you may toddle on your tripod."
"You ragamuffin!" roared Steinhaeuser, before whom Caspar had posted
himself. Florian made for him with a "Comapulation smash! _foudre de
Dieu!_" but Caspar hauled him back, and Constantine was shrewd enough
to interfere as a peacemaker.
The three left the house, followed by Josey. On the road they vowed
never to patronize the Eagle again. Florian made an effort to go back,
however: he hadn't given the landlord all his change.
[Illustration: Constantine was shrewd enough to interfere as a
peacemaker.]
"Thunder an' ouns!" said Constantine, "stay here, I tell you. You're
the best man for flying off the handle in Wurtemberg. Be quiet, now:
we'll manage to lay the geometer out some time, and make him forget the
resurrection of the legs."
This counsel prevailed; and, to compensate themselves for their
enforced inaction, they travelled through the village, the College Chap
howling like a whipped dog, and making, as he expressed it, all the
dogs in the houses rebellious.
3.
WEEKDAY LIFE ON SUNDAY.
Next day Crescence did not dress in her Sunday clothes to go to church,
but complained of being unwell, and remained at home.
The tailor, when he came home from church and saw his daughter in
dishabille, said,--
"What's that? Be quiet, I tell you, once and for all," he continued,
seeing Crescence about to speak. "You don't feel very well, because
Florian's come back, and you don't want to be seen in the street. I've
heard all about the fuss he had with the geometer last night. Now, just
for spite, you must go to the Horb Garden to-day with the geometer.
That's what I tell you: and one word's as good as a thousand."
"I'm sick."
"No use. Go up-stairs and dress yourself, or I'll measure your clothes
with this yardstick."
"Let him talk," said the tailor's wife, who had entered by this time:
"what he says is for the mice to dance by. Crescence, if you don't feel
well, stay at home. If it depended on him, you wouldn't have a shred of
clothes to put on, good or bad: all he can do is to put his feet under
the table three times a day and get himself fed like a billet of
soldiers."
The tailor advanced upon Crescence; but his wife posted herself in
front of her, clenched her fists, and scared her liege-lord into a
corner.
These people were fresh from church, where they had prayed and sung of
love, peace, and happiness. Their hymn-books were still in their hands,
and already had Discord resumed its reign.
Indeed, we have stumbled upon a peculiar household. The mother had been
the parson's cook, and had married the tailor rather suddenly.
Crescence was her oldest child, and she had, besides, a son and a
daughter. She still wore citizen's dress, with the sole exception of
the black cap of the peasant-woman, which, from its superiority in
cheapness to the lace caps of the votaries of Paris, seems destined to
survive all other traces of the peculiar costume of the peasantry.
During the early part of their wedded life they lived together very
harmoniously; for where there is plenty of all things needful none but
the most quarrelsome contract habits of dispute. Such a state of things
is entitled, among the refined as well as among the vulgar, a happy
match!
The tailor worked at his trade, and his wife kept a little shop for the
sale of groceries and odds and ends.
But what is more subject to the fashions than those kings of fashion,
the tailors? Balt only worked for the gentlefolks and for the Jews, who
also wore citizens' dress: make peasants' clothes he could not,--and
would not, for he had been to Berlin. New competitors established
themselves in the village and in the neighborhood, and Balt would run
about for days without finding work.
This induced him to enter upon a speculation, in which we find him
still engaged. He went to Stuttgard in company with Anselm Meyer,
Betsy's father, and bought old clothes to make new ones of. He
particularly affected the old scarlet swallow-tail coats of the court
footmen, in procuring which Anselm was of great assistance to him, as
he had made acquaintances in high places in the times when all things
wanted for the court were obtained on the contract-system. These
liveries were cut up into red waistcoats for the peasants, such as are
worn in the Black Forest to this day. They also purchased the old
uniforms of the officers, and transformed the red lining of the
warrior's habiliments into vestments for the peaceful shepherd. It was
said, however, that Anselm managed to monopolize the lion's share of
the profits, besides securing an additional commission at the hands of
the illustrious venders.
From the time that Balt went out of fashion and the fortunes of the
house began to ebb, the couple ceased the practice of ever exchanging a
word of good feeling. Balt was scarcely permitted to hold a spoon in
his hand long enough to eat his dinner. He could hardly call his soul
his own; and, though nominally the master-tailor, he had not the power
to cut a piece of bacon to his liking of a Sunday. Wherever he was, he
was in his wife's way: she was absolute mistress, for she went on a
trip every fall, and after her return the establishment always showed
symptoms of a good supply of funds.
The children clung to the mother, of course, for not only had Balt
fallen from his high estate, but he was not much at home. He hardly
showed himself, except to eat and sleep. The former was well salted
with pithy conversation, and the latter soothed with a well-ordered
lecture.
Crescence now looked contemptuously at her father. The geometer
entered, and at once the father and mother ran over with the milk of
human kindness and loved each other tenderly. Crescence alone looked
sad, and her lips trembled.
"Hurry, Crescence, and get dressed," said her mother. "Mr. Geometer,
will you take dinner with us to-day? Do, please. It's nothing much,
to-be-sure,--sourcrout, dumplings, and ham; but you'll like it for all
that: Crescence did the cooking." A shrill giggle accompanied almost
every word, the effect of which was further enhanced by a way the good
lady had of twitching her nose as she spoke.
Balt exerted all his eloquence, and almost resorted to "gentle
compulsion," to induce the geometer to stay. He took his hat out of his
hand and refused to return it, well knowing that if the geometer stayed
there would not only be a peaceful dinner, but perhaps also a quart of
beer. This hope was realized. Cordele, the youngest daughter, was sent
to the Eagle, and returned with a bottle under her apron,--a
concealment not owing to any scruple of public opinion on the subject
of temperance, but to that desire to make a secret of every thing which
arises in every village as a foil to the habitual endeavor of everybody
to know every thing about everybody else's business.
Crescence, finely dressed, but with eyes inflamed with weeping, brought
the dinner. To guard against inquiries, she complained of smoke in the
kitchen. Thus the dinner was richly spiced with falsehood. Before the
geometer had half cleared his plate the worthy hostess put another
piece upon it. He thanked her heartily for this hospitality, not
perceiving that the good lady had only removed the savory morsel to
snatch it away from her lord and master, who had honored it with his
preference. From a similar motive, she took such excellent care to keep
the guest's glass replenished that very little of the beverage came to
the tailor's lips. The conversation was carried on by the lady of the
house and the geometer exclusively. When the latter narrated the
insolence of Florian, Crescence blushed, but found an excuse for
leaving the table.
After dinner Balt said, "Now, wife, get in a cup of coffee."
"None for me, I thank you," said the geometer.
The tailor's wife was not so ill-mannered as to press the refreshment
upon her guest against his will, for she grudged her husband his share
of it. She afterward boiled a cup for herself, and toasted a biscuit to
eat with it.
When the afternoon church was over, Crescence could not avoid taking a
walk with the geometer; but she managed to keep clear of the street and
go along the back fences of the gardens. When they approached George's
ninepin-alley, she started with fright on seeing Florian standing there
in his shirt-sleeves with his back to the road. Throwing a piece of
money on the ground, he said, "'Bet you six creutzers I'll make five."
Under the pretext of having forgotten something, Crescence turned round
quickly, and the geometer had nothing to do but to follow her. On
arriving at home, they surprised her mother at her private cup of
coffee,--which was unpleasant. They now took the street of the village.
Florian had no other design on this Sunday than to attract attention,
in which he succeeded brilliantly. Everybody spoke of him,--of his
black velvet roundabout with silver buttons, his free rifleman's vest
of red and black stripes, and his other glories. The people of a
village, as of a city, are grateful to any one who will furnish them
with a subject of conversation. The old butcher, Florian's father,
drank in the fame of his son from every mouth, and did his best to
keep it at the full. He was still rather a handsome man himself,
with a rubicund face and bright gray eyes. He walked about in his
shirt-sleeves and carried his handkerchief in the armpit of his
waistcoat,--which gave him an air of originality. Whenever he met any
one, he drew out his snuff-box and offered a pinch of "doppelmops,"
saying, "My Florian brought it with him: he's a fine fellow, a'n't he?
None like him for twenty miles around. His master would give him his
daughter in a minute, but the rapscallion won't have her. His master
makes more out of hoofs than three Horb butchers do out of beef: he
kills eight calves every day and two or three oxen besides. What would
you think," he would generally add, taking off his little frontless
cap, formed in the resemblance of a cabbage-leaf, and putting it on
again, "if I was to go to Strasbourg and marry the girl? If she must
have a tall man, why shouldn't the old one be as good as the young? I
won't back out for any one yet a while."
[Illustration: He stopped at the door of George the blacksmith.]
He stopped longest at the door of George the blacksmith,--a childless
old man of more than eighty years of age,--who was always sitting
before his house at the roadside and hearing the news from all who
passed by. Old George and old Maurita of the Bridge were the two
persons through whom a piece of news could be brought to the cognizance
of every soul in the village. George repeated every thing, good or bad,
to tease others and to show them that he knew every thing; Maurita told
the good news to impart her gladness, and the sad ones to obtain
sharers in her regret. George the blacksmith was the largest purchaser
of the old butcher's vaunts.
Thus the Sunday passed; and, when Crescence returned with the geometer,
long after dark, she thanked her stars that the dreaded fracas had not
occurred.
4.
HOW FLORIAN AND CRESCENCE MET AGAIN FOR THE FIRST TIME.
Crescence rose an hour before daybreak next morning, fed the cattle,
and attended quietly to the house-affairs. Once she looked up with pain
when it occurred to her that she had not hummed a single tune. She went
into the field.
[Illustration: Crescence with a bundle of fresh clover on her head.]
With a bundle of fresh clover on her head, she came up the valley on
her return, looking beautiful, as the healthful exercise brought out
her fine form in all its strength and pliancy. With her right hand she
held the bundle, and with her left the rake, which lay on her shoulder
and also served to steady the load. She walked with leisurely and
measured pace, the red blossoms blinking into her rosy face. Not far
from Jacob's crucifix, the voice of Florian, who said, "God bless you,
Crescence!" rooted her to the earth.
"Come," said Florian, again; "I'll carry it for you."
"For pity's sake, don't make me stop here, Florian, when all the people
are looking at us. You see I can't help myself now, and can't run away,
but I'll never speak a word to you again as long as I live if you don't
go away. Come to Melchior's Lenore to-night before curfew, and I'll
tell you every thing."
"Shake hands, won't you?"
Laying her left arm across the rake, Crescence took his hand, saying,
"Good-bye till to-night."
All at once, in resuming her steps, Crescence perceived what a heavy
load she had to carry: she groaned as if Firnut Pete had clambered on
her shoulders in broad daylight. Having reached the crucifix, she
deposited the burden on the high stone erected there for that purpose.
This silent assistant is always found beside the symbol of faith. At
the feet of Him who laid the heaviest burden on himself to make men
free and brotherly, men take off a while the load of the day, to gather
strength for further toil.
Crescence looked intently at the crucifix, but without thinking of what
she did; for her mind was occupied with dread of Florian's following
her. She determined not to turn round to look at him, and did turn,
nevertheless; while a glow of pleasure lighted her face as she saw the
brisk young fellow striding across the field.
All that day Crescence was serious and taciturn. Before dark, she took
a collar, to get Walpurgia to wash it, as she said; but, instead of
going to Walpurgia, she hurried to Lenore's house. The latter came to
meet her, saying,--
"Go through the barn: you'll find him in the garden."
"Come with me," said Crescence.
"I'm coming directly: just you go first."
[Illustration: Crescence saw Florian sitting on a log.]
As she entered the garden, Crescence saw Florian sitting on a log,
stooping greatly, and digging into the wood with a knife which looked
somewhat like a stiletto. His long chestnut hair nearly covered his
forehead.
"Florian, what are you doing?" asked Crescence.
He threw the knife aside, shook his hair out of his face threw his arms
around Crescence, and kissed her. She offered no resistance, but at
length said,--
"There! that's enough now: you are just the same you always were."
"Yes; but you're not what you used to be."
"Not a bit changed. You are cross because I go with the geometer, a'n't
you? Well, you know you and I could never have got married. My folks
won't let me go to service; and stay with them I don't want to, either,
until my hair turns gray."
"If that's the way, and you like the geometer, I've nothing more to
say: you might have told me that this morning. I remember a time when
the king might have come,--and he owns the whole country, which is more
than helping to measure it,--and you'd have said, 'No, thank you: I
like my Florian better, even if he have nothing but the clothes on his
back.'"
"Why, how you talk! What's the use of all that when we never can get
married?"
"Oh, yes: there's the Red Tailor's daughter all over. If I'd only never
cast eyes on you again! If I'd only broken both my legs before they
ever carried me back home!"
"Oh, don't be so solemn, now! You'll look kindly at me yet, and laugh
with me a little when you meet me, won't you?"
She gave him a look of playful tenderness, and smiled,--though she was
more disposed to weep. Florian, picking up his knife and putting it in
his pocket, made a move to go, when Crescence seized his hand and
said,--
"Don't be angry with me, Florian: talk to me, dear. Don't you see? I
haven't married the geometer yet, but cut him I can't now: my folks
would throttle me in my sleep if I was to turn him off. Nothing can
come of it for two or three years, anyhow; and who knows what may
happen in that time? Perhaps I shall die. I wish I would, I'm sure."
Her voice was choked.
Florian's manner suddenly changed. The languor so unusual in him was
gone: their eyes met, and held each other beaming with joy.
"You see," he began, "as I sat there waiting, I felt as if somebody had
broken all my bones. I was thinking how unlucky we are, and again and
again I was tempted to stab myself with this knife. If some one had
come under my hands, I don't know---- And I don't want to go away,
either; and I must stay here; and I must have you."
"Yes; I wish you had; but we can't live on the old Emperor's exchequer.
I know somebody who could help us, and _I_ could make him."
"Never tell me about him: he's nothing to you, and shall be nothing. I
won't have it: you are your father's child, and if anybody says any
thing else I'll stick him like an eight-day calf. My father has half
emptied my pockets already, but I've got some money yet: I mean to stay
here a while and work under my father's right as a master-butcher. I
want to show these Nordstetters what Florian can do: they shall have
respect for me, they shall."
"You're a fine fellow," said Crescence. "Haven't you brought me any
thing?"
"Yes, I have. Here."
Taking from his pocket a broad ring of silver, and a flaming heart in
colors, with a motto in it, he handed them to Crescence.
After the first expressions of delight, she offered to read the motto;
but Florian stopped her, saying, "You can do that after I am gone: now
let's have a talk."
"Yes; tell me something. Is it true that you are courting your master's
daughter in Strasbourg?"
"Not a bit of it. If I was, I wouldn't stay here; and stay I shall. All
the Nordstetters must say that the like of Florian's not to be seen
anywhere."
They remained long together. When Crescence returned home, she found
the geometer waiting for her, and was forced to receive him with
smiles. With a heavy heart she reached her chamber at last, and read
the motto on the flaming heart:--
"Better build my grave of stone
Than love and call you not my own."
Weeping, she laid the picture into her hymn-book. It was the old story
of what occurs in thousands of instances, in town and country, though
often the colors are more blended and the contrasts not so harsh.
Crescence loved Florian, and yet could not renounce the hope of a good
establishment, such as she might expect to receive at the hands of the
geometer: love drew her in one direction, interest in another. It would
be strange if such discords did not lead to misery.
5.
FLORIAN DROPS A BUTTON OR TWO.
Florian remained in the village, and slaughtered first one heifer and
then another. Though at first things looked prosperous, the run of good
luck soon came to an end. The old butcher went around hawking out the
meat which had not been sold at the shambles; but he generally spent
not only the profit, but the cost besides. The competition of the
Jewish butchers was not to be overcome even by Florian's superior
skill; for the Jews can undersell Christians in the hindquarters of
beef, because an opportune provision of the Bible forbids them to eat
any thing but the fore-quarters. Moreover, it is almost impossible in a
German village to support a household on mechanical labor alone,
without some resort to agriculture. Florian had no opportunity, and
still less inclination, to till the soil. He preferred to go into
partnership with a Jewish butcher for a time; but this was also of
short duration.
His next resource was to assist the Strasbourg butchers in purchasing
oxen. This helped him to some good commissions, and enabled him to make
his father the happiest of men. The old gentleman was restored to his
favorite occupation of guessing at the weight of oxen. It quite made
him young again. Florian was the leading young man in the village.
Unfortunately, he made the squire his enemy. The latter, wishing to
sell his oxen to some dealers passing through the village, invited
Florian to come to his house. "They weigh fourteen hundred, and over,"
he asseverated. "What they weigh over eleven," said Florian, "I'll eat
raw." This was foolish; for from that day the squire hated him
cordially.
Florian cared but little for this, however: he played the fine
gentleman every Sunday, played longest at ninepins, and was a fast man
generally.
It is strange how soon the glory of the stranger in a village is
consumed. The honor acquired merely by presenting an unusual appearance
ceases the moment all eyes have become accustomed to it: the rainbow
would be forgotten if it were always in the sky. Thus, Florian soon
sunk into oblivion; and it required a special occurrence to attract
attention to him again.
One evening he was standing, with his comrades, near the Eagle, while
the squire sat on a bench before the house, talking to the geometer.
Florian perceived that they were looking at him: he saw the squire pass
his hand over his upper lip, while the geometer laughed immoderately
and said something which sounded like "Samson." Florian did not
understand what it all meant; but he was soon to have an explanation.
He received a summons next day to appear before the squire, who, as our
renders may remember, had formerly been a non-commissioned officer. He
now ordered Florian to "take the hair off his mouth," because he had
never been a soldier, and none but soldiers were allowed to wear
mustaches. Florian laughed at the squire, who took it in dudgeon;
Florian answered his vituperations, and was marched off to prison.
It is a dangerous thing to arrest a man who is innocent of crime: it
palls his feeling and his sense of moral responsibility for those
occasions in which these qualities are particularly tried.
When Florian came out he was compelled to obey the cruel behest. With
an indescribable mixture of wrath and humiliation he stood before the
looking-glass, compressing his naked lips and gnashing his teeth. A
dreadful vow was formed in his heart. Nothing was talked of in the
village but the loss of Florian's mustache; and, now that it was gone,
all united in singing its praises. Florian felt as if his skin had been
peeled off. Of course, when he appeared in the street, every passer-by
regaled him with an expression of condolence. But ambition had already
perverted him to such an extent that he fairly enjoyed even this sort
of notoriety. To be thought about was the first thing; _what_ people
thought of him was only the second. He was never seen near the tailor's
house in the daytime; and when he met Crescence in the evening, and she
laughed at him, he swore to make the geometer pay him for every hair.
She tried to pacify him; and he was silent.
Very soon after, the geometer, in returning home from Horb one evening,
was waylaid by three men, who dragged him into the woods, and, with the
cry of "Wale him! he's from Ulm!" beat him so unmercifully that he
could scarcely walk home. One of them cried after him, as he went away,
"This was out of kindness; but if you show your face in the village a
week after this we'll try the other persuasion." The geometer thought
he recognised Florian's voice. He tried to institute a prosecution; but
the polities of the village were then in such a state of agitation that
no business of public import was properly attended to.
The shaving of Florian was the last official act of the noncommissioned
squire. The election came on, and Buchmaier received almost every vote.
Under his administration people were free from paltry vexations, and
Florian's mustache regained its pristine beauty.
In spite of the exertions of the Red Tailor and mine host of the Eagle,
the geometer transferred his head-quarters to Muehl.
Meantime Florian also had met with reverses. He appeared to have
quarrelled with the Strasbourgers, for he no longer acted as their
agent. The old butcher also was generally at home: he had found a new
source of revenue, which was very productive. On his travels as a
drover he had made the acquaintance of some smuggler in Baden, which at
that time had not acceded to the Zollverein. He sold coffee and sugar
free of duty, and made money by the operation. The Red Tailor found his
grocery-business ruined by the interference of the secret competitor;
and yet the quarrel existing between the parents on account of their
children made it necessary to keep up a continental system and rigid
prohibitory tariff. The tailor's wife, however, hit upon a fortunate
expedient: the house of Corpse Kitty became the neutral ground for
negotiations. Corpse Kitty bought the imported goods for the account of
the legitimate trade. Thus intrigues are at work between the great
powers even when to the uninitiated they appear to be at open war.
Almost every Sunday Crescence was compelled, with cruel maltreatment,
to go with her father and meet the geometer in Muehl or at the half-way
house in Eglesthal. She was then gay and sprightly against her will;
and, after she had carried on this hypocrisy long enough, the wine
would come to her aid and really elevate her spirits,--so that the
geometer always ended with thinking that she was still really fond of
him.
But in the evening she always contrived to meet Florian; and, when she
returned home, new maltreatment awaited her. Thus poor Crescence led a
wretched life,--though, fortunately for her, she was so much inured to
deceit and untruth that she was not aware of the full extent of its
depravity.
6.
FLORIAN IN CLOVER.
Florian tried to earn some money here and there, but rarely succeeded.
He would only work at his trade or at some other agreeable occupation.
Field-labor was beneath his dignity; and he would rather have starved
than break stone on the highroad,--the usual resource of men without
capital. Like many others, he would only work at what he liked,--a
principle upon which very few men indeed ever manage to prosper. But a
time came for him to obtain some funds and a plentiful supply of that
glory which he so much craved. The bel-wether dance was approaching,
and great preparations were being made for it. Mine host of the Eagle
had made his peace with Florian and his friends; for he understood his
position too well to keep up a feud with his neighbors in the quarrel
of a customer who had left. Florian now slaughtered for Caspar a heifer
and a hog. The latter ceremony was performed in the street, so that
everybody stopped to watch the active functionary, whom it was indeed a
pleasure to see in the labor of his trade. The muscles of his bare arms
were so strong and smooth that the life and death of the poor beasts
seemed indeed to lie in his hand. With three strokes upon the steel he
whetted his knife so sharp that he could cut a hair loose at one end.
But the greatest crowd of idlers always assembled when he began to chop
the sausage-meat. He handled his cleavers as lightly as a drummer his
sticks, whistling a waltz the meanwhile to keep himself in time. A
particular flourish consisted in throwing one of the cleavers into the
air while he chopped on uninterruptedly with the other, snapping the
fingers of the empty hand, catching the cleaver again, and chopping on
without getting out of the time. At this achievement all lifted up
their hands in astonishment.
The old butcher was present also, mainly to assist in consuming the
kettle-meat, fresh from the fire; after which the renown of his son
afforded an excellent dessert. He strolled to George the blacksmith's
door, and found him in deep lamentation. "All my subjects refuse to
obey me," he said. "They leave me sitting here all alone and run to
watch Florian. I'd give three creutzers if he'd come and do his killing
here."
"Yes," added the old butcher, rubbing his hands, "the court-butcher at
Stuttgard can't come up to my Florian. He once made a bet with
his friends in Strasbourg to get four calves and two hogs into
marketing-order without bringing a speck on his clothes; and he did it,
and his apron and his shirt were as white as the driven snow."
Florian now received so many orders that he found no rest by day or
night, and when the day of the bel-wether dance came he overslept the
morning service.
Crescence had promised the geometer an interview at Eglesthal; but
Florian easily succeeded in inducing her to break her word.
The close of the afternoon service was the signal of rejoicings
throughout the village. In the yard of the manor-house a number of
stakes were put up in a ring, with a rope around them. In the middle
stood a fine wether, decorated with a red ribbon, while a glittering
bowl of pewter was on a little table beside him. The band of musicians
headed the procession, followed by the boys and girls in couples, hand
in hand.
[Illustration: The boys and girls in couples, hand in hand.]
At the gate of the yard a clock had been fastened so that it could not
be seen. At the stroke of two the "free dance" began. A march was
played, and the couples walked around the rope in strict order. An
old-fashioned sabre had been stuck into one of the stakes; and whenever
a couple came up to it the man pulled it out and thrust it into the
next stake to which they came. When Florian and Crescence reached the
sword, the former balanced it on his teeth, and thus carried it in
safety to the next station. A general "Look a' there!" was his reward.
Corpse Kitty prophesied that he would win the wether. Thus they all
went round and round, laughing and talking. When Florian took the sword
for the second time, the clock suddenly struck three. A hurrah
resounded on all sides. The rope was torn away, and the wether, the
ribbon, and the bowl were brought to Florian. The girls came up, wished
Crescence joy, and wound the ribbon into her hair. "It's all right
now," said Melchior's Lenore: "you're bound to have each other before
the year's out." Crescence was weeping, however, for her father stood
before her, clenching his fist.
They now followed the band to the inn, where Florian and Crescence
opened the dance.
Buchmaier, the new squire, had revived an ancient custom. Instead of
ordering the beadle or a _gens d'armes_ to keep order during the
dance, he had summoned all the boys who had passed their eighteenth
year to meet on the preceding evening for the purpose of electing two
"dance-boys." Constantine, and Valentine the carpenter's son Xavier,
received the greatest number of votes: the winner of the wether was to
be the third, the squire only stipulating the right of nominating him
in case this good fortune should befall one of the two who had been
elected. Florian now entered upon this office, and was marked, like
his colleagues, with a white ribbon tied round his arm. These three
were made responsible for any disturbances; but no disturbance
occurred,--for people are always easily governed by rulers of their own
selection.
Crescence was overflowing with happiness, and forgot all about the
geometer. None--not even George--could dance like Florian: he clapped
his feet together at every bar of the music, so that all eyes were
directed to his glistening boots. Sometimes, in the middle of the
dance, he would cry, "Sing out!" Not his feet, but all his body and
soul, rose and sunk in accordance with the music: he was a dancer all
over. He would not stand still for an instant; and, when the musicians
stopped to rest a while, he said to the clarionet, "Make your old bones
rattle." "Pour something in to make it swell," was the answer. Florian
threw six creutzers on the table.
Late at night the "barber's dance" was executed, in which Florian
appeared in all his glory. A man was brought in, looking as white as
milk, with a hump before and behind, and bandaged from head to foot
with white sheets and kerchiefs. You would hardly have recognised the
College Chap. The band played the air of the song,--
"Oh, my! I feel so bad!
Bring me the barber's lad."
A chair was placed in the middle of the room, and the patient deposited
upon it. The expected man of simples came, hung round about with
knives, with a huge pinch nose, and a wig of tow. It was Florian who
thus entered, amid roars of laughter.
With comical gestures, he skipped around the patient, opened the
bandage on his arm, bled him, and finally stuck a knife into the hump
and left it there. The sick man fell dead, and a funeral-march was
played. The unlucky surgeon rushed around the room in an agony of
despair, pulled his wig out by handfuls, and threw them into the faces
of the company. The music died away. At last, laying his hand upon his
forehead, he collected his scattered wits, and cried, "Music!" Notes of
mourning responded. He knelt down beside the dead man, opened his
mouth, and drew out yards on yards of white tape, but without producing
any relief. Then, taking a quart-tumbler, he filled it to the brim with
wine, placed it on his forehead, and lay down on his back beside the
sick man, moving in time to the music. All held their breath in
expectation of a crash; but the feat was successfully performed. The
entire contents of the glass were now poured down the patient's throat.
He struck about him and threw off his disguise. Florian did the same:
the band struck up a gallop: the old squire's Babbett ran up and danced
with Constantine, Crescence and Florian followed suit, and all were
once more in motion. The fictitious misfortunes with which they had
amused themselves gave an additional zest to the return of pleasure.
Some hours later, when they were all seated at table, drinking and
singing, Florian favored the company with a new song which he had
picked up on his travels:--
"In Strasbourg on the rampart,
She loved me much indeed:
She always brought my breakfast
And a letter for to read.
"I always got the letter:
The breakfast never came:
And in it there was written,
'Winter has come again.'
"Winter has come, as usual;
The bosses are feeling good:
They say to the poor journeymen,
'Go out and split some wood.
"'And mind you make it small enough,
And make it not too small;
And you shall be my journeymen,
As you have been this fall.'
"And winter is past and over;
The jours are full of pluck:
They come to the boss's table
And tell him what's o'clock.
"'Come, boss; its time to settle:
Bring out your little bill:
You gave us beans this winter,
And we have had our fill.'
"'Oh, if the bread's not white enough,
I'll get another kind,
And if your bed's not soft enough----'"
At the lines which followed, sad to say, Crescence did not blush, nor
did any of the other girls; but all received the production with
unmingled merriment.
Who could doubt, after this, that Florian was the leading young man in
the village?
But when Crescence came home she had to expiate her glory with bitter
sufferings: her mother was sick, and her father, for the time-being,
reigned supreme. But she bore all without a murmur, knowing that
Florian would be hers; for hadn't they won the wether?
7.
DOWN HILL.
With the jollification the importance of Florian came to an end. He was
pushed into a corner, like a bass-fiddle in working-time: people went
about their business, and thought little of the fun-makers. Florian
alone had no business to go about: he hung around the taverns until he
ceased to be welcome even there.
In a village it is very difficult to keep up appearances on fictitious
capital. Baden had joined the "Zollverein," and the old butcher's
occupation was gone likewise. Nevertheless, Florian continued to walk
about, erect and proud, in the fine clothes he had purchased in his
best days. He was always neatly brushed; and, though his boots were
soleless, the upper leathers shone as heretofore.
"They can look at my clothes, but not into my stomach," was his motto.
The watch with the silver seals he wore on Sunday only, having received
this privilege when he left it with old Gudel.
The fair at Horb brought another holiday for half the village. At
daybreak the old butcher was seen standing at Jacob's Well, while all
the farmers who passed on the road with their cattle asked him what
they weighed. He was delighted with this occupation, for it made him
feel as if he could buy them all himself; and, besides, he hoped that
one or the other would invite him to go to town. In this he was
disappointed, however,--poor fellow! He had handled so much fine meat
in his time, and for two weeks he had been compelled to put up with a
vegetable diet! Finding all his trouble in vain, he sighed heavily,
wiped the sweat from his forehead, went home to get his stick and walk
over to the fair on speculation, to look out for something to turn up.
Florian ran distractedly up and down the village. He met Crescence, who
was going to the fair with her father, but ran past them without
stopping to talk: he had not a copper, in his pocket. Whenever he met a
young man, he meditated asking him for a loan, but would stop himself
with "Oh, he won't give me any thing," or, "He hasn't much to spare,
and then I'd only have the shame of it." Thus he suffered one and
another to pass by. "What should I go to market for? They're not
selling me out there, and there's a great many not going besides
myself; but then that is because they don't want to, and I don't go
because I can't." It now seemed to him as if a joy never to be replaced
would be lost if he remained at home: he must go: every thing depended
upon it. With a flushed face and flashing eyes, he walked along the
village, constantly talking to himself. "There lives Jack the
blacksmith. I treated him ever so often at the bel-wether dance; but he
won't give me any thing, for all that. There's Koch the carpenter: he's
been abroad like myself. I'll go to him: it's the first time I'm so
familiar with him; but it can't be helped."
He found Koch the carpenter untying a heifer from the crib, complaining
bitterly of hard times. He went away without mentioning the object of
his visit. The College Chap had left home already, and Florian made up
his mind to go to the Eagle and say that the College Chap had sent him
to ask for a loan of six dollars: he scorned to ask for a trifle. Mine
host of the Eagle answered, "I won't lend any thing to anybody: it only
sets the best of friends by the ears." "Just what I said myself," said
Florian, laughing bitterly, as he turned away.
With a feeling of utter desolation, he walked about, thinking, "Without
money a man's a stranger in his own house." Suffused with perspiration,
he ran up one street and down another: it seemed as if every minute
wasted was a loss not to be retrieved. He now bethought himself of the
aristocratic expedient of borrowing from a Jew. Like the noble lords
and ladies who first invented this practice, he had no reason to fear
the reproving looks of these people in his further extravagances and
vain-glory. "Jews' claims are no disgrace," he said to himself, and
applied to Mendle's son Meyer, who was going to market with a belt full
of money, for the loan of some ducats at a high rate of interest. The
offer was rejected.
At last it occurred to him to go straight to Horb and pretend that he
had lost or forgotten his money. Vexed with himself for not having
thought of this before, he set out immediately. He passed George the
blacksmith, sitting at his front door as usual, and in the best of
spirits,--for the marketers afforded him plenty of entertainment.
"Where bound so fast, Florian? You look as if you could buy the world
out."
Florian stared, and stood still. He forgot that it was George's
peculiar delight, when people passed with a heavy burden, a sack of
corn, or a bundle of clover, to hold them fast with questions. Many
were caught in this trap; and then the old gossip would rejoice that he
could sit there doing nothing while others toiled and struggled. He was
equally fond of laying hands on such as had heavy loads upon their
hearts; for it was just at such times that they were likely to be most
communicative. All this escaped Florian; and he inquired,--
"How do you know that?"
"Can't you tell by looking at a stocking when the leg's out of it? I
know all about it. Crescence went up just now, with her mother's
husband, going to market, too."
"Never fear."
"I know all about it. They say you're well tied up with her." Florian
smiled and passed on, glad to know that the truth was not suspected.
[Illustration: Florian saw Schlunkel sitting by the roadside.]
In the hollow Florian saw Schlunkel,--an outcast of a fellow, who had
been to the penitentiary twice, sitting by the roadside and counting
money. At another time he would not have honored such a wretch with a
look; but now he could not help addressing him with, "Shall I help you
count?" The fellow looked at him without answering.
Florian sat down beside him and at last asked him for a florin.
Schlunkel grinned, tightened the strings of his purse, passed his
finger across his mouth, and whistled. Florian held his arm
convulsively.
"You wouldn't take the money from _me_, would you?" asked Schlunkel.
"What do you want so much money for?"
"I want to buy something."
"Well, I'll go to Horb with you."
Florian would rather have perished on the spot than to have been seen
walking with Schlunkel in broad daylight. "Give me six creutzers," he
said: "I'll meet you in the 'Knight' in an hour, and pay you."
Schlunkel gave him the money, and Florian ran away with the speed of
lightning, often putting his hand into his pocket to make quite sure of
how much he had. He squeezed the four coins through his fingers one by
one, as if to make each one bring forth another. He went whistling
through the cattle-fair, to reach the fancy fair in the upper part of
the town.
8.
FLORIAN LOSES MONEY AND WINS CRESCENCE.
He was brought to a pause by the sight of a gaming-table. He passed on,
and inspected the tobacco-pipes in the next booth. Turning back, he
resolved merely to look at the others who were playing. One was
particularly fortunate with No. 8. Putting his hand in his pocket, he
set a three-creutzer piece on the same number, and lost it. He tried
again, and again he lost. He bit his lips until they bled, but
immediately looked around with a smile, to conceal his vexation. He
lost again. He felt his knees knocking, and his intestines boiled. With
hot, trembling hand, he threw down his last coin, and looked another
way. He won back all the money he had lost. He seized it hastily,
thinking, "There! so much for playing with edged tools. I'll hold on to
you now, my darling!" Yet he remained rooted to the spot. It would not
do to let people see how glad he was to walk off without being fleeced.
Then again he reflected that he must, somehow, raise money to pay
Schlunkel. He would try one piece, and put the rest of his money into
his right pocket, where he never put his hand.
He played: he did put his hand into his right pocket; and he walked
away with empty pockets. With inexpressible grief and self-accusation,
he now ran about the market: thousands of things were offered for sale,
but he could not stretch forth his hand to take them. A terrible curse
against the world rose to his lips: he longed to turn every thing
topsy-turvy.
We might be tempted to ask, "What reason has a man like Florian to rave
at the world? The world has done him no harm: he is himself the cause
of his own distress." But then people like Florian--whether they belong
to the class of society which wears gloves, or to that which wears them
not--are never ready to think: when in bad luck they scold.
His only comfort was that he was firmly resolved never to touch a
die again as long as he lived. To-be-sure, it was easy to shut the
stable-door after the horse was stolen: still, there was some comfort
in a virtuous resolution.
He met his father looking very happy. "Have you any money, father?"
said Florian, running up to him.
"Yes: I've earned three six-creutzer pieces, selling some oxen. See!"
"Give me two of them."
Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared with the money. He now
walked up and down among the booths in good spirits, sustained by the
consciousness of possession. He no longer cast a look upon the
gambling-tables.
But soon he began to think that he had been very stupid in skipping
about from one number to another: how could he help losing them? Should
the rascally sweat-cloth fellows have the satisfaction of keeping it?
But then he had sworn never to touch a die again! Well, he would keep
his vow: he would go where the croupier made the die roll through the
coils of a snake, and where he might play without touching any thing.
At first he played for creutzers, like the others. He used great
circumspection, taking care to remember the numbers which had won
frequently, and betting upon the others. For some time he neither lost
nor won. Finding this tedious, he staked larger pieces, and tried
several numbers at a time, and with success. Seeing some of his
acquaintances, he beckoned to them to come up and join him.
[Illustration: The croupier made the die roll through the coils of a
snake.]
But the tide soon turned, and Florian lost. He now wandered about the
board, passed every number, and changed his bet before the throw fell.
When, at such times, the deserted number proved the winning one, he
laughed aloud. Fortune frowned more and more, though he returned to his
old system of remaining true to certain numbers. Taking his last
groat, he laid it upon the table with such force as to make the table
quiver,--and lost.
Florian continued to regard the board intently, with breath almost
suppressed, though a tempest of emotion was raging within him. Having
stayed long enough to prevent his acquaintances from suspecting the
true state of the case, he stole away. Now he had neither vows nor
curses, neither good nor evil intentions: he wandered from place to
place like a body without a soul, without thoughts, without will, dull,
hollow, and ruined.
The sound of music awakened him from his trance, and he found himself
before the Rose Inn. The French simpleton, who was standing at the door
and waiting for somebody to treat him, cried, "_Drenda marioin_," and
made a sign of thirst; but Florian pushed him aside and went up into
the dancing-hall.
Every one treated him: he only sipped at the glass and offered to set
it down again. "It's in good hands," was the cry,--meaning, "Drink it
all." "High up behind, they say at the Rhine," he would then say, and
drain the glass at a draught.
The frequent repetition of this ceremony infused new life into him: the
various kinds of wine had the same effect, and he wiped his forehead.
At length Peter came up to him, saying, "Have you seen Crescence? She
is sitting at the Knight with the geometer."
Florian hardly stayed to drain his friend's glass. An object had
appeared upon which to vent his wrath: he had an excuse for committing
a crime, for destroying himself and others. Through lanes and alleys,
passing the little apothecary-shop where the crowd never came, he made
his way to the Knight, and bounded up-stairs, taking three steps at a
time.
Oh that men would run to do good with half the impetuosity which wafts
them on the road to evil! How often do they scorn wind and weather,
distance and darkness, in the gratification of their baser passions!
but, when a duty is to be done, every breath is too rude, and every
pebble an insurmountable hindrance.
As he entered the room, panting and out of breath, Crescence ran to
meet him with beaming eyes, and, taking his trembling hand in hers, she
said, "God be praised, you are mine again, and I am all yours now: I've
just sent the geometer about his business for good and all. It's been
boiling in me a long time, and at last it ran over. Oh, I'm so glad! I
don't know what to do. I know whom I belong to now, and I belong to
you, and will belong to you, no matter what happens. What makes you
look so cross? A'n't you glad, too, that there's an end of this lying?"
She straightened his cap, which had been pushed to one side of his
head. Florian suffered her to say and do what she liked. He awoke from
a dream of vice, blood, and horror, to find himself in the arms of love
and peace. He almost recoiled from this true-hearted love which came to
him in the abyss of his degradation. Nothing had been left him but his
poor, wasted life, which he would so gladly have thrown off likewise:
now he learned to prize it again when he saw another life twined so
confidingly around it. Smiling with a mixture of sadness and glee, he
said at last, "Come, Crescence: let's go."
Crescence made no objection, though she could not help looking up with
a smile at hearing the musicians strike up a fresh waltz: full as her
heart was, she would gladly have danced a little, though she refrained
from saying so,--not so much to guard against misunderstanding as
because it made her happy just to live according to Florian's pleasure.
Near the front door Schlunkel was sitting over his wine without a
companion. To the astonishment of Crescence, he asked Florian to drink
with him; and Florian not only acknowledged the salutation, but said to
her, "Go on a little: I'll come right-away."
She waited for him on the front door-steps. Schlunkel said, "Well,
where's my money?"
"I can't pay you now: I can't cut it out of my ribs."
"Then you must give me the knife there in pawn."
"Oh, now, just wait till to-morrow night: do. If I don't give it to you
then, you shall have it double."
"Oh, yes: you can promise it double; but who's to give it to me?"
"I am."
"Will you come to me to-morrow night?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'm agreed."
Florian passed on, and when Crescence asked him, "What does that wretch
want of you?" he blushed like a fire-thief, and answered, "Nothing: he
wanted me to sell him my knife."
"Don't let him have it: he'd murder somebody with it."
Florian shuddered; and it pained him to see the undoubting faith with
which Crescence received his words.
9.
WHAT BECOMES OF A SCAPEGRACE AND OF A LOVING GIRL.
Half the world do not know how the other half lives. People could not
imagine how Florian managed to get enough to eat. The truth was, he
very often had not enough. In one of these emergencies he applied to
the College Chap for a loan.
"Why, Florian," was the answer, "this sort of thing won't do: you must
manage to get a living: you can't go on this way."
"That's neither here nor there," replied Florian: "you can tell me all
that some other time when I'm not head over ears in trouble. Help me
out now, and preach your sermons afterward."
The admonition was ill-timed, and therefore worse than useless: Florian
pitied instead of blaming himself, and thought himself more sinned
against than sinning. With a certain air of forgiveness, he repeated
his request.
"It won't do," said the College Chap, "for a man to scatter his money
about just when he's going to be married. You'll have to get along
without me."
The College Chap was betrothed to the old squire's Babbett,--although,
as the readers of Ivo's story may remember, he was not inordinately
fond of her. He had asked for the hand of Buchmaier's Agnes, and had
met with a refusal. This he told wherever he went, calculating that he
must pass for a trump card if people knew he'd had the pluck to try for
the first girl in the village: "they all knew that the richest would
come in for their turn in no time." But they did not come in, and he
contented himself with Babbett.
Like many other spendthrifts, the College Chap was no sooner thrown
upon his own resources than he turned stingy and unfeeling.
It was Florian's misfortune that of all others the College Chap was his
most intimate companion. He could not but say to himself, "He isn't a
bit better than I am: why am I so much worse off?" He quarrelled with
his fortunes more and more, lost his energy, and became morose and
querulous.
Meanwhile Crescence was quite happy. Her father's ill-treatment of her,
though unrelenting, afforded her at bottom more gratification than
regret. She was restored to herself from the moment she had determined
to be his alone whom her heart had chosen. Knowing Florian's
circumstances, she did not scruple to relieve him by all the means in
her power. She took tobacco and other creature-comforts out of the
store, and forced them upon Florian's acceptance. Though at first
ashamed to receive them, he soon came to devising plans with her for
more extensive peculations, having found means of disposing of them
through Schlunkel's intervention. Crescence obeyed in all things. To
her mind Florian was lawfully the lord of the world and of all it
contained, and entitled to regard all men as his subjects. For a while,
she thought, he chose to live without the insignia of his power, but he
would soon arise and show the world what was really in him. She hoped
that the time was at hand when he would come forth in all his glory.
This hope was as clear and confident in her heart as her expectation of
the coming day; and yet she knew not what she hoped. But a storm soon
broke in rudely upon her daydreams. The tailor detected the
embezzlements of his daughter, and drove her out of his house,
threatening to hand her over to justice if she returned. Her mother was
at the point of death and unable to protect her.
[Illustration: Crescence knew not where to turn.]
Crescence knew not where to turn. She went to Florian's door; but he
was not at home. When told the name of the nightly associate with whom
he had gone abroad, she wept aloud. Drawing her gown over her head to
ward off the beating rain, she wandered up and down for hours in a
state bordering on distraction. Could she but have crept away from
herself! At length she took courage to seek out Melchior's Lenore, and
was kindly received by her father.
Every effort at a reconciliation with her father failed. She now
knitted stockings and worked by the day: sometimes Florian assisted
her, for he had again found means to raise the wind. But she could not
touch a single coin without a shudder: in looking at the portraitures
of the august sovereigns which they bore, Schlunkel's features seemed
to peer out of every one of them.
Lenore always found out when the tailor went to Horb with his wallet,
and at such times Crescence would go home and supply herself with such
things as she most needed.
Florian also was often on the watch to see whether he might go to see
Schlunkel without impairing his reputation. A characteristic
occurrence, however, soon put an end to this joyless companionship.
Schlunkel had stolen two wethers from the paper-miller of Eglesthal.
One day when Florian was with him he called upon the latter to
slaughter and dress them. Florian's pride and glory up to that time had
been his art and mystery: the request was therefore the greatest
affront he could possibly have received. "Before I'd butcher stolen
cattle in secret," said he, "I'd cut your throat and mine both."
[Illustration: She took her necklace of garnets, with the brooch, from
her neck and handed them to him.]
"Oh, you soft-head," said Schlunkel, adroitly snatching Florian's knife
out of his pocket, "I'll never let you get out of this room alive
unless you slaughter these wethers, or pay me my two dollars."
"I'll see you!" Florian had him by the throat, and dragged at the knife
with all his might. They both struggled fiercely, without any success
on either side; but, suddenly hearing a noise, Florian released his
hold and jumped out of the window.
He went to Crescence sorrowfully and told her all.
Without saying a word, she took her necklace of garnets, with the
brooch, from her neck, drew her silver ring from her finger, and handed
them to him.
"What's that for?" asked Florian.
"To pawn or sell and pay the wretch with."
Florian embraced and kissed her, saying, "Do you do it; there's a good
girl: you shall have 'em back, depend upon it."
Crescence did as requested, and brought him his knife. There was no
blood upon it: he rejoiced greatly to know that his treasure had not
been abused.
10.
FLORIAN DISDAINS THE HELP WHICH IS OFFERED HIM.
"Crescence," said Florian, one day, "this sort of thing must come to an
end. I can't go abroad any more, because of you, and because it's a
matter of honor for me to get through without it. What do you say to
seeing the parson? If we can get a few hundred florins out of him we
can get married."
"I thought you didn't want to have any thing to do with him."
"What must be must," replied Florian. "Will you give me a letter to
him, and get your mother to sign it?"
"Just as you please: you know best. I'll do exactly as you wish me to."
Next day Florian was under way. His thoughts were gloomy when he
reflected upon where he was going; but the exercise soon improved his
spirits. For many weeks he had scarcely been outside of the village.
All his thoughts had been absorbed by paltry troubles and circumscribed
efforts: now he once more found a larger standard to measure things by,
and said to himself, "Why can't we live somewhere else? The Nordstetten
grass can grow without us. I can be happy with my Crescence, even
though George the blacksmith and the host of the Eagle know nothing
about it: but they must respect me first, and then I'll go. Not a
living soul must ever hear a word of this trip that I'm on now."
It was late in the afternoon when he reached his destination. At
the parsonage he found no one but the housekeeper,--a well-fed,
proud-looking personage. She made various efforts to fathom his
purpose, but could obtain no other answer than that he must see the
parson himself. At length he came, preceded by his brace of half-shorn
Pomeranian poodles, who offered to attack the stranger, but were
deterred by a single look. It was not without reason that people said
Florian could charm dogs with magic: the most furious suddenly took
fright when he eyed them sharply.
When Florian saw the parson, his own eyes fell. He was a powerful,
thick-set man, with a white-and-black cravat. Crescence was his image,
to the very freckles. The parson saw something suspicious in the
shyness of his visitor, and asked him what he wanted.
"I wish to speak a word with you alone," said Florian.
The parson bade him follow to his study.
Florian delivered the letter, and the parson read it. Florian watched
the play of his features narrowly.
"From whom is this letter?" asked the parson. "I don't know the
person."
"You know the Red Tailor's wife, surely? Her name is below there, and
the letter is from her oldest daughter. The tailor's wife is at the
point of death, and won't get well again."
"Sorry to hear it. Give the people my good wishes, and if I can do any
thing for them it shall be done."
"And you won't do something particular for Crescence now?"
"I don't see why."
"But I see it, your reverence. Not a soul shall ever hear of it, I'll
take my oath and sacrament upon it; but help us you must, or I don't
know what's to become of us both."
The parson fumbled in his pocket for his keys, and, having found the
right one, he twirled it in his fingers, saying, "I always like to
assist the poor, but can do very little just now."
"Then give me your handwriting for the balance."
At these words the parson looked around him with an air of wrath and
terror. He thought he must have betrayed himself in permitting Florian
to make such a demand. With forced hardness in his tone, he repeated,
"Once for all, I have nothing to do with these people; and here is
something toward your expenses."
Florian flung the money at his feet, crying, "I want to know whether
you mean to do your duty by your child or not. She's as like you as one
rain-drop's like the other. Yes or no? You are the father of my
Crescence. I dare not hurt you, and I will not hurt you; but--Lord
God!--I don't know what I am doing!" He seized the handle of the knife
in his pocket, snapped the lock of the door with his other hand, and
went on:--"I never slaughtered the wrong sort of cattle yet; but----"
He foamed and trembled with fury.
"You villain!" cried the parson, making for the window and opening it.
Suddenly the wall opened, and the housekeeper entered by a masked door,
saying, "The councilmen and the squire are over there, your reverence,
and want you to come over directly."
The knife almost fell from Florian's hand. The parson stood in the open
door in safety.
"What is your last word?" demanded Florian, once more.
"Clear out of my house this instant, or I'll have you arrested."
Florian departed with faltering steps: the last bough of the tree of
his hopes was broken. He wandered home in the darkness, accompanied by
dreadful thoughts. Once, looking up to the stars, he broke out into,
"Good God in heaven, can it be thy will that there should be men on
earth who must deny their children and cast them into misery? But it's
all my own fault. Why didn't I stick to my principle and have nothing
to do with him?"
It was three days before he set foot in the village again. He felt as
if a heavy chastisement were awaiting him,--as if he would be made to
do penance there; and yet he knew of no crime he had committed.
But, when some tale-bearers informed him that during his absence people
had said he had run away, his blood boiled within him. He had
sacrificed every thing to his reputation among the villagers; and now
he found the dearly-bought prize so fragile of texture that it could
not live three days without his nursing. A bitter contempt of humanity
began to take root in his soul.
On Sunday, as Florian was standing among the usual group of idlers in
front of the Eagle, Buchmaier stopped before him and said, "Florian,
let's have a word with you: I want to ask your advice about something."
"Certainly," said Florian, going off with him: "what is it?"
"I only said that because the others were listening. I want to talk
with you, but frankly. Where were you last week?"
"I can't tell you."
"Well, as you please. But look here, Florian: you are a smart fellow, a
quick and ready fellow: you understand your business through and
through."
"There's something behind all that. Out with it."
"I'd like to see you make something out of it all."
"All in good time."
"Now, listen to me quietly. I'm not talking to you as squire now, but I
say this because I wish you well. If you stay here as you do now you'll
go to wreck. What are you waiting for?"
Florian was evidently struck by the force of this question. After a
considerable pause, Buchmaier went on:--
"I know how it is very well. It's just like getting up out of bed: let
it be ever so hard, you don't like to stay there; but the minute you're
up and doing you feel a great deal better. So take my advice, and go.
If there was war I should say, 'Florian, take two suits of clothes, and
if one won't wear the other will;' but even as it is you can make out
finely without going to butchering men. But stay here you can't: you
must go."
"But I can't go, and won't go; and I'd like to see who's going to make
me."
"That's neither here nor there. You needn't come the fiery game over
me. I know you go to see Crescence. Well, if you have luck you can come
and fetch her. But here you're not respected."
"Who says that? Why, squire, if this was anybody but you, I'd show him.
Who can say any thing against my reputation?"
"Not a soul; and that's the very reason you ought to go now."
"But I can't, and I won't."
"If you're short of change, I'll try to get you a loan from the
treasury of the commune."
"I tell you I'd rather rob the saints. I'd rather lay my hand on this
block and chop it off than touch a pittance out of the public chest."
"You're far gone: you want to make a ten-strike, and there are only
nine pins standing. Florian, Florian, consider, there's not only a
right and a left, but there's a straight road too. If you don't ask too
much you shall have any money to travel with,--not as a gift, but as a
loan. 'Only half your money's lost on a young loafer,' they always say:
don't take it amiss, though."
Florian answered, gnashing his teeth, "I didn't ask your money nor your
advice, and no one has a right to call me names."
"Well, I've done: I've nothing more to say. But, if you should think
better of it, come to see me again to-morrow. Good-bye."
He left Florian harrowed in his inmost soul. Whistling a lively air, he
sauntered down the village, looking every one in the face, as if to ask
them, with defiance, whether they did not respect him.
Crescence never knew that this interview had taken place; and Florian
strove to banish it from his own recollection.
11.
FLORIAN HELPS HIMSELF.
Autumn had come: the Feast of Tabernacles was over, and Betsy's wedding
once more brought back the spirit of fun and frolic to the village.
According to the Hebrew ritual, the marriage was performed on the
highroad, under a spreading baldachin. The fanners--always glad of an
excuse to be idle--gathered around with open mouths: Florian and
Schlunkel were both among them. The latter pulled his former comrade by
the sleeve, whispering that he had something important to tell him; and
when the ceremony was over he stole round the rear of the manor-house
into the vaulted springhouse. Florian followed after some time, he knew
not why.
Schlunkel came to meet him, saying, "Shake hands: we'll both be rich
to-morrow." Without understanding him, Florian took his hand, saying,
"How so?"
"Just this way," said Schlunkel, with a skip and a jump. "This morning
Mendle's Meyer came home from the horse-market, where he sold all his
horses. He must have brought at least seven or eight hundred florins
home with him. I saw the belt: it looked like a liver-pudding. You know
how to handle a liver-pudding, don't you? We'll slice this up tonight.
A week ago the fire-committee had Meyer's bake-oven pulled down,
because it was in the corner there. He had the hole walled up with
brick. I helped to do it; and I laid one of the bricks so that you can
just take it out with your hand. So to-night, when they're all at the
wedding, we'll slip in and fetch the Jew's sausage."
"Not I," said Florian.
"Just as you please: you can get the money the commune offered you, if
you like that better, and see how far it'll go."
"How do you know that?"
"I've got a little bird that told me: you fool, all the swallows in the
chimneys are talking of it."
Florian stamped and bit his mustache. If he could have set fire to the
village at that moment he would gladly have done so. He saw them all
laughing at him, pitying him: the goal of his ambition--the veneration
of the community--had fallen to ashes. At last he was ready for any
thing. The enormity of the crime proposed never occurred to him for a
moment. As honor was lost, he would go away laden with booty. Like one
awaking from sleep, he said,--
"I'm in for it. What time?"
"About eight o'clock, I guess."
After another shake of the hand, Florian left his accomplice. As he
emerged from the dark house to the sunlight, he staggered like a
drunken man, and was obliged to stand still for a time and steady
himself by the wall. Then he went all through the village, whistling
and singing: Crescence alone he avoided with a sort of terror.
It seemed as if the crime were already perpetrated. He looked at
people's faces, to see whether their features showed any marks of
suspicion; and then, again, "What's the odds?" he said to himself:
"they don't think much of me, anyhow." Still, he was glad to remember
that the thing was not yet really accomplished. Once, on seeing
Buchmaier, he felt a desire to run away; but, ashamed of his weakness,
he renewed his vow not to falter in his purpose.
After dark, the boys and girls came to the dance, some of them bringing
wedding-presents. According to custom, they had three dances each.
Florian was among these arrivals. The bride came to welcome him,
saying, "Are you here too? Where's Crescence? I suppose she don't feel
much like dancing. Be sure you do the fair thing by her, Florian. Come;
let's have our last dance together."
The best dancer in the village was for once soon compelled to stop. His
knees shook: with such thoughts in his heart as he had, and with no
soles to his boots, it was not easy to waltz well.
"What's the matter with you? Why, you always danced like a
humming-top," said the bride. "Well, never mind. You don't know how
sorry I am not to see Crescence any more. We were always the best of
friends; but we're going off very early to-morrow morning. Come: I'll
give you a piece of wedding-cake for her: bring it to her, and say
'Good-bye' from me."
[Illustration: He received the cake and a glass of warm wine.]
Florian followed her into the back room, where he received the cake and
a glass of warm wine, which he swallowed at a draught. He found new
vigor coursing through his veins. As soon as he could, he stole
away,--soon returned, however, and then left again.
Schlunkel was already waiting behind Meyer's house with a little
ladder. There was no light: the whole family had gone to the wedding.
The breach was soon effected, and they slipped in. Having forced the
kitchen and the room door and the press, they found the money and
pocketed it, as well as some silver spoons and cups.
Florian was in the yard again, while Schlunkel tugged at a piece of
bedding which would not pass through the narrow aperture. Just at this
moment the owner of the house, who was coming up the stairs and had
seen the doors open, entered the kitchen and saw the pillow in motion:
he seized it on the inside and shouted lustily for help. Schlunkel
released his hold, fell upon the ground, and broke his leg. Florian
tried to help him; but, hearing the sound of footsteps, he only
whispered, "Don't betray me: you shall have the half," and made his
escape.
Schlunkel persisted in saying that he had had no accomplices. In regard
to a piece of wedding-cake which, was found in the yard, his
declarations varied: at first he pretended to know nothing about it,
but subsequently he remembered it was one of the articles stolen.
Florian had been seen at the dance about that time, and no one dared to
suppose he was in any manner connected with the crime.
12.
NEW BOOTS, AND HOW THEY PINCHED.
Florian intended to run away with the money and to send for Crescence
to follow him; but his boots would not consent to the plan. So he went
to town and bought a pair of new ones. What a comfort it was! For
months he had walked with downcast eyes, carefully avoiding every
little puddle; and at last he could tread the slippery road without
fear or favor. To enjoy the change fully, he even extended his walk a
little farther than was necessary.
But soon his walks came to a sudden close. He had accidentally paid out
a perforated dollar, of a description exactly answering to that of one
designated by the man who had been robbed. That same evening the squire
came, with a beadle and a _gens d'armes_, to arrest him.
At his earnest request, Buchmaier consented to have him led through the
gardens instead of along the street.
As he walked along he complained bitterly of his misfortune, and
protested his innocence. This is usual when persons are arrested,
whether guilty or innocent. It is so natural to appeal to the humanity
of those who surround the prisoner like moving walls, ere he has
reached the heartless stones of the jail. When the Jeremiad is
finished, the answer is, invariably, "We shall see that at the proper
time: it's none of our business now." Then the unfortunate one comes to
understand that he has been asking the stone hurled by a force outside
of itself, "Why smitest thou me?"--that he has been begging the net in
which he is ensnared to pity him and set him free.
Florian had spoken without any ulterior design at first; but presently
it occurred to him that it might be well to talk in the same strain
before the judge. He therefore spoke at great length,--for lies are
easier when you have practised them than when they appear as first
efforts.
Not more than fifty florins had been found in Florian's possession; and
these, he said, he had won at play at the Horb fair. Besides the
perforated dollar, an important circumstance going to show his guilt
was the wedding-cake found in the yard: several of the girls had seen
the bride give him the present. Florian denied every thing. He had
heard somewhere that "denial was lawful in Wurtemberg;" and this maxim
comprised his entire knowledge of jurisprudence.
Many of the villagers, who previously would never have allowed
themselves to suspect any evil of Florian, now boasted loudly that they
had said ten years ago that Florian would come to no good, and revived
the memory of all the forgotten, pranks of his boyhood.
Florian meditated a flight. One night he pulled down the tile stove
which stood at the wall of his cell and formed a part of it, and
escaped by the hole thus made in the wall. His escape was just like the
crime. This brought him to the corridor, but no farther. It was locked;
and to jump out of the window was as much as his life was worth. His
eye fell on a broom which stood in a corner. Without hesitation, he
opened the window, pressed the end of the broom into the corner formed
by the junction of the tower with the side-building, balanced himself
on the handle, and slid down to the ground.
The watchman had seen him; but he crossed himself three times and ran
up the nearest alley,--for he had beheld the devil himself riding
through the air on a broomstick.
Thus Florian was free, Running up the street, he crept into a covered
sewer, tore up the earth with his hands, found the money, and ran off
through the woods.
During his imprisonment, Crescence's mother had died, and the Red
Tailor, forced to yield to one of those general bursts of neighborly
feeling which are the relieving features of village life, had allowed
his daughter to return to his house.
In the night of Florian's escape she awoke from her sleep in terror.
She had dreamed that Florian had called her out to dance, and, do what
she would, she could not get her stocking on her foot. Weeping, she sat
up in her bed and spoke the prayer for the poor souls in purgatory.
Hearing the clock strike four, she arose and did all the housework.
Before daybreak she went into the wood to get kindling. Indeed, ever
since her misfortune her activity was morbid: she seemed anxious to
compensate for the idle life of Florian. Though no thanks rewarded her
industry, she had scarcely left a nook or corner of the house not
garnered with dry sticks and fir-cones.
At the edge of the wood she found a white button, which she recognised
as belonging to Florian's jacket and secreted in her bosom. Looking
over the landscape, she said to herself, "My cross is great; and if I
were to climb to the top of the highest hill I couldn't look beyond
it."
She returned without having gathered any thing. On hearing of Florian's
flight, she wept and rejoiced: she wept because she could no longer
doubt he was a criminal, and rejoiced to know that he was free.
13.
THE GAUNTLET.
At night Florian built himself a hut of some sheaves in a harvest-field
and slept in it.
In a tavern he had stolen a knife, having at the same time concealed
twelve creutzers in the salt-cellar: with this implement he now scraped
off his mustache.
Nevertheless, he had no sooner crossed the frontier than he was
arrested. This time he did not stop to enlist the pity of the _gens
d'armes_, but defended himself with all his might and made desperate
efforts to get free: he was thrown down, however, and manacled.
He was now forwarded from circuit to circuit by the hands of the _gens
d'armes_. In silence he walked along, his right hand chained to his
right foot: he looked upon himself as upon an animal driven to the
slaughter.
But when, coming from Sulz, he issued from the Empfingen copse and
found that he was to be dragged in chains through his native village,
he fell on his knees before the _gens d'armes_ and begged him with
tears to be so merciful as to take him around outside of the village.
But the voice of authority answered "No," and Florian struck his left
hand into his eyes to blind himself to his own degradation: his right
hand rattled helplessly in the chain. Florian--the cynosure of
neighboring eyes, he who had known no keener joy than to be the object
of universal attention--was now to be exposed in these shameful
trappings and in such disgraceful company. For the first time in his
life he could have prayed that people might not have eyes to cast upon
him. As he passed the Red Tailor's house, Crescence was chopping wood
at the pile. The hatchet dropped from her hand, and for a moment she
stood paralyzed: the next instant she rushed upon Florian with open
arms and fell upon his neck. The _gens d'armes_ disengaged her gently.
"I'll go with you through the village," said Crescence, without
weeping. "You sha'n't bear your shame alone. Does the iron hurt you?
Don't fret too much, for my sake."
[Illustration: She walked by his side.]
Florian, unable to speak, motioned to her with his left hand to turn
back; but she walked by his side, as if riveted to him by an invisible
chain. The news spread through the village like wildfire. Caspar and
Babbett were standing before the Eagle: the former had a mug of beer in
his hand, and brought it to Florian to drink. The _gens d'armes_ would
not permit it. Florian begged them not to let Crescence go any farther,
and Babbett at last persuaded her to remain. All were weeping.
He went alone through the rest of the familiar streets.
George the blacksmith, prevented by the cold from sitting in front of
his door, saw him from behind his window and touched his cap from sheer
embarrassment. At the manor-house farmer's he met the French simpleton,
who pointed to his upper lip, saying, "_Mus a loni ringo._" In spite of
himself, a painful smile passed over Florian's features.
When at last he had left the last hut behind him, he vowed never to
return to his old home again.
His incarceration was now more severe than it had been: though in the
same tower as formerly, he was kept in the most secure apartment. He
often looked through the grating; but when a Nordstetter passed he
started back as if he had been shot.
As the anguish of his mind became more subdued, he tried many devices
to pass away the time. He walked about with a blade of straw standing
on his forehead: when this became easy, he added others, until at last
he could build a whole house and take it to pieces again. With much
exertion, he learned to stand out horizontally from the iron bars, and
even acquired the art of placing his knees behind his head.
One day, in looking through the grating, he saw Crescence coming
to town. Hot tears fell on the iron bars: he could not speak to
her,--scarcely give her a sign.
At night he heard a cough beneath the window, which was repeated
several times. Recognising Crescence, he returned the signal. Crescence
unwound the red ribbon which had adorned her hair since the bel-wether
dance, tied it round a letter and a stone, and flung it up to Florian,
who caught it adroitly. She went briskly away; but in the distance
Florian caught the last words of the song,--
"The fire may be extinguish'd,
Love cannot be diminish'd;
Fire burns to scathe and kill,
But love burns hotter still."
Florian never dosed an eye that night: he had a letter from Crescence,
and yet he could not read it. At the first ray of morning, he was at
the window, and read:--
"I don't know whether this letter will get into your hands or not; and
so I won't sign my name. I have been to town to get my certificate of
settlement. Betsy has got a place for me in Alsace: I'm going off the
day after to-morrow. I have had a long dress made, too. My mother is
dead, and my father is going to marry Walpurgia the seamstress. I need
not tell you that I can never forget you, even if you had done I don't
know what. If you have been bad once, you're not bad now. I know that.
Be good and patient, and bear your fate. Our Lord is my witness, I'd
gladly take it on myself. I got your father to give me your knife,
which you always liked so much; I hope, with God's blessing, to see you
work honestly with it, someday. Only don't give up hope; for then you
would be quite lost. Don't reproach yourself about what's past and
gone: that won't do any good: but be good now. With the first money I
earn I'm going to redeem your ring and my garnets. Oh, I have so much
to tell you! ten clerks couldn't write it down. I will close, and be
yours till death."
The letter was bathed in a flood of happy tears. Never till now did
Florian know the treasure he possessed in Crescence. And he had not a
little joy left, besides, for the thought that his precious knife was
safe.
14.
MISERY AND FUN.
Florian was sent to the penitentiary for six years. He was almost
pleased to lay aside his velvet roundabout and put on in place of it
the gray coat of the convict; for his favorite was thus saved for those
happy days in which he hoped to see Crescence again. Indeed, the six
years seemed a mere week to his imagination. His heart was so full of
hope again that he skipped over the interval of time as if it had been
but a span.
Monarchical governments have their advantages, and in some respects put
those of republics to shame. Here every man is fortunate as long as he
is free; but, once immured in the walls of a prison, his rights and his
comforts become every man's business, and therefore nobody's, and
society neither knows nor cares whether he is properly fed, clothed,
and watched, or whether his jailors enrich themselves on the sale of
the food he should eat, or make his ordinary comforts contingent
upon the alacrity he displays in doing their menial services. In
Europe it is otherwise. There the government, and its hirelings the
office-holders, consider every individual their natural enemy so long
as he lives on his own exertions, and withholds a fragment of his
existence from the surveillance of the high and mighty. With
unrelenting taxation, and interminable regulations, prohibitions, and
prescriptions, they waste his substance and goad him into prison; but,
once there, their wishes are accomplished, and they treat him
henceforth with paternal kindness. Favors shown to prisoners can never
be regarded as concessions to civil liberty, and therefore they are
freely extended. Whoever finds his way there may calculate upon
friendly treatment. Perhaps, instead of opposing the government, it
would be better for the citizens to bring about a general measure of
criminal incarceration as the surest road to the good-will of their
sovereigns.
Still, the time passed but slowly. He learned the art of making
brushes. When at length and at last the day of delivery came, he
hastened to Crescence. He was received with open arms. With a little
money, which she had saved out of her earnings, they both travelled
from village to village as brush-makers. But soon Florian renounced
this trade for one more satisfactory to his peculiar desire for
admiration. He attended the fairs, markets, and harvest homes as
rope-dancer and juggler. His great exploit was the sword-trick, which
consisted in throwing three swords around in a circle and always
catching them by the handle: he had mastered the principle when engaged
in chopping sausage-meat. Crescence clung to him faithfully through all
this; and once, when he fell from the rope and broke his leg, she
nursed him with the most tender care.
After this he purchased a gambling-table and frequented the markets and
harvest-homes of the adjoining countries of Germany,--the game of dice
having been, in the mean time, prohibited in Wurtemberg. It is the
peculiar good fortune of Germany that every one may cultivate his
besetting sin there to his heart's content, if he can only find the
proper principality. What would have become of Florian had he not been
a son of that favored country? He could not have made a living out of
that which had first led to his ruin. Whenever this occurred to him, he
raised his voice, as if to encourage himself: his morsel of French
stood him in good stead,--for it is the most respectable dress for
immorality that was ever fashioned.
"_Messieurs, faites votre jeu!_" he would say. "Step up, step up: play
here, gentlemen. _Messieurs_, eight creutzers for one creutzer: one
creutzer has eight young ones. _La fortune_, _la fortune_, _la
fortune!_ A creutzer is nothing: out of nothing God made the world: out
of no money money will come. Step up, _Messieurs: faites votre jeu!_"
Often, when his tricks began to pall on the taste of the crowd, and he
found time to observe the young fellows dancing and making merry, a
two-edged sword would pierce his heart: he had been like them once, and
like the finest among them; and now he was a despised joker for the
amusement of others. To banish such thoughts, he would grow, more and
more extravagant in his sallies, and endeavor to persuade himself that
he was doing it all for his own edification.
Of four children, only two survived,--the oldest boy and a little girl.
Never would Florian suffer them to look at him when he drove his trade.
They were kept in a barn or a farmer's room, with the household goods
of the family.
Once only Crescence took courage to suggest that it might be for the
advantage of their children if they were to go home and try to support
themselves there by their daily labor.
"Don't talk of it," said Florian, gnashing his teeth: "ten horses
wouldn't drag me up the Horb steep again. I lost my honor there; and
never, never will I look at the Nordstetten steeple again!"
15.
A CHILD LOST AND A FATHER FOUND.
In Braunsbach by the Kocher, opposite Maerxle's house, is a
linden-tree, toward which a strolling family might have been seen
making their way one Sunday afternoon. The father--a powerful man, in a
blue smock and gray felt hat numerously indented--was drawing a cart
which contained a whetstone and some household-utensils. A gaunt, brown
dog, of middle size, was his yokefellow. The woman assisted in helping
the cart forward by pushing from behind. The two children followed,
carrying some dry sticks gathered along the road. Arrived at the tree,
the man took off the strap by which he was harnessed, threw his hat on
the ground, wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and sat down with
his back resting against the tree. Though much altered, we cannot but
recognise Florian and his family.
[Illustration: Florian and his family.]
The dog had lain down beside him, resting his head on his fore-paws.
The boy caressed him.
"Leave Schlunkel alone now, Freddie," said Florian. "Go and help your
mother."
The boy obeyed quickly: he knew that his father was out of humor by his
calling the dog "Schlunkel,"--for whenever Florian was ill at ease he
tortured himself by giving to the sharer of his burden the name of the
man who had first made him unhappy.
Crescence, meantime, had taken the stand and the kettle from the cart,
had made a fire and placed the kettle filled with water upon it.
"Go and got us some potatoes," said she to Freddie. He took a pot and
went up to a house which looked down upon their resting-place. The
beams of the framework in the walls--visible, as is always the case in
that part of the country--were painted a bright red. An elderly man was
looking out of the window.
"Won't you be so kind," asked Freddie, "as to give us some potatoes?
God reward you!"
"Where are you from?" asked the man, who looked as if he had eaten a
good dinner.
"My father always says, 'From the place where people are hungry too.'"
"Is that your father down there?"
"Yes: but don't be too long about it if you want to give us any thing,
for our wood's all burning away."
The man came down and opened the door: the neighbors wondered how Peter
Mike came to open his house to a beggar.
Freddie soon came out again with a potfull of potatoes and a little
lard in a bowl. Soon the boiled potatoes became a porridge, and after
all the family had dined the dog received permission to lick the
plates.
Florian arose, and passed through the village, crying, "Scissor-grinder
from Paris!" Freddie went from house to house to get work, promising
the best of Parisian edge. And, without doubt, Florian was perfectly
master of his new trade.
Peter Mike spent the afternoon in following the scissor-grinder from
place to place. It gave him pleasure to follow his agile motions and
hear the pretty tunes he whistled. He also chatted a little with the
woman and the children. At dark he even tendered them his barn as a
night's lodging. All the village cried, "A judgment! a judgment! Stingy
Peter Mike is getting kind!" And yet this was but a trifle compared
with what followed. Peter Mike sat down with them in the barn, and
said, "Let me keep this boy of yours. I'll do well by him. What do you
say to it?"
Seeing them look at each other in astonishment, he went on:--"Sleep on
it, and tell me what you think of it in the morning."
Florian and Crescence talked for half the night without coming to any
conclusion. The mother, much as her inclination protested against it,
was ready to give up her child, in order to give it a prospect in life,
and the hope, at least, of an ordinary education.
Florian said little, but looked at the boy as he slept in the
moonlight, looking very beautiful.
"He'll be a rouser some day," he said at last, turned over on his side,
and fell asleep.
It may seem strange that Peter Mike, with such a reputation for
avarice, should suddenly offer to adopt the child of a stroller; nor
was charity his only motive. He was alone and childless,--had rented
out his fields, and lived upon his income. His brother's children--the
only kindred he had--had offended him in someway; and he wished to mark
his displeasure by the adoption of a stranger's child. Besides, the boy
with the clear blue eyes had inspired him with an unaccountable
affection.
At daybreak Peter Mike was at the barn-door, and asked whether they
were awake. Being answered in the affirmative, he requested Florian and
Crescence to come up to his room, in order to discuss the question.
They complied.
"Well, how is it? Have you made up your minds?" he asked.
"Why," said Florian, "the plain English of it is, we should like to
give up the boy very well, because he would be in good hands with you
and could learn something; but it won't do: will it, Crescence?"
"Why won't it do?"
"Because we want the boy in our business; and we must live too, you
know,--and our little girl."
"See here," said Peter Mike: "I'll show you that I mean you well. I'll
give you a hundred florins,--not for the boy, but so that you can go
about some other business,--a trade in dishes, or something of that
kind. A hundred florins is something. What do you say?"
The parents looked at each other sorrowfully.
"Crescence, do you talk. I've nothing more to say: whatever you do, I'm
satisfied."
"Why, I don't think the boy'll want to stay and leave us. You mean
well, I know that; but the child might die of home-sickness."
"I'll ask him," said Peter Mike, leaving the parents more astonished
than ever; for habitual poverty deprives people of the power of forming
resolutions, and makes them surprised to find this faculty in others.
Neither spoke: they dreaded the forthcoming answer, whatever it might
be.
Peter Mike returned, leading Freddie by the hand. He nodded
significantly, and Freddie cried, "Yes, I'll stay with cousin: he's
going to give me a whip and a horse."
Crescence wept; but Florian said, "Well, then, let's go; what must be,
the sooner it's done the better."
He went down-stairs, packed the cart, and hitched the dog. Peter Mike
brought him the money.
When all was ready, Crescence kissed her son once more, and said,
weeping, "Be a good boy, and mind your cousin: go to school and learn
your lessons. Perhaps we shall come back in winter."
Florian turned his head away when his son took his hand, and tightened
the strap by which he pulled the cart. Freddie put his arms round the
dog's head and took leave of him.
[Illustration: Florian pushed the glass over to Crescence.]
Not a word was spoken until they reached Kochersteinfeld: each mentally
upbraided the other for having made so little opposition. Here they
rested, and Florian called for a pint of wine to cheer their spirits.
Taking a long draught, he pushed the glass over to Crescence, bidding
her do the same. She raised the glass to her lips, but set it down
again and cried, weeping aloud, "I can't drink: it seems as if I had to
drink the blood of my darling Freddie."
"Don't get up such a woman's fuss now: you ought to 've said that
before. Let's sleep over it: we shall feel better tomorrow."
As if to escape from their own thoughts, they never stopped till they
got to Kuenzelsau. On the way they held counsel as to the best
investment of their money, and agreed to act upon the advice of Peter
Mike.
Next day they set out for Oehringen; but suddenly Florian stopped and
said, "Crescence, what do you say to turning round and going back for
Freddie?"
"Yes, yes, yes! come."
In a moment the cart was headed the other way, and the dog leaped up
Florian's side, as if he knew what was going on. But suddenly Crescence
cried, "Oh, mercy, mercy! He'll never let us have him: there's a whole
florin gone,--the night's lodging; and I've bought Lizzie a dress!"
"O women and vanity!" groaned Florian. "Well, we must try it, anyhow.
I'm bound to have my Freddie back."
The dog barked assent
It was noonday again when the caravan reached the linden-tree. Freddie
ran to meet them, crying, "Is it winter?"
His mother went up to Peter Mike, laid down the money, begged him to
overlook the florin which was gone, and demanded her child.
The parson was in Peter Mike's room, and had almost succeeded in
persuading him to be reconciled to his brother's children and to give
the adopted child but a small portion of his property. At sight of
Crescence he rose, without knowing why, and raised his hands. He tried
to induce the woman not to give her child away; and, when she answered,
the sound of her voice was like a reminiscence of something long
unthought of.
Peter Mike had called Florian. When the latter saw the parson, he
rushed up to him, seized him by the collar, and cried, "Ha, old fellow!
I've caught you again at last." Crescence and Peter Mike interfered.
The parson, with a husky voice, begged the latter to retire, as he had
important communications to make to the strangers. Peter Mike complied.
"Is your name Crescence?" asked the parson.
"Yes."
"My child! my child!" said the parson, hoarsely, falling on her neck.
For a time all wept in silence. The parson passed his hand over her
face, and then made them both swear never to reveal the relation in
which they stood to him. He would give them a house and set them up in
business. Crescence was to be regarded as his sister's child.
Thus the vagrant family settled in the village. Florian has returned to
the active use of his faithful knife.
The wife of the Protestant minister, who is very religious, claims to
have discovered beyond a doubt that Crescence is not the parson's
niece, but his daughter; but people don't believe it.
The dog, who is also in the butchering-line, has exchanged his name of
Schlunkel for the honest one of Bless. The gloomy recollections of the
past are buried in oblivion.
THE LAUTERBACHER.
The clear tones of the church-bell melted into the bright glow of
noonday, and the peasants came homeward from the fields. The men
carried their caps in their hands until they reached the highroad: the
voice of God had called upon them to lay their farming-utensils aside
and to seek refreshment in prayer and in bodily food. A young man of
slender form had come up the road leading from the town to the village.
He was attired in citizen's dress, and carried a brown "Ziegenhainer"
walking-stick, with numerous names engraved upon it, in his hand. On
coming in sight of the village, he stood still, listened to the song of
the bell, and surveyed the forest of white-blossomed orchards in which
the hamlet was imbedded. He saluted the people who came from the fields
with a peculiar earnestness, as if they were his friends. They returned
the greeting with almost equal cordiality, and often turned round to
look at him again. It seemed to them as if he must be some native of
the village returning home after long journeys; and yet they could not
recall his features.
When the last sound of the bell had died away, when all the fields were
hushed and not a human being remained in sight, while the larks alone
continued to revel in the skies, the stranger sat down upon a bank,
and, after another long look at the village, he drew out his note-book.
Having assured himself that he was unobserved, he wrote into it as
follows:--
"Greeks and Romans, how your triumphs rent the air and your trumpets
brayed! But it was left for Christianity to steal the ore from the dark
bowels of the earth, to hang it aloft in mid-air, and pour its tones
over the land, summoning mankind to devotion, to joy, to mourning. How
glorious must have been the sound of harp and drum at Jerusalem! But
now there is no longer but one temple upon earth: Christianity has
raised them by thousands, far and near. When I heard the sound just
now, it was like a heavenly welcome to my entrance into this place. You
looked at me in astonishment, good people. Ye know not what we are to
be to each other. Oh for a magic charm to obtain, the entire control
over the minds of these beings, so that I might free them from
ignorance and superstition and give them a taste of the true pleasures
of the mind! They walk the earth even as the cattle which they follow,
seeking nothing but food for their mouths.
"This, then, is the spot where my new life is to begin,--there the
dingles and the downs on which my eye shall rest when my mind is full
of the experiences of labor and exertion! Wherever flowers are seen,
the earth is beautiful and gladdening. And, though men do not
understand me, thou dost understand me, O deathless Nature, and dost
reward my attention to thy revelations with a kindly smile. Here the
trees send forth their blossoms, and in the village I hear the merry
shouts of the children into whose minds I am to cast the light of
education."
He ceased writing, and, looking at his cane, he said to himself, "Ye
are scattered to the four winds of heaven, ye friends of my youth, and
your names alone are left me; but I lean upon the memory of your names
in crossing the threshold of my new existence. I commit my greetings to
the spring: may the birds of the air convey it to your ears and refresh
your hearts!"
He rose and walked briskly to the village.
It is not necessary to say that it was the new schoolmaster whose
acquaintance we have just made. He asked for the squire, and was
directed to Buchmaier's house.
Buchmaier and his numerous household were at dinner when the stranger
entered. With a hearty welcome, he was invited to take a seat at the
table, but politely declined.
"Oh, pshaw!" said Buchmaier, who had resumed his seat and his
masticatory operations without delay: "move up a little, you. Quick,
Agnes! get a plate. Sit down, Mr. Teacher. We don't do like the Horb
folks: they always say, 'If you'd only come sooner.' Whoever comes
into our houses at dinnertime must help us. You'll be too late for
dinner where you're going; and we're just sitting down. You must take
pot-luck, you see. It's a regular Black Forest dinner,--little fried
dumplings and dried apples, boiled."
Agnes had brought a plate; and the teacher, to avoid giving offence,
took his seat at the table.
"My Agnes here," said Buchmaier, after heaping his plate, "you'll have
in Sunday-school."
"Oh, you won't have much more to learn," said the teacher, by way of
saying something. The girl's eyes were fixed bashfully on her plate.
"Why, Agnes, why don't you talk? You generally carry your tongue about
you. Do you know every thing?"
"Wall, I kin sheow a fist at readin' good enough, but the writin' won't
gee no more, noheow, a body gits sich nation hard fingers workin' all
the week."
We have attempted to reproduce Agnes' speech in the broadest Yankee
brogue; but it is entirely insufficient to give the reader an adequate
idea of the effect produced upon our hero's mind by the guttural
consonants and parti-colored vowels of the original. All the beauty of
the lips disappeared from his view when he heard what issued from them.
After the closing grace, one of the hands, who had been sitting near
Buchmaier at the table, placed himself before him and said, pocketing
the knife with which he had eaten, "'Guess I'll go out alone with the
horses."
"Yes, I'm coming out d'rectly. Take a boy with you to hold the sorrel:
he won't fall into the harness well."
"Oh, never you mind: I'll look out for all that," said the ploughman,
walking away heavily. The teacher shook his head.
Agnes cleared the table, and hastened to the kitchen to exchange notes
with the hired girls about the stranger.
"A good-looking chap enough," said Legata, the oldest, Agnes' special
confidant. "He looked at you: I didn't know whether he wanted to give
you a kiss or a slap. Wouldn't he do for you? He's a single man."
"I'd rather be single myself till a cow's worth a copper."
"You're right," said another girl: "why, he feeds himself with both
hands. Did you mind how he held the knife in his right hand and his
fork in his left? Who ever saw an honest man doing the like of that?"
Until a very short time ago not only the peasantry, but _all_ classes,
of Germany, ate with the fork alone, which they held in the right fist
and handled like a shovel.
"Yes," said a third: "he never got outside of his father's dunghill
before, I bet you. He cut the dumplings with his knife, instead of
pulling them to pieces; so they got as tough as tallow. Served him
right, for a tallow-head as he is. He gulped at 'em till I thought he'd
choke."
While the girls were thus washing the dishes and overhauling the guest,
the conversation in the room had taken a turn not calculated to remove
the unfavorable impressions already produced on the teacher's mind.
"By your talk," said Buchmaier, "I should judge you were raised in the
lowlands."
"Not exactly: I am from the Tauber Valley."
"Oh, we're not so particular about that: we call it all lowlands the
other side of Boeblingen. What's the name of your place?"
The teacher hesitated a little, laid his hands upon his breast, and
finally answered, with a bend of the head, "Lauterbach."
Buchmaier burst into a shout of laughter, which the teacher received in
solemn earnestness. At last the former said, "Don't take it amiss: why,
Lauterbach,--every child knows of Lauterbach,--it's in the song, you
know. What made you hem and haw about it? There's no shame in't, I'm
sure. Now, couldn't you tell me--I always wanted to know--why did they
just put Lauterbach into the song?"
"How should I know? I suppose there is no reason for it. These stupid
songs are generally made by simpletons who take any town they happen to
think of, if it fits the metre: I mean the verse."
"Oh, I don't think the song so stupid as all that, and it has a funny
tune: I like to hear people sing it."
"You must permit me to differ with you."
"What about permitting? If I didn't permit it, you'd do it anyhow. Just
tell me, straight out, why you don't like it."
"What idea, what common sense, is there in a song like this?--
'At Lauterbach my stocking slipp'd off:
Without a stocking I can't go home;
So I'm just going back to Lauterbach
To buy another stocking to my one.'
That is sheer nonsense; and that you call funny? How can a song be
funny when there isn't a single idea in it? Is nonsense fun?"
"Well, that may be as it will: it's funny, anyhow: it just suits you
when you're----" Buchmaier, at a loss for words, snapped his fingers,
and went on:--"I mean to say, when you're a little over the traces. We
have a fellow here, his name's George: you must hear him sing it once:
he thinks just as I do about it. Some joker once told me that it ought
to be 'shoe' instead of 'stocking,' and that it was Lauterbach because
there are so many old shoes lying about in the streets. But what have
we to do with it now? Let's talk of something else. Have you got any
friends here?"
"Not a single acquaintance."
"Well, you'll find 'em: the people hereabouts are a little rough
sometimes; but it isn't that: it only looks so. They're a little fond
of a joke, too, and sometimes it comes out of season; but they don't
mean any harm by it; and you must only pay 'em back, and be quick on
the trigger; and if you manage 'em right you can twist 'em round your
little finger."
"I shall certainly treat them all with gentleness and kindness."
"Oh, I was going to say, don't forget to visit the councilmen and the
committee-members; and go to see the old schoolmaster, who's been out
of office these twenty-five years: he's a fine man, and 'll be glad to
see you. He's one of the old sort, but as good as gold. I went to
school with him myself, and I know mighty little,--that's a fact. The
last schoolmaster made him mad because he didn't go to see him; and if
you want to do him a particular favor, let him play the organ sometimes
of a Sunday. Now I'll show you where you're to live: your things came
yesterday."
With a discontented air, the teacher walked up the village at
Buchmaier's side. The transcendent anticipations with which he had come
were writhing under the pitiless blast of rude reality. More than once
he heard the persons they passed stop and say to each other, "That's
the new schoolmaster, I guess." At the Crown Tavern they encountered
our old friend Mat, now a member of the committee of citizens.
Buchmaier introduced the new-comer. Some of the villagers overheard
this, and now the news spread like wildfire. Mat turned and walked with
them.
The instinctive affection of the children, of which the teacher had
been dreaming, was so great that they scampered away the moment they
saw him in the distance. Here and there only a very courageous boy
would remain standing, and acknowledge his presence with a friendly
nod, though without taking off his cap,--the latter for the simple
reason that he wore none.
Near the schoolhouse they found a fine boy of six or seven years of
age. "Come here, Johnnie," cried Mat: "see, Mr. Teacher, this is my
boy. Keep a tight rein on him: he can learn well enough, only he don't
always want to. Shake hands with the gentleman, Johnnie: he's your
teacher now: you must mind him. What do you say to a stranger?"
"God greet you!" said the boy, stretching out his hand without
hesitation.
The teacher's face beamed at this welcome from childish lips. He was in
his paradise again the moment he divined a kindly inclination of a
childish heart toward him. Stooping down to the boy's face, he kissed
him.
"Will you be fond of me?" he asked.
The child looked at his father.
"Will you be fond of the gentleman?" asked Mat.
The boy nodded, but could not speak,--for the tears were coming into
his eyes.
The three men went on their way, and the little fellow ran home in all
haste, without looking behind him.
Buchmaier and Mat installed the teacher in his new dwelling.
"There's a woman wanted here," said Mat: "a schoolmaster ought to have
a wife. This is the first time we ever had a single one; and we have
smart girls here, I can tell you. You must look about a bit. The best
way is to take one that belongs to the place: if you come into a
strange place and marry a stranger you'll be a stranger always. Isn't
it so, cousin?"
"Perhaps Mr. Teacher has picked one out already," replied Buchmaier;
"and, let her come from where she will, she shall be welcome here."
"Yes: we'll ride out to meet her," said Mat, thinking, in his heart,
"Buchmaier's a smarter boy than I am, after all." The teacher
answered,--
"I am free and single, and have time to think about it for a while." To
himself he said, "Before I get into the clutches of one of these
peasant-camels, I'll run away with a baboon."
"Well, you must excuse me now," said Buchmaier. "I must go afield: I'm
just trading for a horse, and must see how he behaves in harness. See
you to-night, I hope. Goodbye, meanwhile. Going up street, Mat?"
"Yes. Good-bye, Mr. Teacher, and if the time is long take it double."
The teacher did not quite understand the last speech of Mat, which was
a figure derived from a long thread or string. When the door closed
upon the peasants he gave it another push, as if to assure himself that
he was now alone. He was oppressed in spirit, though without knowing
why. At length the story of the Lauterbacher recurred to him. He
regarded it as a piece of coarse vulgarity, sufficient to make him
forget all the well-meant attentions otherwise rendered. Such is man.
Once irritated, he remembers only what has offended him, and forgets
the greatest kindnesses accompanying it.
Rousing himself from his reverie, he proceeded to unpack his trunks.
The sight of the familiar objects tended in some degree to soothe his
spirits; but his meditative mood would not be dispelled. "I am like a
hermit in the wilderness," thought he. "What makes me happy has to the
people round me no existence. This squire is nothing but a shrewd
peasant a little proud of his coarseness. There may be a spark of mind
slumbering in their bodies; but it is smothered in ashes. Let me summon
up all my strength to guard against being transformed into a peasant.
Every day of my life I will upheave my soul from its inmost fastenings,
and not suffer a blur to settle upon it.
"I have seen teachers enter into office filled with the free
aspirations of the time, and in a few years they had sunk into the
slough of routine and become peasants like the peasants around them.
Even their exterior was careless and slouchy." Writing "Memento" upon a
bit of paper, he stuck it into the looking-glass.
At last he threw off his languor and walked out into the fields and on
the road by which he had come. The farmers working here and there said,
"How goes it, Mr. Teacher? 'Getting used to it?" He answered kindly but
curtly: their familiarity struck him as odd, and almost offensive. He
did not know that these people thought they had a claim upon him
because they had first seen him and received his first salutations.
After a long ramble, he found in "The Bottom" a solitary pear-tree of
picturesque growth. Having walked round and round it until he found the
most fitting spot, he sat down upon a corner-stone and began to sketch.
The farmers gathered around and looked on. The rumor went rapidly from
mouth to mouth that "the new teacher was copying the trees."
As a background he drew the hill beyond, with the hazel-bush and the
blackberry-hedge which wound around a cliff, as well as the little
field-house built to keep farming-implements or to protect field-hands
against sudden showers: last of all, he added a farmer, with horse and
plough.
Late in the day he rose to return, with his spirits much calmed by his
occupation. Several peasants joined him and gave evidence of a burning
thirst for information. Our friend submitted to it all with the best
grace he could assume. But it was unfortunate that, when asked whether
"it wasn't a fine country hereabouts," he answered, "Tolerable." He saw
but little in it of the picturesque.
Being struck with the clumsiness of the church-steeple, he asked who
had built the church. They looked at each other in astonishment; for
they could not bring themselves to think that there should ever have
been a time when that church was not standing.
At home the teacher sat waiting for Buchmaier, who, he thought, would
come to meet him. The dusk of evening brought out a more lively hum of
voices: the teacher alone sat silently at his open window. The
suggestion of Mat could not but return to his mind; and he thought
seriously of seeking a companion who would rescue him from the lot of
being
"Among monsters the only heart feeling a throb."
It was Friday evening: the young Jews passed, singing through the
streets, according to custom. There was a voice among them once which
no longer sings so merrily. Some songs were given from books: just as
they passed the schoolhouse they sang the beautiful air,--
"Heart, my heart, why weep'st thou sadly?
Why so still, and why so grave?
Sure the stranger's land is lovely:
Heart, my heart, what wouldst thou have?"
[Illustration: The teacher took up his violin and played.]
As the sound died away, the teacher felt the full force of the music in
his soul. He took up his violin and played that remarkable waltz
ascribed to Beethoven,--Le Désir. Nothing of the kind had ever been
heard in the village, and a crowd soon assembled at the window. To
please them as well as himself, he struck up another waltz, full of
life and frolic. The shouts and laughter of the listeners rewarded him.
Tired at last of solitude, he left the house, and, meeting Mat,
inquired where Buchmaier might be looked for.
"Come along," was the answer: "he's at the Eagle every Friday night."
The teacher complied, though he thought it very wrong for the squire to
be sitting in the tavern like anybody else. He found a large concourse,
engaged in animated conversation. The Jews, who are generally out of
the village at other times, were now mingling with their Christian
fellow-citizens and drinking: they testified their reverence for the
Sabbath only by abstaining from the use of tobacco.
After a brief halt consequent upon the new schoolmaster's entrance,
Buchmaier, who had made room for him at the table, continued his
remarks:--
"As I was saying, Thiers wanted to do France brown with a slice of
German lard; but he's found the mess too salt for his fancy, and
another time he won't be so greedy. What do you think of it, Mr.
Teacher?"
"You're very right; but we ought to have Alsace back again besides."
"So we ought, only the Alsatians won't come back. The last time I was
in Strasbourg I was right-down ashamed of myself the way they treated
me,--wanting to know whether we wouldn't soon have some more
counterfeit money that didn't belong anywhere. A real fine man I met
with said that the office-holders over there would like to be German
very much, because here they are paid best and cared for to the third
and fourth generation, and sure of their places, but in France they
can't come it quite so strong. And, if it was to be German again, who
should have it? A son of the counterfeit sixer? I believe there's one
in circulation yet? Or a sweated Hanoverian ten-guilder piece? I guess
they wouldn't give it to any one alone: they'd cut it into snips, just
as they chipped up the left bank of the Rhine, so that everybody might
see it was German and no mistake."
"While the teacher sat dumb with, astonishment at this audacious
utterance, a stout man, whose dress and accent bespoke the Israelite,
began:--
"Yes; and the Jews in Alsatia--there's lots of 'em, too--would rather
be butchered than made Germans of. Over there they're every whit as
good as the Christian citizens, and here they pay the same taxes and
serve in the army just like the Christiana, and only have half their
rights."
"You're right, Mendle, but you won't be righted," replied Buchmaier.
After a pause, Buchmaier began again:--
"Mr. Teacher, what do you think of the cruelty-to-animals societies?
Can anybody tell me not to do as I like with my own? Can anybody punish
me for such things?"
In this question again the teacher saw nothing but coarseness and
barbarity: with vehemence he advocated the ordinances and regulations
prohibiting the practices in question. Buchmaier rejoined:--
"In cities it may be right enough to admonish people not to be hard on
their cattle; but punishing is nobody's business. These coachmen and
omnibus-drivers and liveried officials--I mean to say, liveried
servants--have no feeling for their cattle, because very often they
don't even own 'em, and, as for having raised 'em, that's not to be
thought of. But in the country I've seen people cry more when one of
their cows falls than when their children die."
"The gentlefolks ought to stop being cruel to the peasants first," said
Mat. "The old judge always talked to his dog as if it was his baby, and
snarled at the farmers as if they were other people's dogs. Let them
get up a society first that nobody's to say 'sirrah' to a farmer any
more."
"Yes," said Buchmaier: "the point of the joke is that the
office-holders would like to have a little government over the cattle.
Mark my words: if things go on this way it won't be ten years before a
man will receive a command that he's to plant this and not that, and
that he's to plough this field and let that lie fallow: there'll be
societies about cruelty to the fields, and all that sort of thing."
"If men are not rational enough," said the teacher, "to be moderate in
all things, it is the duty of the state to inculcate what is good by
the fear of punishment."
"Never, if I live a hundred years," said Buchmaier, fiercely, suddenly
checking himself, however, either because he bethought himself of the
dignity of his station, or because he really had nothing else to say.
He emptied his glass by slow pulls; while a man with curled hair,
somewhat grizzled, said, in High German, but still in the singing tone
of the Jews, "Men may be punished for doing wrong; but there's no such
thing as forcing them to be good: goodness effected by compulsion is
not goodness."
"Right," said Buchmaier. The teacher, however, did not heed the remark:
it is not to be supposed that, like other learned men, he chose to
treat an objection urged by a Jew as if it had not been uttered; but he
probably regarded Buchmaier alone as his adversary, for he asked him,--
"Do you believe that the state has a right to compel people under a
penalty, to send their children to school?"
"Of course; of course."
"But why?"
"Because that's all right and proper."
"But you say we have no right to compel people to be good."
"Yes; but you can punish people when they do wrong; and a man does
wrong who won't send his child to school. Isn't it so?" he concluded,
turning to the man who had spoken before.
"Certainly," answered the latter. "The state is the guardian of those
who don't know how to take care of themselves. Just as it is its duty
to watch over a child that has lost its parents, so it must vindicate
its rights when infringed by those who are too mean or too ignorant to
do their duty by them."
"Right; just right," said Buchmaier, triumphantly.
Without either addressing or avoiding the speaker, whom he regarded as
an interloper, the teacher said, "If the state is the guardian of the
unprotected and the defenceless, it is also bound to see to the
well-being of the cattle, for they are in like case as children are."
"Apple-cores and pear cider! How came the beets into the potato-sack?"
said Buchmaier, laughing. "By your leave, Mr. Teacher, you've got into
a snarl there. I've a heifer at home that hasn't a father nor a mother;
and I'll have to call the town-meeting to-morrow to appoint a
guardian."
Roars of laughter shook the building. The teacher made great efforts to
define his position, but could not obtain a hearing. The whole company
were but too glad to see the conversation--which had become almost
serious--turn into this comical by-way. All he could do was to protest
that he had never intended to rank children and cattle alike.
"Oh, of course not!" said Buchmaier. "Why, you kissed Mat's Johnnie
to-day, and that's more than anybody does to a beast. But now it
seems as if I was three times more certain than ever that these
cruelty-to-animals societies are like tying up the hens' tails,--as if
they didn't carry them upright, anyhow."
The tide of merriment swelled into a torrent, and what it carried on
its bosom was not all of dainty texture. The teacher was not in a mood
to be carried away by the current: on the contrary, it harassed and
worried him. He soon quitted the inn with that gnawing sensation which
befalls us when we have been misunderstood because not heard to the
end. He perceived how difficult it is to lead an assemblage of grown
persons through the profound and exhaustive analysis of any subject.
But, leaving this train of thought, he soon suffered himself to suppose
that he had met with that phase of barbarism which consists not in the
absence of polish, but in the conceited disdain of culture and
refinement. He was much mortified. The resolution to confine himself
exclusively to the companionship of docile childhood and of uncorrupted
nature was confirmed in his mind.
Next day (Saturday) the teacher called on the councilmen, but found
none of them at home. His last errand was to the old schoolmaster,
whose house he found at the lower end of a pretty garden which opened
on the road. The beds were measured with lead and string, and skirted
with box; the hedge of beech which enclosed the whole was smoothly
shorn, and, at regular intervals, little stems rose over the hedge,
crowned with spherical foliage. In the midst was a rotunda, forming a
natural basin, girt with box and garnished with all sorts of buds and
flowers. At the foot of the garden, near the arbor, voices were heard
in conversation. Advancing in that direction, he said to the two men
whom he found there,--
"Can I see Mr. Schoolmaster?"
"Two of 'em: ha, ha!" said the elder, who was without a coat, and had a
hoe in his hand.
"I mean the old schoolmaster."
"That's me; and this is the Jew teacher: ha, ha!" answered the man with
the hoe, pointing to his companion, who was dressed as befits the
Sabbath.
"I am glad to have the pleasure of meeting you also. Have we not seen
each other before?"
"Yes,--when you were conversing with the squire."
The old gentleman threw away his hoe, took his pipe out of his mouth,
and seized his coat, for the purpose of putting it on,--a design
against the execution of which our friend interfered.
"We must not stand upon ceremony," said he: "we are colleagues. I am
the new teacher. Is this garden your property?"
"Ha, ha! 'should think it was," replied he. Every word he said was
accompanied with a peculiar chuckle, which appeared to come from his
inmost soul. "Welcome to Nordstetten," he added, extending his hand,
and shaking that of the newcomer with a grip which reminded him of
Goetz von Berlichingen.
[Illustration: I am the new teacher.]
The Jewish teacher stood rubbing his hands in great embarrassment. He
knew not whether to offer his hand or not. He feared to be thought
obtrusive, as he was not the object of the visit; and, again, he was
disposed to resent this want of attention as a slight, and dreaded lest
his dignity should be compromised by an advance on his part.
These mingled feelings--the fear of obtrusiveness and ill-will on the
one hand, and of excessive sensitiveness on the other--are the two
thieves between which Jew is crucified in the conventional intercourse
of European society, and must continue to be so until his social
position shall become firm and well defined.
Like all educated Jews of the older generation, the Jewish teacher was
conversant with the text of the Bible, and never forgot the maxims,
"Love the stranger, for ye were strangers also in the land of Egypt,"
and, "Offend not the stranger, for ye know his thoughts." He remembered
the pleasure he had himself derived, years before, from a smiling
welcome. Thus he stood, his lips moving silently, and the muscles of
his face twitching. At length he stepped up to the new-comer, extended
his hand, and expressed his pleasure in his arrival. The stranger said,
"You would certainly do me a great favor, gentlemen, by giving me some
advice in reference to my line of conduct. I know no one here."
"I can understand that very well," replied the Jewish teacher. "I also
came here for no other reason than that I was sent by the consistory,
and did not know a soul. I often longed for a charm to make myself
_incognito_ for a while, so as to study closely the character of the
parents; for, without the parents to help you, nothing is to be done
with the children. What made matters particularly difficult for me was
that it became my duty, twenty-five years ago, to organize a regular
school,--a matter till then entirely unknown among the Jews. At first
it seemed to me that I had been spirited into a strange world by
enchantment."
"Yes, you came into an enchantment soon enough, and married the
prettiest girl in the village: ha, ha! And so you ought," fell in the
old man. Turning to our friend, he continued,--"You must marry a girl
from our village, too."
The new teacher recoiled in such haste as to set his foot ruinously
into one of the immaculate flower-beds. After stammering out an
apology, he said, "I only refer to my relations with the parents and
the children."
"Be strict with them: that's the main point," said the old gentleman,
repairing the damage with the hoe. "As to the new ways of teaching,
I don't understand them. They ask the children, 'Who made the
table?'--just as if they didn't know that without teaching. And then
they give only the sounds of h, k, l, m, like the dumb, and the
alphabet's gone out of fashion entirely."
"Strict, you say?" interposed the new teacher, to avoid the shoals and
quicksands of a discussion.
"Yes. Of all the men running about the village now, there's not one who
hasn't had his good salting down from me many and many a time; and I
leave it to you whether they don't respect me to this day."
"Most certainly," responded the Jewish teacher, smiling. The old
gentleman went on:--"And when there's a festivity in the village it
won't do to play the gentleman of refinement and look on a while to see
how the ignorant vulgar amuse themselves; but you must go in and help
them. I've been the wildest among 'em all. The barber's dance they
learned from me, and the seven-league jump I always led them in, with
my Madge: my legs itch when I think of it."
"You were born and bred here, and had no need of establishing a
reputation."
"I was not born and bred here. All this country fell to Wurtemberg in
the year five: before that time it had belonged to Austria. I was born
at Freiburg."
"You have seen much of life?"
"I should think so. People that are thirty years old nowadays don't
know any thing of the world, for now every thing rolls as smoothly as a
tenpin-alley. I don't refer to you: but what can a teacher be expected
to know nowadays? Where has he been in the world? In books up to the
eyes. Every thing runs like clock-work now, and it's one, two, three,
pupil, student, teacher. I was a soldier, a musician, and a court
clerk, in the lands of many rulers. I have gone through with Russians,
and Frenchmen, and Saxons, and other deviltry. I began a copy-book
here, in the finest of German text; and when I'd got as far as F, down
came those lubberly Frenchmen, and they turned all our German text into
French; and there was an end of it."
Leaning on his hoe, he went on to tell the two grand stories of his
life,--the one of a pot containing two hundred florins, which he had
buried in the cellar, but which the French discovered notwithstanding,
and the other of how, on a bitter cold winter's day, he had gone with
the parson to Eglesthal to administer extreme unction to an old woman,
and they were met by a Cossack, who relieved the teacher of his mittens
of fox's skin. An elaborate description of the mittens was interrupted
by the stroke of eleven, which put an end to the colloquy. Our friend
walked with the Jewish teacher to the Eagle, where he had taken board.
Next morning the new teacher's performance on the organ attracted great
admiration. From various groups which formed as the congregation were
leaving the church, the remark was heard,--
"He's 'most as good as the old teacher."
He sought out the latter, and requested him to officiate in the
afternoon.
[Illustration: I was sub-organist in the Freiburg Cathedral.]
The old man laughed with joy, and said at last, in the short, broken
sentences usual to him, "Oh, yes! young folks can learn something if
they wish to. I was sub-organist in the Freiburg Cathedral for two
years and a half: ha, ha! Yes, the last professor drove me out of the
church. I didn't go there for a whole year: I couldn't stand his
squeaking; and even after that I only went to mass, and to hear the
sermon: when the singing began I had to run away."
He played in the afternoon; but the bizarre and fantastic movements he
made on the sacred instrument caused the young man more than once to
shake his head. The rest of the auditory, however, gave tokens of
unalloyed satisfaction.
For his attention to the old teacher the new one was greatly praised;
while he was blamed in the same degree for calling on the councilmen on
a weekday, when he might have known they could not be found at home. Of
both praise and blame the teacher remained equally unconscious.
On Monday the school began. The parson, a man of pleasing manners and
high tone of character, introduced the teacher to his new sphere of
duties with a pithy address, in the presence of the entire council and
committee of citizens.
[Illustration: He rambled alone through the woods and fields.]
From this day forth the teacher ceased to take his dinner at the public
house: the noise and confusion of the place disturbed him, and he
wished to be left to himself after the unruly tribe of children was
dismissed. In fact, he lived a life of entire seclusion: the duties of
his station were consciensciously performed, but beyond that he
studiously avoided all society. At rare intervals only would he take a
walk in company with the Jewish teacher or with the old one. The latter
he soon fathomed. In the mind of the former the foreground was occupied
by the political and social affairs of his brethren, and he found but
little congenial to his own turn of thinking. The remainder of the
citizens--even Buchmaier himself--were as much strangers to him as
before he had entered the village. He never went to the inn, nor ever
joined the knots of talkers assembled in front of some of the houses,
after dark. When school was over, he rambled alone through the woods
and fields, sketched the landscape, or took notes of his thoughts and
feelings. In the evening he read, or practised on his violin.
As we cannot produce copies of his drawings nor repeat his musical
performances, we must content ourselves with a copy of his reflections,
under the title given them by the author himself.
"WISDOM IN THE FIELDS.
"(Lying on the grass.) Every resuscitation is mingled with remnants of
decay which it displaced. Look at the pastures in spring, and you will
find many a day blade of last year's growth amid the fresh grass of the
present: its destiny is to wither away and serve as manure for future
crops. When fools perceive this, they say, 'There is no spring, and
there never will be: look at these wilted wisps.' Is it not the same
case with all intellectual growth? Is not the old schoolmaster a blade
of dry grass of this sort?
* * * * *
"To me all nature is but a symbol of the mind: it appears like a mere
mask, behind which the mind is hidden. These poor peasants! They live
in this free growth of nature with the same feelings as if they
inhabited a dead-house: in all the fields and woods they see nothing
but the profit, the number of sheaves, the sacks of potatoes, the cords
of wood: I alone inhale the spiritual essence that breathes from it
all. Let me turn my eyes from these human grubs who creep sightlessly
through all this splendor; let me elevate my thoughts above this paltry
traffic, and as the bee makes honey from the spiked thistle which the
ass merely swallows, so let me derive the sweet intellectual savor out
of all things. Assist me, thou Eternal Mind, and let me not be like
those who cleave to the sod until the sod rolls over their coffins! And
you, ye master-minds of my nation, whose works have followed me hither,
strengthen me, and let me sit at your feet continually.
* * * * *
"Every patch of ground has its history. Could any one unravel the
mutations which transferred it from hand to hand, and the fortunes and
sentiments of those who tilled it, he would understand the history of
the human race; while its geological structure, traced to the centre of
the earth, would unfold all the developments of the earth's formation.
* * * * *
"Every thing on earth becomes the food, or in some way the consumption,
of something else: man alone appropriates all things, himself remaining
free and unsubdued until the earth opens and swallows up his body. This
brings me, by a way of my own, to the commonplace remark that man is
the lord of the earth. But there is really no other truth but that
self-acquired knowledge which we attain by the labor of our own
spirits.
* * * * *
"I once heard, or read, that it is only where the number of domestic
animals exceeds that of human beings that a state of society obtains in
which all may be comfortable and none need be wretched.
"Is there a parallel truth,--that the number of irrational men must
always be greater than that of men of reason?
"A dreadful thing to think of! And yet----
* * * * *
"It is clear that agriculture was the beginning and the first occasion
of civilization. As long as men depended on hunting and fishing, they
were but like the beasts, who _seek_ their subsistence. It was when
they began to _prepare_ their food, by observing and directing the
natural laws of vegetation, planting and nursing, that they first
attached themselves to particular spots, and were impelled to study the
elements and their combinations, and to exert an influence upon the
world without and the world within them.
"Agriculture is the root of all civilization; and yet the
agriculturists of the known world have never tasted but a small portion
of its fruits. Is this unavoidable?
* * * * *
"Upon the unsteady flower that rocks in the breeze the bee makes her
perch and gathers her honey: thus man enjoys the fleeting things of
earthly life, while all things rock under his feet.
* * * * *
"(At the Beech-Pond.) A drop from the sky falls into the pond, forms a
little bubble for a while, then bursts, and mingles with the morass;
another falls into the stream and becomes a part of the living billow.
Is my existence like that of such a rain-drop? Then let me be resolved
into a living stream: it must be so.
* * * * *
"Every bird flees from the rain: only the swallow revels in it.
* * * * *
"When I go abroad to refresh myself with a little bodily fatigue, I
meet the farmers returning wearied from their work: it almost makes me
ashamed to be out sauntering.
"In the morning and in the evening we perceive the changes between
light and darkness; yet this change is going on to the same extent
throughout the day.
"Is not the development of the human mind in the same case?
"I have looked upon numberless sunsets, and yet no two were alike. Such
is the endless variety of nature; and therein lies its inexhaustible
beauty.
"In watching the sunset, we are tempted to suppose that from where we
stand, as far as the western horizon, the red glow of evening extends
and there is light, but that behind us all is darkness. Those again who
stand farther eastward imagine that the light extends quite to their
feet, though no farther. Thus every man measures the horizon from the
little spot on which he stands, and all regard themselves as the last
remnants of enlightenment.
"Why is a sunset more attractive to most men than a sunrise?
"Is it because but few ever see the latter, or because that which
departs has more of our sympathies? I think not. The sunset comes to a
beautiful mysterious close in the shade of night and the stillness of
universal rest; but the sunrise never comes to a conclusion: it is
dissipated in the glare and noise and turmoil of the day. Beautiful is
death! Oh, how I long----
* * * * *
"(Behind the manor-house garden.) When a post is driven into the earth,
the end must be charred to keep it from decay: he who is touched by the
fire of the mind can never die.
* * * * *
"The hide of one poor beast is sliced into harness for another. The
application is easy.
* * * * *
"If a man is told that a place he desires to reach is nearer than
it really is, his fatigue is doubled,--the result probably of his
over-eagerness to get to the end of his journey.
"I have erred in thinking the way to the goal of my life shorter than
it turns out to be.
* * * * *
"In mowing you must take short steps and walk forward in a straight
line. The more sparse the clover, the more fatigue in the labor: the
scythe reels about the hard earth, and at last plunges in the air
without effecting any result. Significant!
* * * * *
"Green feed, and every thing brought home in the sap, is free from
tithes.
* * * * *
"In cutting corn, the reaper must lay the swath behind him, so as to
have nothing before him but the blades still standing. So with the
deeds that we have done. They must be out of the sight, so that all our
attention may be turned upon what yet remains to do.
* * * * *
"When in the distance I see the mowers bowing and rising so regularly,
it seems as if they were going through some ceremonious ritual of
prayer.
* * * * *
"The new paling of the manor-house garden is being painted green. Dry
wood rots in wind and weather if not covered with a coating. Nature
furnishes a secure vestment for all her creatures: men tear off these
natural coats and are compelled to replace them with artificial ones.
"What if education were nothing more than oil-paint, a poor surrogate
for the fresh lustre of Nature? No: it is Nature itself, elevated,
purified; men like those around me here----
* * * * *
"Valentine, the old carpenter, is so forgetful that he walks along the
road with the cart-whip on his shoulder, and cries 'Hoy!' without
perceiving that his cows have turned into a wrong road forty yards
behind him. Is not this the lot of many rulers?
* * * * *
"In a garden by the roadside is a weeping willow, the boughs of which
have been tied and twisted into all sorts of ellipses, circles, oblique
and right angles, until they have taken this shape permanently.
"The boughs of sorrow are tractable, and may be cramped into almost any
deformity; still, the irrepressible vigor of Nature will restore the
original growth and proportion. What is it that makes farmers so fond
of distorting Nature? Why are they so prone to maltreat the weeping
willow, the loveliest of trees? Perhaps there lies at the very root of
human nature a disposition to indemnify one's self for a year's hard
labor by making a plaything of the subject of it on a holiday.
* * * * *
"(At the crucifix in the Target Field.) Although there were some Jews
living in the place where I was born, I never thought much about them.
I only remember that when a little boy, like the other little boys, I
jeered and even struck the little Jews at every opportunity.
"It as little occurs to us to meditate upon our relation to the Jews as
upon that we hold to horses or other cattle. On the contrary, the Bible
inspires every Christian child with an indistinct impression of having
received some personal wrong at the hands of every individual of the
Jewish persuasion. A mysterious abhorrence of them gradually settles
upon the infant mind. I involuntarily regarded every Jew as having some
disease of the skin. A child thus educated will caress an animal, but
never a Jew.
"I am now thrown into frequent intercourse with the Jews. The Jewish
teacher is a man remarkably free from prejudice, and possessed of a
degree of culture such as I have not often met with. He is more
conversant with theology than with the natural sciences. Is that the
case with Jews in general? His method of instruction is highly
intellectual, but a little wanting in system and regularity,--a
disadvantage for children not extraordinarily gifted. A strange
sensation overcame me on my first visit to the synagogue. The Hebrew
words have wandered from the slopes of Lebanon to these German
pine-forests. And yet, is not our religion derived from the same spot?
Again, while ancient Rome could not vanquish the Germans, nor make them
speak the language of the Capitol, modern Rome perfected the
achievement. Every Sunday the Roman language is heard upon these
distant hills.
* * * * *
"Over against the school-house is the so-called Burned Spot, the site
of the house in which a whole Hebrew family--the grandmother,
daughter-in-law, and five grandchildren--fell a victim to the flames.
It is now the favorite resort of children when they wish to play at
hide-and-seek. The old ruins abound in choice hiding-places. The
rosy-cheeked boys clamber up and down the blackened walls, and shout
and yell; just where the flames crawled! Such things occur in the
history of great things also.
* * * * *
"The bel-wether dance has just been held. "These things are no longer
suited to our times: they are a feature of the Middle Ages. Then the
lord of the manor may have looked with complacency from the turret of
his castle upon the follies of his villeins: he had given them the
wether and the ribbon, and probably gave the winning pair pittance of a
marriage-portion. All these things are at an end; and why continue the
form of that which no longer has a substance?
"Sometimes a chord of the music steals out into the fields and strikes
upon my ear; but it is only the braying of the grand trumpet that
becomes thus distinguishable. Like me, the peasants here are beyond the
reach of the harmonies produced by the intellectual efforts of
humanity: not until the great trumpet brays or the bass-drum rattles
does a solitary link attach them to the mighty chain, and, for a space,
they keep step with the pace of time. Of the gentle adagio and the more
intricate harmonies they know nothing.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Spots of ground are always to be found in which no man
has a property.]
"It is well that spots of ground are always to be found in which,
strictly speaking, no man has a property, and where the poor may pluck
their bundles of grass without molestation. Such are the steep banks,
cliffs, gulches, and so on. And where even the poor can no longer find
a footing, the goat--the companion of the needy--makes her way and
picks a scented herb or an aromatic twig.
* * * * *
"On 'wood-days' the poor are allowed to appropriate the dry boughs of
the green trees. I have read somewhere that kind Nature herself
instituted this traditional charity, and throws to the poor the crumbs
of her laden board. The poor and the dry sticks.
* * * * *
"The weeds in the corn-fields are also no man's property until the poor
take them away and convert them into nutritious food. Do you ask, of
what use are weeds? Perhaps many other things should be judged by the
same rule."
These leaves were the product of three months of comparative solitude.
His habit of writing when abroad had been discovered, and had subjected
him to various uncharitable suspicions. As the reader may have divined,
many of them were but the answers given by the peasants to questions on
matters very familiar to them, and indeed to everybody except the very
learned men of learned Germany. The villagers were at their wits' end.
They could not conceive how any one could be ignorant of these matters.
Those who travel afoot must have noticed the demeanor of peasants when
asked the way to a place in the immediate neighborhood. At first they
suspect that a joke is being played upon them; and then they give an
explanation which presupposes a perfect acquaintance with other
localities in point of fact equally unknown to the questioner. Yet
educated men are often no wiser. Perfectly at home in a certain sphere
of ideas, they take for granted that every one else is equally so, and
explain themselves in such a manner as to leave the hearer more
mystified than he was before.
Of course the teacher was no better known to the villagers than they to
him. Very few of them had ever heard his name. One thing, however, they
had discovered,--that the teacher came from Lauterbach; and this single
fact was used by the wit and humor of the village as the rod with which
to punish his pride and reserve. In the evening, whenever he was known
to be in, the young fellows assembled under his window and sang the
"Lauterbacher" without cessation. As he had taken the part of the
societies for the prevention of cruelty to animals, they generally
wound up with,--
"I won't sing any more:
A mouse ran over the floor;
I'll hunt it and I'll find it,
Put out its eyes and blind it,
Take out my knife and skin it,
And lay it out and pin it,"
&.c. &c. &c.
This piece of vulgarity vexed the teacher; but he never quite
understood the meaning of it all until the College Chap joined the
singers; for, though a married man, he could not forego the privilege
of being the leader in all sorts of mischief. He made a new verse,
which was repeated again and again:--
"At Lauterbach I was born so proud,
And proud I am going to die:
Oh, carry me back to Lauterbach:
That is where I ought to lie."
A light flashed upon the teacher's mind. It grieved him to the soul to
find himself thus abused by those whom he meant so well. He mourned
within-doors, and without the noise grew louder and louder. He gathered
himself up, intending to open the window and address the crowd in
conciliation: luckily, however, his eye fell upon his violin, and,
taking it down, he played the air of the song with which they were
persecuting him. There was a sudden silence below, interrupted by low
chucklings. Presently the singing recommenced, and the teacher resumed
the accompaniment as often as the provocation was repeated.
At length he appeared at the window, saying, "Is that the way?"
"Yes," was the general answer; and from this time forth he was
unmolested,--for he had shown that his temper was proof against
teasing.
But on this occasion he formed the resolution of seeking intercourse
with his neighbors more than formerly. He saw that his duties to his
fellows were not circumscribed by the school-room.
The execution of this design was not long without its reward.
One Sunday afternoon, on returning from church-service, he took his way
by the street which skirted the hill-side, called the "Bruck," or
Bridge. An old woman was sitting in front of her house with her hands
folded and her head shaking with palsy. He said, kindly,--
"How do you do? The sunshine does you good, doesn't it?"
"Thank you, kind gentleman," answered the old woman, still nodding.
The teacher stood still.
"You have seen many summers, haven't you?" said he.
"Seventy-eight: a good number. Seventy years is the life of man, says
the Scripture. I often think Death must have forgotten me. Well, our
Lord God will fetch me in his own good time: he knows when. I sha'n't
get out of his sight."
"But you seem to keep up very well."
"Not very well,--the cramp; but this helps it." She pointed to the gray
threads she had tied around her arms, the veins of which were swollen.
"What is that?"
"Why, a pure virgin spun this before she broke her fast in the morning,
and spoke the Lord's Prayer three times while she did it. If you put
that round your arm, and don't cry out about it, and speak the prayer
to the Lord's holy three nails nine times over, it drives away the
cramp. I have to cough so much," she said, pointing to her chest, to
excuse the frequent interruptions in her speech.
"Who spun the threads for you?" inquired the teacher, again.
"My Hedwig,--my grand-daughter. Don't you know her? Who are you?"
"I am the new teacher."
"And don't know my Hedwig! Why, she's one of the choristers. What's the
world coming to, I'd just like to know! The schoolmaster doesn't know
the choristers any more!
"I used to sing in the choir myself,--though, to hear me cough, you
wouldn't think so. I was a smart lass: oh, yes. I was fit enough to be
seen: and once a year there was a grand dinner, and the parson and the
schoolmaster were there. Oh, they did use to sing the funniest songs
then, about the Bavarian Heaven, and such things! That's all over now:
the world isn't what it used to be when I was young."
"You love your grand-daughter very much, don't you?"
"She is the youngest. Oh, my Hedwig is one of the old sort; she lifts
me up and lays me down, and never gives me an unkind word. I almost
wish to die, just for her good,--she's kept home so much on account of
me; and, after I'm dead, I'll pray my best for her in heaven."
"Do you pray a great deal?"
"What can I do better? My working-days are over.
"I know a prayer which brings the souls out of the moon right into
heaven, and so that they don't get into purgatory at all. The Holy
Mother of God once said to God the Father, 'My dear husband, the way
the poor souls squeak and howl down there in purgatory is too bad: I
can't stand it any longer.' So he said, 'Well, I don't care: you may go
and help them.' So, there was a man in the Tyrol with eight children:
and his wife died, and he went on about it dreadfully when they carried
her to the churchyard. But the Mother of God came every morning and
combed the childrens' heads and washed their faces, and made the beds;
and for a long time the man never found out who did it all. At last he
went to the parson, and the parson came very early with the sacrament,
and saw the Mother of God flying out of the window, as white as snow;
and the prayer was lying on the sill; and they built a church on the
spot."
"And you know this prayer, ma'am?" said the teacher, taking a seat
beside her.
"You mustn't say 'ma'am' to me: it's not the way hereabouts."
"Have you more grandchildren?"
"Five more; and fourteen great-grandchildren,--and I'm going to have
another soon by my Constantine. Don't you know my Constantine? He is
studied too, but he's a wild one. I have no reason to complain of him,
though, for he's always good to me."
Suddenly there appeared, coming from behind the house, a girl, closely
followed by a snow-white hen. "Ha' ye gude counsel, grandmammy?" she
asked, scarcely looking up as she passed. The teacher was so taken by
surprise that he rose involuntarily and touched his cap.
"Is that your grand-daughter?" he asked, at length.
"To-be-sure."
"Why, that is splendid," said the teacher.
[Illustration: Coming from behind the house a girl appeared.]
"Isn't she a smart-looking lassie? Old George the blacksmith always
tells her, when she goes into the village, that she's just like his
grandmother. George the blacksmith is the last of the young fellows I
used to dance with: we might as well be three hundred miles apart as
the way we are: he's down in the village and can't come up to me, and I
can't get down to him. We'll have to wait until we meet each other
half-way in the churchyard. I expect to find all the old world there,
and in heaven it'll be better yet. My poor Jack Adam has been waiting a
long time for me to come after him: he'll be getting tired of it."
"All the people in the village must like you," said the teacher.
"Call into the wood, and you'll have a good answer. When we're young,
we want to eat everybody up,--some for love, and some for vexation:
when we're old, we live and let live. You wouldn't believe me how good
the people are here if I were to tell you: you'll have to find it out
yourself. Have you been much about in the world?"
"Not at all. My father was a schoolmaster like myself, and when he died
I was only six years old: my mother soon followed him. I was taken to
the Orphans' House, and remained there--first as a pupil, and then as
an incipient and assistant--until this spring, when I was transferred
here. Ah, my good friend, it's a hard lot to have almost forgotten the
touch of a mother's hand."
The old woman's hand suddenly passed over his face. He blushed deeply,
and sat for a moment with closed lids and quivering eyeballs. Then, as
if awaking from a dream, he seized her hand, saying,--
"I may call you grandmother, mayn't I?"
"Yes, and welcome, my kind, good friend: a grandchild more or less
won't break me, I'll try it, and will knit your stockings: bring me
your torn ones, too, to mend."
The teacher still kept his seat, unable to tear himself away. The
passers-by were astonished to find the proud man chatting so cosily
with old Maurita. At last a man came out of the house, rubbing himself
and stretching his eyes.
"'Had your nap out, Johnnie?" asked the old woman.
"Yes; but my back aches woefully with mowing."
"It'll get well again: our Lord God won't let any man get hurt by
working," answered his mother.
The teacher recalled the thoughts suggested by the bowing motion of the
mowers. He saluted Johnnie, and walked out into the fields with him.
Johnnie liked those conversations which were not attended with
drinking, and, therefore, free from expense. He found the teacher, who
was an excellent listener, in the highest degree amiable and smart. He
favored him with an exposition of his finances, with the story of
Constantine, and many other interesting particulars.
In the evening he informed all his friends that the teacher wasn't near
so bad as people made him out to be, only he couldn't drive his tongue
very well yet: he hadn't got the right way to turn a sharp corner.
The teacher, on coming home, wrote into his pocketbook,--
"Piety alone makes even the decrepitude of age an object of admiration
and of reverence. Piety is the childhood of the soul: on the very verge
of imbecility it spreads a mild and gentle lustre over the presence and
bearing. How hard, tart, and repulsive is the old age of selfish
persons! how elevating was the conversation of this old woman in the
midst of her superstition!"
He wrote something more than this, but immediately cancelled it. Wrapt
in self-accusation, he sat alone for a long time, and then went out
into the road: his heart was so full that he could not forego the
society of men. The distant song of the young villagers thrilled his
breast. "I am to be envied," said he to himself; "for now the song of
men is more potent over me than the song of birds. I hear the cry of
brothers! Men! I love you all."
Thus he strolled about the village, mentally conversing with every one,
though not a word escaped his lips. Without knowing how he had come
there, he suddenly found himself once more in front of the house of
Johnnie of the Bruck. Every thing was silent, except that from the room
the occupation of which was part of the dower of old Maurita issued the
monotonous murmur of a prayer.
Late at night he returned home through the village, now still as death,
except that here and there the whispers of two lovers might be heard.
When he re-entered his solitary room, where there was no one to welcome
him, no one to give answer to what he said, to look up to him, and to
say, "Rejoice: you live, and I live with you," he prayed aloud to God,
"Lord, let me find the heart to which my heart can respond!"
Next day the children were puzzled to know what could have put the
teacher in such good humor. During recess he sent Mat's Johnnie to the
Eagle to say that they need not send him his dinner, as he was coming
there to eat it.
It was unfortunate that, in approaching the life that surrounded him,
his thoughts were pitched in such an elevated key. Though he had wit
enough to refrain from communicating these flights of imagination to
others, he could not avoid seeing and hearing many things which came
into the most jarring discord with them.
As he entered the inn, Babbett was in the midst of an animated
conversation with another woman. "They brought your old man home nasty,
didn't they?" she was saying: "he had the awfullest brick in his hat.
Well, if I'd seen them pour brandy into his beer, as they say they did,
I'd 'a' sent 'em flying."
"Yes," returned the woman: "he was in a shocking way,--just like a sack
of potatoes."
"And they say you thanked them so smartly. What did you say? They were
laughing so, I thought they would never get over it."
"Well, I said, says I, 'Thank you, men: God reward you!' Then they
asked, 'What for?' So I said, says I, 'Don't you always thank a man
when he brings you a sausage?' says I; 'and why shouldn't I thank you,'
says I, 'for bringing me a whole hog?' says I."
On hearing this, the teacher laid down his knife and fork: but, soon
resuming them, he reflected that, after all, necessity and passion were
the only true sources of wit and humor.
Whenever his feelings were outraged in this manner, he now fell back,
not upon mother Nature, but upon Grandmother Maurita, who gave him many
explanations on the manners and customs of the people. Many people took
it into their heads that the old woman had bewitched the schoolmaster.
Far from it. Much as he delighted to hold converse with her simple,
well-meaning heart, it would have been much more correct to have
accused Hedwig of some incantation, although the teacher had only seen
her once and had never exchanged a word with her. "Ha' ye gude counsel,
grandmammy?" These words he repeated to himself again and again. Though
uttered in the harsh mountain dialect, even this seemed to have
acquired a grace and loveliness from the lips it passed.
Yet he was far from yielding to this enchantment without summoning to
his aid all the force of his former resolves. To fall in love with a
peasant-girl! But, as usual, love was fertile in excuses. "She is
certainly the image of her grandmother, only fresher and lovelier, and
illuminated by the sun of the present time. 'Ha' ye gude counsel,
grandmammy?'"
One evening, as he was sitting by the old woman's side, upon the same
bench, the girl came home from the field with a sickle in her hand: her
cheeks were flushed,--perhaps from exercise: she carried something
carefully in her apron. Stepping up to her grandmother, she offered her
some blackberries covered with hazel-leaves.
"Don't you know the way to do, Hedwig?" said her grandmother: "you must
wait on the stranger first."
"Help yourself, Mr. Teacher," said the girl, looking up without
hesitation. The teacher took one, blushing.
"Eat some yourself," said her grandmother.
"No, thank you: just help yourselves: I hope they'll do you good."
"Where did you pick them?" asked her grandmother.
"In the gully by the side of our field: you know where the bush is:"
said the girl, and went into the house.
The bush which had formed the subject of the teacher's first sketch was
the same from which Hedwig now brought him the ripened fruit.
Hedwig soon returned, still followed by the white hen.
"Where are you going so fast, Miss Hedwig?" asked the teacher: "won't
you stop and talk with us a little?"
"No, thank you: I'll go and see the old teacher a little before
supper."
"If you have no objection, I'll go with you," said our friend, and did
so without waiting for an answer.
"Do you see the old teacher often?"
"Oh, yes: he's a cousin of mine: his wife was my grandmother's sister."
"Was she? Why, I'm delighted to hear it."
"Why? Did you know my grandaunt?"
"No, I was only thinking----"
On entering the old teacher's garden, Hedwig closed the gate hastily
behind her: the white hen, thus excluded, posted herself before it like
a sentinel.
"What makes that hen run after you so?" asked the teacher. "That's
something extraordinary."
Hedwig pulled at her apron in great embarrassment.
"Are you not permitted to tell me?" persisted the teacher.
"Oh, yes, I can, but---- You mustn't laugh at me, and must promise not
to tell anybody: they would tease me about it if it was to become
known."
He seized her hand and said, quickly, "I promise you most solemnly." It
seemed a pity to let the hand go at once, and he retained it, while she
went on, looking down,--
"I--I--I hatched the egg in my bosom. The cluck was scared away and
left all the eggs; and I held this one egg against the sun, and saw
there was a little head in it, and so I took it. You mustn't laugh at
me, but when the little chick came out I was so glad I didn't know what
to do. I made it a bed of feathers, and chewed bread and fed it; and
the very next day it ran about the table. Nobody knows a word of it
except my grandmother. The hen is so fond of me now that when I go into
the field I must lock it up to keep it from running after me. You won't
laugh at me, will you?"
[Illustration: "Sha'n't I have a shake of the hand for good-night?"]
"Certainly not," said the teacher. He tried to keep her hand as they
walked on, but soon found reason to curse the economy of the old
teacher, who had left so little room for the path that it was
impossible for two to walk abreast.
His indignation grew still greater when the old teacher came to meet
them with a louder laugh than usual, and cried, "Do you know each other
already? Ah, Hedwig, didn't I always tell you that you must marry a
schoolmaster?"
With a great effort he restrained himself from giving vent to the
mortification caused by this rude dallying with the first budding
of so delicate a flower. To his astonishment, Hedwig began, as if
nothing had been said:--"Cousin, you must cut your summer-barley in the
mallet-fields to-morrow: it's dead ripe, and will fall down if you
don't take care."
But little was spoken. Hedwig appeared to be fatigued, and seated
herself on a bench under a tree. The men conversed, our friend
regarding Hedwig all the while with such intensity that she passed her
apron several times across her face, fearing that she had blackened it
in the kitchen while putting the potatoes over the fire. But our
friend's attention was directed to very different matters. He perceived
for the first time a slight cast in Hedwig's left eye: the effect was
by no means unpleasant, but gave the face an interesting air of
shyness which suited very well the style of the features. A fine nose
of regular form, a very small mouth with cherry lips, round,
delicately-glowing cheeks,--all were enough to arrest the delighted
gaze of a young man of twenty-five. At last, after having given a
number of wry answers, he became aware that it was time to go. He took
leave, and Hedwig said, "Good-night, Mr. Teacher."
"Sha'n't I have a shake of the hand for good-night?"
Hedwig quickly put both her hands behind her back.
"In our parts we shake hands without asking: ha, ha!" said the old
teacher.
At this hint our friend whisked round the tree to catch Hedwig's hand;
but she drew them quickly before her. Not having the courage to pass
his arms round her, he ran forward and backward around the tree, until
he stumbled and fell down at Hedwig's feet. His head fell into her lap
and on her hand, and he hastily pressed a warm kiss upon it and called
her his in spirit. Finding him in no haste to get up, Hedwig raised his
head, her hands covering his cheeks, and said, looking around in great
confusion, "Get up: you haven't hurt yourself, I hope? See: this comes
of such tricks: you mustn't learn them from my cousin here."
As he rose, Hedwig bent down to brush his knees with her apron; but
this the teacher would not permit: his heart beat quickly at the sight
of this humble modesty. He said "Goodnight" again; and Hedwig looked
down, but no longer refused her hand.
He walked homeward without feeling the ground beneath his feet: a
feeling of inexpressible power coursed through his veins, and he smiled
so triumphantly on all he met that they stared and stood still to look
after him.
But the mind of man is changeful; and when the teacher had reached his
home he lapsed into cruel self-accusation. "I have suffered myself to
be carried away by a sudden passion," he said. "Is this my firmness? I
have committed myself,--thrown myself away upon a peasant-girl. No, no
the majesty of a noble soul breathes from those lineaments."
Various other thoughts occurred to him. He knew something of the life
of the villagers now; and, late in the evening, he wrote into his
pocket-hook, "The silver cross upon her bosom is to me a symbol of
sanctity and purity."
At home Hedwig had not eaten a morsel of supper, and her people scolded
her for having overworked herself,--probably by having assisted the old
teacher in the garden before supper. She protested the contrary, but
made haste to join her grandmother, in whose room she slept.
Long after prayers, hearing her grandmother cough, and seeing that she
was still awake, she said, "Grandmother, what does it mean to kiss
one's hand?"
"Why, that one likes the hand."
"Nothing else?"
"No."
After some time, Hedwig again said, "Grandmother."
"What is it?"
"I wanted to ask you something; but I forgot what it was."
"Well, then, go to sleep, because you're tired: if it was something
good, to-morrow will be time enough: you'll think of it again."
But Hedwig tossed about without sleeping. She persuaded herself that
she could not sleep because she had lost her appetite; so she forced
herself to eat a piece of bread with which she had provided herself.
Meantime the teacher had also made up his mind. At first he thought of
probing himself and his affection, and of not seeing Hedwig for some
time; but the more rational alternative prevailed, and he determined to
see her often and study her mind and character as closely as possible.
Next day he called upon his old colleague and invited him out for a
walk: he saw that, if only on Hedwig's account, he must cultivate this
acquaintance. The old man never walked out, as his gardening afforded
him all the exercise he needed; but our friend's invitation appeared to
him an honor not to be refused.
It was long before a subject of conversation could be presented to the
old man's mind which did not hang fire. His interest in every thing
invariably went out as soon as his pipe,--for which he struck fire
every five minutes. The young man did not wish to begin with Hedwig,
but rather to study a little of the niece's character by the uncle's.
"Do you read much now?" he inquired.
"Nothing at all, scarcely. What would I make by it if I did? I've got
my pension."
"Yes," replied the young man; "but we don't improve our minds only
to make our money with, but to attain a more elevated mental
existence,--to study deeper and understand more clearly. Every thing on
earth--and intellectual life above all things--must first be its own
purpose----"
The old gentleman stopped to light his pipe with great composure, and
our friend paused in the midst of an exposition which had but recently
presented itself to his own mind. They walked side by side without
speaking for a time, until the younger began again:--"But you still
practise your music, don't you?"
"I should think so. I sometimes fiddle for half a night at a time. I
need no light, I don't damage my eyes, and I don't miss anybody's
conversation."
"And you try to perfect yourself in it as far as you can?"
"Why not? Of course."
"And yet you don't make any thing by it."
The old man looked at him in astonishment. Our friend went on:--"Just
as your perfection in music gives you pleasure without making you
richer, so, methinks, it ought to be the case with reading and study.
But in this respect many people are just like those who neglect their
dress and personal appearance the moment they have no special interest
in attracting some particular person. The other day I heard a young
fellow scold a young married woman for her slatternly attire. 'Oh,'
said she, 'where's the difference now? I'm bought and sold, and my old
man must have me for better or for worse.' As if there was merely an
external object in dressing ourselves neatly and it was not required
for our own sakes, to preserve our self-respect. This is just the view
many people take of education: they carry it on to subserve an external
purpose, and the moment this incentive fails they neglect it.
"But, if we have a proper respect for our intellectual selves, we
should keep them clean and neat, as we do our persons, and seek to
bring out all their faculties to the greatest perfection attainable."
The young man suddenly perceived that he had been soliloquizing aloud,
instead of keeping up the conversation; but the indifference exhibited
by his companion dispelled every fear of having given him offence. With
a sigh it occurred to him, for the hundredth time, how wearisome is the
effort to give currency to any thoughts of a more general and elevated
nature. "If the old teacher is so thick-skinned, what is to be expected
of the farmers?" thought he.
After another pause, our friend began once more:--"Don't you think
people are much more good and pious nowadays, than they were in the old
times?"
"Pious? Devil take it! we weren't so bad in the old times either, only
we didn't make such a fuss about it: too little and too much is lame
without a crutch: ha, ha!"
Another long silence ensued, at the end of which the young man made a
lucky move in asking, "How was it about music in old times?"
A light glistened in the old man's eyes: he held the steel and the
tinder in his hand unused, and said, "It's all tooting nowadays. I was
sub-organist in the Freiburg Cathedral for two years and a half. That's
an organ, let me tell you. I heard the Abbé Vogler: there can't be any
thing finer in heaven than his music was.
"I've played at many a harvest-home, too.
"In old times they had stringed instruments principally, and harps
and cymbals. Now it's all wind,--big trumpets, little trumpets, and
valve-trumpets, all blowing and noise. And what can a musician make at
a harvest-home? Three men used to be plenty: now they want six or
seven. It used to be small room, small bass, and big pay: now it's big
room, double-bass, and half-pay.
"I once travelled through the Schaibach Valley with two comrades; and
the thalers seemed to fly into our pockets as if they had wings. Once
two villages almost exterminated each other because both wanted me to
play at harvest-home the same day."
The old gentleman now passed on to one of his favorite stories of how a
village had been so enchanted with his performance on the violin that
they had made him their schoolmaster: the Government undertook to
install another with dragoons, but the village rebelled and he kept his
office.
"Didn't it injure your standing as a teacher to play at the
harvest-homes?"
"Not a bit. I've done it more than fifty times in this village, and you
won't see a man in it but takes off his cap when he meets me in the
street."
The old man's eloquence continued to flow until they had returned to
the garden. Our friend waited a long time, in the hope of seeing
Hedwig, but in vain. Thus his first design was accomplished in spite of
himself: he did not see Hedwig for a long, long time,--to wit, for full
forty-eight hours.
Next day, as he strode alone through the fields, he saw Buchmaier
driving a horse, which drew a sort of roller.
"Busy, squire?" asked the teacher: he had learned some of the customary
phrases by this time.
"A little," answered Buchmaier, and drove his horse to the end of the
field, where he halted.
[Illustration: He drove his horse to the end of the field, where he
halted.]
"Is that the sorrel you were breaking in the day I came here?"
"Yes, that's him. I'm glad to see that you remember it: I thought you
had nothing in your head but your books.
"You see, I've had a queer time with this here horse. My ploughman
wanted to break him into double harness right-away, and I gave in to
him; but it wouldn't do, nohow. These colts, the first time they get
harness on 'em, work themselves to death, and pull, and pull, and don't
do any good after all: if they pull hard and get their side of the
swingle-tree forward, the other horse don't know what to make of it and
just lumbers along anyhow. But if you have 'em in single harness you
can make 'em steady and not worry themselves to death for nothing. When
they can work each by himself, they soon learn to work in a team, and
you can tell much better how strong you want the other horse to be."
The teacher derived a number of morals from this speech; but all he
said aloud was, "It's just the same thing with men: they must learn to
work alone first, and then they are able to help each other."
"That's what I never thought of; but I guess you're right."
"Is that the new sowing-machine? What are you sowing?"
"Rapeseed."
"Do you find the machine better than the old way of sowing?"
"Yes, it's more even; but it won't do for any but large fields. Small
patches are better sown with the hand."
"I must confess, I find something particularly attractive in the act of
sowing with the hand: it is significant that the seed should first rest
immediately in the hand of man and then fly through the air to sink
into the earth. Don't you think so too?"
"Maybe so; but it just comes to my mind that you can't say the sower's
rhyme very well with the machine. Well, you must think it."
"What rhyme?"
"Farmers' boys used to be taught to say, whenever they threw out a
handful of seed,--
"'I sow the seed:
God give it speed
For me and those in need!'"
"Such a rhyme ought never to go out of use."
"Yes; as I was saying, you can think it, or even say it, with the
machine: it's a useful invention, anyhow."
"Is it easy to introduce these new inventions?"
"No. The first time I put my oxen each into his own yoke the whole
village ran after me. And when I brought this contrivance from the
agricultural fair and went out into the field with it, the people all
thought I'd gone crazy."
"What a pity it is that the common people are so slow to understand the
value of these improvements!"
"Whoa, Tom! whoa!" cried Buchmaier, as his horse began to paw the
ground impatiently: then, holding the bridle more firmly, he went
on:--"That isn't a pity at all, Mr. Teacher: on the contrary, that's a
very good thing. Believe me, if the farmers weren't so headstrong, and
were to go to work every year to try all the machines that learned men
invent for them, we'd have to starve many a year. Whoa, Tom! You must
study agricultural matters a little: I can lend you a book or two."
"I'll come to see you about it; I see your horse won't stand still any
more. Good luck to your labor."
"Good-bye, sir," said Buchmaier, smiling at the parting salutation.
The teacher turned to go, and Buchmaier went on with his work. But
hardly had the latter walked a few yards, before he started on hearing
Buchmaier whistle the "Lauterbacher." He was inclined to suspect an
insult, but checked himself, saying, "The man certainly means no harm."
And he was quite right, for not only did the man mean no harm, but he
meant nothing whatever: he whistled without knowing what.
In a ravine, after ascertaining that he was unperceived, the teacher
wrote in his pocket-book,--"The steady and almost immovable power of
the people's character and spirit is a sacred power of nature: it forms
the centre of gravity of human life,--I might say, the _vis inertiæ_ of
all institutions.
"What a hapless vacillation would befall us if every movement in
politics, religion, or social economy were to seize at a moment's
warning upon the whole community! Only that which has ceased to
vibrate, and attained a calm, steady course of progress, is fitted to
enter here: this is the great ocean in which the force of rivers is
lost.
"I will respect the way of thinking of these people, even when I differ
from them; but I will endeavor----"
What he meant to endeavor remained unwritten. But he had been fortunate
in detecting features of interest in the affairs of village life.
It was some days before he again found an opportunity to converse with
Hedwig. He saw her from her grandmother's seat; but she appeared to be
very busy, and hurried by with very brief words of recognition. Indeed,
she almost seemed to avoid him.
Love of the peasant-girl was strong within him, but at the same time
the people's life, which had broken in upon his vision, occupied much
of his thoughts and feelings. He often walked about as if in a dream;
and yet he had never understood the realities of life so well as now.
The College Chap also gave him much trouble and vexation. The latter
was curious to know what his grandmother and the teacher could have
found to converse about. He joined them more than once, and always came
down with a rude joke whenever a vein of deeper sentiment was touched.
When the teacher inquired, "Grandmother, do you never go to church
now?" the College Chap quickly interposed, "Perhaps you remember who
built the church, grandmother: the teacher would like to know; but he
says he isn't going to run away with it."
"Be quiet, you!" replied his grandmother: "if you were good for any
thing you'd be master in the church now, and parson." Turning to the
teacher, she went on:--"It's five years since I was in church last: but
on Sunday I can hear by the bells when the host is being shown, and
when they carry it around; and then I say the litany by myself. Twice a
year the parson comes and gives me the sacrament: he's a dear, good
man, our pastor, and often comes to see me besides."
"Don't you think, Mr. Teacher," began the College Chap, "that my
grandmother would make an abbess _comme il faut_?"
On hearing herself the subject of conversation in a foreign language,
the poor old lady looked from one of the speakers to the other in
astonishment not unmingled with fear.
"Certainly," said the teacher; "but, even so, I think she can be just
as pious and just as happy as if she were an abbess."
"Do you see, grandmother?" exclaimed the College Chap, in triumph: "the
teacher says, too, that parsons are not a whit better than other
folks."
"Is that true?" said the old woman, sadly.
"What I mean is," replied the teacher, "that all men can go to heaven;
but a clerical man who is as he should be, and labors diligently for
the welfare of souls, occupies a higher grade."
"I think so too," assented the old woman. The perspiration was
gathering on the poor teacher's forehead; but the relentless student
began again:--"Isn't it your opinion, Mr. Teacher, that clergymen ought
to marry?"
"It is the canon of the Church that they must remain single; and any
one who takes orders with a perfect understanding of his own actions
must obey the law."
"I think so too," said the old lady, with great vehemence: "those that
want to get married are devils of the flesh, and clergymen must be
spiritual and not carnal. I'll tell you what: don't speak to him any
more at all; don't let him spoil your good heart. He has his wicked
day, and he isn't as bad neither as he makes himself out to be."
Finding his grandmother proof against all assaults, the College Chap
went away in an ill humor. The teacher also took his leave: again had a
fine and tender relationship been rudely jarred. Not till he reached
his dwelling did he succeed in conquering his depression and steeling
himself against these unavoidable accidents.
On Sunday he at last found another opportunity to converse with Hedwig.
He found her sitting with the old schoolmaster in his garden. They did
not appear to have spoken much together.
After a few customary salutations, the teacher began:--"How fine and
elevated a thing it is that the seventh day is hallowed by religion and
kept clear of labor! If things were otherwise, people would die of
over-work. If, for instance, in the heat of midsummer harvesters were
to work day by day without intermission until all was gathered in, no
one could endure it."
At first Hedwig and the old man listened in surprise; but soon Hedwig
said, "Were you here already when the parson allowed us to turn the hay
on Sunday in haying-time, because it rained so long and the hay might
have been spoiled? I was out in the field too, but it seemed as if
every pitchforkful was as heavy again as it ought to be. I felt as if
somebody was holding my arm; and all next day, and all next week, the
world was like upside-down, and it was as if there hadn't been a Sunday
for a whole year."
The teacher looked at Hedwig with beaming eyes. There was her
grandmother to the life. Turning to the old man, he said, "You must
remember the time when they introduced the decades into France?"
"Ducats, do you mean? why, they come from Italy."
"I mean decades. They ordained that people should rest every tenth day,
instead of every seventh. Then everybody fell sick also. The number
seven is repeated in a mysterious manner throughout the whole course of
nature, and must not be arbitrarily removed."
"Why, they must have been crazy! A Sunday every ten days! ha, ha!" said
the old man.
"Do you know the story of the lord who is hewn in stone in our church
here, with the dog?" asked Hedwig.
"No: tell it."
"He was one of those fellows, too, that didn't keep holy the Sunday. He
was a lord----"
"Lord of Isenburg and Nordstetten," explained her grand-uncle.
[Illustration: The dog wouldn't go to church with him.]
"Yes," continued Hedwig: "at Isenburg you can just see a wall or two of
his castle. He never cared for Sundays or holidays, and loved nothing
in the world but his dog, that was as big and as savage as a wolf. On
Sundays and holidays he forced people to labor; and, if they didn't
work willingly, the dog would fly at them of his own accord and almost
tear them to pieces; and then the lord would laugh: and he called the
dog Sunday. He never went to church but once,--when his daughter was
married. He wanted to take his dog Sunday to church with him, but the
dog wouldn't go: he laid himself down on the steps till his lord came
out again. As he came out, he stumbled over the dog and fell down
stone-dead; and his daughter died too: and so now they're both
chiselled in stone in the church, and the dog beside them. They say the
dog was the devil, and the lord had sold him his soul."
The teacher undertook to show that this myth was probably suggested by
the sight of the monument, the origin of which had been forgotten; that
the feudal proprietors were fond of being pictured with crests and
symbols, and so on: but he found little favor with his hearers.
No one was disposed to continue the conversation. Hedwig made a little
hole in the sand with her foot, and the teacher discovered for the
first time how small it was.
"Do you read on Sunday, sometimes?" he said, looking straight before
him. No one answering, he looked at Hedwig, who then replied, "No: we
make the time pass without it."
"How?"
"Why, how can you ask? We talk, and we sing, and we take a walk."
"What do you talk about?"
"Well," she cried, laughing gayly, "to the end of my days I wouldn't
have expected to be asked such a question! We haven't much trouble
about that: have we, uncle? My playmate, Buchmaier's Agnes, will be
here directly, and then you'll stop asking what we talk about: she
knows enough for a cow."
"But haven't you ever read any thing?"
"Oh, yes,--the hymn-book and the Bible-stories."
"Nothing else?"
"And the Flower-Basket, and Rosa of Tannenburg."
"And what else?"
"And Rinaldo Rinaldini. Now you know all," said the girl, brushing off
her apron with her hands, as if she had poured out her entire stock of
erudition at the teacher's feet.
"What did you like best?"
"Rinaldo Rinaldini. What a pity it is he was a robber!"
"I will bring you some books with much prettier stories in them."
"I'd rather you'd tell us one; but it must be grizzly and awful. Wait
till Agnes comes: she does like to hear them so much."
At this moment a boy came to tell the old teacher that Beck's Conrad
had just received a new waltz, and that he must come with his violin to
play it. He rose quickly, wished the visitors "pleasant conversation,"
and went away.
The teacher's heart trembled on finding himself alone with Hedwig: he
had not the courage to look up. At last he said, almost to himself,
"What a good old man he is!"
"Yes," said Hedwig; "and you must learn to know him. You must not be
touchy with him: he's a little short and cross to all teachers, because
he was put out of office, and so he seems to think every teacher that
comes here after him is to blame for it; and yet how can they help it,
when the consistory sends them? He is old, you see; and we must be
patient with old folks."
The teacher grasped her hand and looked tenderly into her eyes: this
loving appreciation of another's feelings won his heart. Suddenly a
dead bird fell at their feet. They started. Hedwig soon bent down and
picked up the bird.
"He is quite warm yet," said she. "The poor little thing was sick, and
nobody could help it: it's only a lark; but still it's a living thing."
"One is tempted to think," said the teacher, "that a bird that always
mounts heavenward, singing, must fall straight into heaven when it
dies, it soars so freely over the earth; and yet, at death's approach,
every thing that rose out of the earth must sink into it again."
Hedwig opened her eyes at this speech, which pleased her greatly,
though she did not quite understand it. After a pause, she said, "Isn't
it too bad that his wife or his children don't seem to care a bit about
him, but just let him fall down and die? but maybe they don't know he's
dead."
"Animals, like children," said the teacher, "do not understand death,
because they never reflect upon life: they see them both without
knowing what they see."
"Are you sure of that?" asked Hedwig.
"I think so," replied the teacher. Hedwig did not continue the subject,
as it was not her custom to follow up any idea to its source. But the
teacher said to himself, "Here is a mind eminently fitted for
cultivation and the germ of fresh and vigorous thought." Taking the
bird out of her hand, he said, "This denizen of the free air should not
be buried in the gloomy soil. I would fasten him to this tree, so that
in death he may return to his native element."
"No, that won't do: there's an owl nailed against Buchmaier's barn, and
I feel like taking it down every time I look at it."
So they buried the bird together. The teacher, having been so fortunate
in his discoveries, desired to see how far Hedwig would be accessible
to a more refined culture.
"You talk so sensibly," he began, "that it is a pity you should speak
this harsh and unpleasant farmers' German, You could surely talk like
me if you chose; and it would become you so much better."
"I'd be ashamed of myself to talk any other way; and, besides,
everybody understands me."
"Oh, yes: but, if good is good, better is better. In what language do
you pray?"
"Oh, that's quite another thing! I pray just as it's in the book."
"But you ought to talk with men in the same language in which you talk
with God."
"I can't do that, and I won't do it. Why, I wouldn't have any thing to
say if I had to be thinking all the time how it ought to be said. I'd
be ashamed of myself. No, Mr. Teacher: I'll lay your words on silken
cushions, but this won't do."
"Don't always say Mr. Teacher: call me by my name."
"That can't be, again; that won't do, you see."
"Why won't it?"
"Because it won't."
"But there must be some reason for it."
"Why, I don't know what your name is."
"Adolphe Lederer."
"Well, then, Mr. Lederer."
"No; I want you to call me Adolphe."
"Oh, now, don't. What would the folks say?"
"That we love each other," said the teacher, pressing her hand to his
heart. "Don't you love me?"
Hedwig bent down and plucked a pink from its stem. The garden-gate
opened, and Buchmaier's Agnes came in.
"Good gracious! I'm so glad I'm out!" cried she. "Good-day, Mr.
Teacher. Hedwig, just be glad you needn't go into Bible-class any more.
Mr. Teacher, you ought to manage so that big girls like us needn't go
any more. It wouldn't do me much good, to-be-sure, for I'm coming out
in fall."
"Give me the pink," said the teacher to Hedwig, in a tone of gentle
entreaty. Blushing, she complied, and he pressed the symbol of requited
affection to his lips.
"You'll catch it," said Agnes, "when old Ha ha sees that you've plucked
one of his flowers: well, for good luck, he's sitting with Beck and
playing the new waltz. Won't we dance it at harvest-home? You dance, I
hope, Mr. Teacher?"
"A little, but I'm very much out of practice."
"Practice makes perfect:--loldeloleroldelol!" chirped Agnes as she
skipped about the garden. "What are you making faces at, Hedwig? Come."
She dragged Hedwig away irresistibly, but with so much awkwardness that
they trod into a bed. Agnes loosened the earth, singing, and then said,
"Come, let's get out of this garden, where there isn't room to swing a
cat; the other girls are all out in the Cherry Copse, and he's been
waiting for us this long time, I'll warrant."
"Who?" asked the teacher.
"Why, he," replied Agnes: "if you come along you may see him for
nothing: we're good enough for you to go with us, a'n't we?"
The teacher took the hand of Agnes, and, holding it as if it had
been Hedwig's, he went out into the fields with the two girls. At the
cross-roads, where you turn up to the "Daberwarren," on a hemp-crate,
they found a man of powerful frame, tall and straight as a fir, in whom
the teacher recognised Buchmaier's ploughman. On seeing them approach,
he sprang to his feet and stood rooted to the ground by some strange
misgiving; but when Agnes walked up to him his brow relaxed, and he
looked bright and cheerful. The teacher saluted Thaddie--such was his
name--with great warmth, and the two couples walked on cosily together.
To inspire Thaddie with confidence, the teacher asked a host of
questions about the sorrel, and how he took to double harness.
Thus had come to pass what, a little while before, the teacher would
never have dreamed of: his beloved was a peasant-girl, and his comrade
a ploughman.
Thaddie and Agnes went before, and the teacher, hand-in-hand with
Hedwig, followed, chatting gayly. The teacher was now firmly convinced
that there is such a thing as conversing a great deal even without
having read books.
Near the "Cat's Well," from which the nurses are said to fetch little
children when they are born, the party seated themselves upon a bank
and sang. Hedwig had a beautiful contralto voice, and Thaddie sang a
good accompaniment. The teacher greatly regretted his limited knowledge
of the songs of the people: his musical education, however, enabled him
readily to catch the simple melodies and to improvise a tolerable bass.
With beaming eyes, Hedwig nodded her approbation. Often he was brought
to a sudden pause by an unexpected turn in the air, introduced for the
purpose of bridging a gap in the story or of smoothing the ruggedness
of the rhythm. At such times Hedwig's encouraging look would say, "Sing
on, if it does go wrong a little."
[Illustration: He united his voice to those of the villagers.]
Thus he united his voice to those of the villagers. He had come so far
that, where he furnished nothing but the tune, the peasants supplied
the words and the meaning:--
"I mow by the Neckar,
I mow by the Rhine;
My sweetheart is peevish,
My sweetheart is mine.
"What use is my mowing?
My sickle's not free;
What use is my sweetheart?
She won't stay with me.
"And mowing by Neckar,
And mowing by Rhine,
I'll throw in the ring that
She gave me for mine.
"The ring in the water
Is nabb'd by the fish;
The fish shall be brought to
The king in a dish.
"The king he shall wonder
Whose ring it might be;
Then out speaks my sweetheart:--
'It belongeth to me.'
"Up hill and down valley
My sweetheart shall spring;
And find me a-mowing
And give me the ring.
"You may mow by the Neckar,
Or mow by the Rhine,
If you throw in the ring that
I gave you of mine."
After a while, Thaddie drew Agnes closer to him, and they sang:--
"Lassie, crowd, crowd, crowd;
Let me sit close beside you:
I love you very much,
I can abide you.
But for what folks say
You'd be my love to-day;
If the folks were all gone
You and I'd be one.
Lassie, crowd, &c.
"Lassie, look, look, look
Down my black eyes, and see them
Dance in the light
The sight of you does give them.
Look, look in them deep:
Your likeness they must keep;
Here you must stay,
And never go away.
Lassie, look, &c.
"Lassie, you, you, you
Must take upon your finger
The wedding-ring:
And may it linger, linger!
If I can't do so,
To the wars I'll go;
If you I can't have,
All the world is my grave.
Lassie, you," &c.
Many other songs they sang,--mostly sad ones, though the singers were
in bounding spirits. As the spring flowed on at their feet and
meandered through the fields, so the song-fountain in them appeared
inexhaustible.
The teacher found himself in a world unknown to him before. Though he
had heard and experienced something of the rich tenderness of the rude
national ditties of Germany, he had tasted them as we eat the wild
berries of the wood on a well-served table: we prefer them to the
products of the greenhouse, yet sweeten them with sugar, and, perhaps,
wash them down with wine. Here he plucked them fresh from the bush, and
ate them not upon a piled saucer, but singly, as they left the stems.
Their deep, untranslatable force and simplicity were revealed to him in
all its glory: he felt how much his individual spirit was allied to
that of the nation, and saw its lovely representative sitting by his
side. He began to aspire to the priesthood of this marvellous spirit.
On returning to Hedwig's house and meeting her grandmother still at the
door, he seized the hand of his beloved and pressed it to his heart,
saying, "Not in bitter toil shall you lift these hands for me, but to
give blessings, as becomes them."
Unable to say more, he walked quickly away.
The village gossips that evening were occupied with nothing but the
fact that the new teacher went to see Johnnie's Hedwig.
Our friend, who had been so fond of seclusion, now found it impossible
to spend fifteen minutes by himself after school-hours, in his house or
out of it. Of all the books in his library, not one seemed to chime
in with his frame of mind: and when he undertook to write into his
note-book his lucubrations appeared so bare and profitless that he
crossed them out immediately.
In the fields he never could collect his thoughts sufficiently to make
sketches: he talked with every one he met. The people were friendly;
for his open soul beamed out of his eyes. Frequently he would stand by
them as they worked, in dreamy silence: he was reluctant to leave them
and return to the solitary dignity which a little earlier he had
thought indispensable.
Once he saw Hedwig cutting grain in the field, and hastened toward her.
But he did not long remain there: it was insufferable to find himself
the only idler among so many hard workers; and yet he was entirely
unskilled in field-work, and knew what a sorry figure he should have
made had he attempted it. Hedwig had gained in his eyes by having been
seen at work. "Hosts and manna should be baked from the ears that she
has cut," he said to himself, in turning away.
He was often absent-minded when conversing with her grandmother, and it
was only when the old lady spoke of her parents and grandparents that
she riveted his attention. It was delightful to climb up this family
tree into the dim regions of the past. Her grandfather had fought in
the wars of Prince Eugene against the Turks: and she had many of his
soldier's stories by heart. At times also, without repining, she would
predict that next winter she would meet all her ancestors again. It was
easy to divert her mind from such reflections. He loved to make her
talk of Hedwig's childhood, of the early loss of her mother, and of how
she was distressed to find that her doll could not shut its eyes at
night, and pasted paper over them. When the old woman spoke in this
strain, her eyes and those of the listener beamed in the same
brightness, like two neighbor-billows lit up by one moonbeam.
Hedwig is not mentioned in his note-book. The following passage,
however, may have been suggested by the reminiscences of her aged
relative:--
"We are prone to think that with a catechism of pure reason promulgated
among the people it would be easy to convert them; but at every step we
find ourselves upon the holy ground of history, and compelled to trace
the footsteps of the past. Alas that our German history is so torn and
disjointed! where shall we begin?"
He frequently called on Buchmaier also, and heard with delight the
solid views, albeit at times a little roughly worded, of the squire.
But the more intimate he became at his house the less kindly did he
find himself received at Johnnie's. Even Hedwig began to avoid him, and
her salutations became more and more shy and timid.
One evening Hedwig came to Agnes, weeping, and said, "Only think! that
wild brother of mine won't allow it."
"What?"
"Why, the teacher to come and see me. He says if I am seen once more
with the Lauterbacher he'll beat me and him to a jelly: you know he
sulks because the teacher is friends with your father."
"Why, that is too bad! What shall we do?"
"Tell the teacher when he comes that he mustn't be angry: but he
mustn't come to our house so much. I can't help it; I can't talk to
him. _I_ wouldn't mind it, if my brother was ever so wicked to _me_,
but he might insult him somewhere, where everybody saw it; and if he
did that I'd cry my eyes out."
"Make yourself easy," replied Agnes: "I won't tell him a word of all
that, anyhow."
"Why not?"
"Why not, you crazy pigeon? Because I don't want him to think that the
Nordstetten girls come running up to you the minute you whistle to
'em."
"He won't think any thing of the kind."
"But I a'n't a-going to run the risk of it. I won't say a word about
you unless he begins. Let me fix it: I'll get him round. Jilly wo gee!
And when he's pretty well buttered up I'll just slither him down a
little, and say, 'Mayhap I might manage to get Hedwig to our house of a
Sunday.' I'll see if the pears come off by shaking."
"Well, you may do as you like: you're your own mistress. But one thing
I beg of you, don't worry him: you see, he's one of that kind of men
that have a deal of thought about every thing; I've found that out well
enough; so he might be sorry, and lose his sleep."
"Why, who told you all that?"
"Oh, I only think he does, and I do so myself sometimes."
"Well, never mind: I won't do him any damage. These teachers are always
examining somebody else, and now I'd just like to see whether he's
smart or not."
"He is smart: I can tell you he is!"
"Well, if he says his lesson well, may I kiss him?"
"Oh, yes."
"Then don't look so solemn: love must be merry and not mawkish. Last
Sunday the parson asked, 'How must we love God?' So I said, right out,
'Merrily.' He smiled at that, and took a pinch of snuff, and said,
'That's right,'--you know that's what he says to any thing, if it isn't
too awful stupid: but, after he has said so, he explains it, and then
it turns out to be something else; and he went on to explain that we
must love God as a child loves its father, with veneration; and then I
said some children loved their fathers merrily, and then he laughed
ever so much, and opened his snuff-box wrong side up, and all the snuff
fell on the floor, and then we all laughed:--
'Always a little merry,
And always a little glad.'"
Thus singing, she wound up her exhortation and dragged Hedwig out into
the garden, where she gathered up the clothes on the grass-plot, to
bring them into the house, telling her that they were intended as a
portion of her outfit.
Next evening the teacher came to Buchmaier's house, as usual; but Agnes
forgot all her intended raillery when the first mention of Hedwig's
name brought a deep shade to his brow, and he frankly told her all his
troubles. She now explained to him the state of parties in the commune.
The College Chap, having married the old squire's daughter, of course
belonged to his party, and therefore regarded any associate of
Buchmaier's as his sworn foe; and his animosity was still further
increased by the election of Mat to the committee of citizens, against
himself,--which he ascribed to Buchmaier's efforts.
"Alack-a-day!" said Agnes, in conclusion, "I had it all cut-and-dry
about going to the harvest-home together. But never mind: the College
Chap isn't smart enough to get ahead of me, and Thaddie must help us
make plans, too."
Against this the teacher protested, to Agnes' great surprise. He
obtained her promise, however, to invite Hedwig to come there, and even
to feign sickness as a pretext, and to remain in-doors all day.
Late in the evening the teacher wrote into his notebook,--
"How easy is it to preserve the whiteness of our souls while we shut
ourselves out from human intercourse and construct our own fabric of
things and thoughts! But the moment we approach reality every step is
fraught with dangers, and we find ourselves engulfed in all the
quarrels of faction and of party-strife. I longed to taste the peaceful
joys of these villagers; and here I am in the midst of their
contentions, with which the every affections of my heart are
intertwined."
Agnes kept her word. The stolen interview of the lovers broke down the
last barrier of reserve between them. Denial had lost all pretext, now
that they met in secret.
After an interchange of condolence, Hedwig was the first to take a more
cheerful view of the subject.
"Is it true," she asked, "that you are from Lauterbach?"
"Yes."
"Why did you want to deny it, then? There's no shame in it, I'm sure."
"I never denied it.
"Well, isn't it a shame? how people tell stories! They all said that
the reason you were by yourself so much, running about like a poor,
frightened little chick, was that you were afraid they'd tease you
about being from Lauterbach. Why, if you were from Tripstrill you'd
be----"
"What would I be?"
He looked at her so penetratingly that she held her hands over his
eyes; but he kissed her and strained her to his heart. "Dearest!
dearest!" he cried; "it shall, it must, all be well."
"Don't do so," said Hedwig, but without trying to extricate herself: so
he kissed her again. "Now talk to me, and tell me something. What have
you been doing? You don't talk a word."
The teacher pressed her hand to his lips, as if to say that that was
the only language he was capable of uttering. So Hedwig seemed to
understand him, for she said, "No: you must talk to me; I love to hear
you talk so much; and my grandmother always says you have such
beautiful words,--my grandmother thinks so much of you."
Something like moisture must have been glistening in the teacher's
eyes; for she went on:--"Never mind: there's nothing lost yet; and
Constantine had better look out, or he'll find out in some way he don't
like that I'm my own mistress."
Though opposed to tears in theory, she was fast lapsing into the
practice. Rallying herself, "Come," said she; "let's think of nothing
but the present. If it's God's will we should have each other, it'll
come so: no doubt about it. I always think it would have been too good
for this world if things had gone all right from the very first. I
don't know how it is, but that Sunday when I came round the corner of
the house and found you sitting there with grandmother, it seemed as if
a fiery hand was passing across my face, or as if--I can't tell how,
I'm sure."
"Yes; I loved you from that moment."
"Mustn't talk of it!" cried she, looking into her lover's face with
beaming eyes. As a true peasant-girl, the more she loved, the more
dread had she to hear love mentioned. "Talk of something else."
Nevertheless, she was well content to sit in perfect silence, with her
hand in his; while nothing was to be heard but the cooing of the
turtle-doves in their cote and the monotonous tick of the Black Forest
clock.
Agnes, who had wisely absented herself, at length returned.
"Make him talk," said Hedwig, rising. "Ho won't do any thing but look
at me."
Her eye fell to the looking-glass as she passed it; but she quickly
averted it, for she seemed to have seen a perfect stranger, so
unaccountable was the change which had come over the expression of her
features.
The teacher sat motionless, dreaming with open eyes.
Agnes sang, as she skipped about the room, snapping her fingers,--
"How is it, I wonder,
When sweetheart I see,
I want to be talking,
But yet it won't gee?
'No, no,' and 'Yes, yes,'
And 'I s'pose,' and 'In course,'
Is often the whole of our loving discourse."
"Come, wake up!" said she, shaking the teacher's arm; "stir your
stumps. 'I lost my stocking at Lauterbach:'" and she danced around the
room, dragging him after her.
Thaddie now came in, and general hilarity with him. In a grand council
the politic resolve was taken that, if the Constantine question should
be still unadjusted when harvest-home came on, the teacher was to
attend Agnes at the festival, while Thaddie was to figure as the
nominal escort of Hedwig.
After a long conversation in anticipation of what the future was
expected to bring forth, Agnes called upon the teacher to reward her
intervention by telling a story. The others joined their requests to
hers. The teacher offered to go home to get a book; but this was not
permitted: he had nothing to do but begin at once.
Collecting his thoughts with an effort, he launched into the story of
the Beautiful Magelona. At first he spoke almost without intonation,
hardly knowing what he said, and thinking more of Hedwig's hand, which
rested in his, than of the tale. As the interest of the narrative
increased, he closed his eyes, and resigned his imagination entirely to
the world of wonders and witchery he was describing. His hearers hung
upon his words with beaming eyes, and Hedwig's heart bounded within
her.
When he had finished, Agnes took his head between her hands and shook
it, saying, "He is a fine fellow, every inch of him. May I kiss him
now, Hedwig?"
"Yes, with all my heart."
Availing himself of the permission, the teacher immediately turned to
Thaddie and said, extending his hand, "Let us be friends too."
When he took his leave, Thaddie went with him to the door and said, on
the steps, "Mr. Teacher, I want to ask a favor of you, and maybe I can
do you another some day. I can read very well: won't you lend me one of
your storybooks?"
"With the greatest pleasure," said the teacher, shaking hands warmly at
parting.
Besides the happy change in his feelings which the love of Hedwig had
effected, it was attended with a further consequence; for he was one of
those sensitive natures in which the thirst for union and harmony
brings all thoughts into very near juxtaposition and allows the
electric spark of association to combine them with rare frequency.
The words that fell from Hedwig's lips were so sweet as to imbue with
their charm even the harsh dialect in which they were spoken. He now
determined to devote his particular study to this idiom, and, if
possible, to make it the basis of the instruction of his pupils. He
asked the old teacher to help him to some of the works written in the
Upper Suabian dialect, and received that old gentleman's favorite
work,--indeed, almost the only one he read,--Sebastian Sailer's poems.
With all his new predilections, it was some time before he could read
these effusions with pleasure. The entire absence of what is ordinarily
called refinement in the character of these people--that spirit which
cannot deal even with the most sacred things save in a vein of blunt
good-humor akin to burlesque--is here presented with overpowering
truthfulness. The poet--a spiritual one, by-the-by--represents God the
Father in the character of a village squire, and keeps up the _rôle_
for many pages.
The old teacher explained that all this had not in the least affected
the sanctity of religion. "In those days," said he, "when people's
piety was in their hearts and not on their tongues, they could crack a
dozen jokes, and yet their hearts remained the same: nowadays they're
afraid of the snuffers coming near the candle, for they know it will
take very little to put it out, and they must trim it all the time to
keep it alive. I used to play jigs on the organ whenever I had a mind
to."
Our friend, while admitting the force of this argument, suspected that
a little of the scoffing spirit of the last century had also found its
way into the poet's rhymes, though, doubtless, not into the hearts of
his public; but he kept this idea to himself, and drew from the
schoolmaster a full account of the manner in which these extraordinary
dramas used to be performed at Carnival-time. The old gentleman was
particularly explicit in describing the costume he himself had worn in
the character of Lucifer.
"Modern culture and refinement have taken many things from the people.
What substantial joys have they received in return? Can they be
compensated? and how?"
These words, taken from his note-book, appear to have been written
about that time. A movement was going on within him.
One day Buchmaier urged him to apply for the right of citizenship
in the village, as he might calculate upon receiving the office of
town-clerk. Seizing the broad hand of his friend, he replied, joyfully,
"Now you have it in your power to make peace in the whole village, if
you will only get my broth--I mean the College Chap, this office: he is
amply competent."
Buchmaier smiled, but would not consent. At the teacher's earnest
entreaties, however, he agreed to abstain from all opposition.
[Illustration: The procession passed up the street.]
The teacher hastened to broach the matter to the College Chap. The
latter received the suggestion with some _hauteur_, and said he did not
know whether he could take the office. Nevertheless, he thanked the
teacher for his good-will, and the preliminaries of a peace were
concluded between the parties.
Harvest-home came, and the two couples went to the dance, as they had
arranged.
No longer did the teacher loiter in the fields while the village was
alive with dance and song: he was himself a participator in the revel;
but even yet he was not entirely absorbed in it.
For two days he did not leave the dancing-floor, except once, to take a
short walk with Hedwig and Agnes in the fields and refresh his powers
for new exertions. At times a pang would strike him when an impure song
was heard: he would fain have stopped his ears and Hedwig's against it.
The idea of endeavoring to exert an influence upon this spontaneous
product of the popular mind and heart recurred to him with more force
than ever. He had acquired some popularity among the young fellows by
his participation in their amusements; and upon this foundation he
built a portion of his hopes.
For two whole nights he had kept it up; but when, on the third day, the
harvest-home was buried with pomp and funeral solemnities, he could not
induce himself to join in this extravaganza also. Standing before his
door, he watched the procession as it passed up the street, preceded by
the band playing a dead march, sometimes interrupted by a whining chant
or dirge. A trestle, covered with broken bottles, glasses, and legs of
chairs, was borne solemnly to the height and there cast into a grave
and covered with earth, while the wit of the village expended itself in
funeral orations.
Joy and sadness came and went by turns in Johnnie's house, after the
harvest-home. Constantine was elected town-clerk, the teacher having
electioneered for him in public. Peace was thus restored between the
contending parties, and the College Chap made friendly advances to the
teacher. The latter, in the gladness of his heart, addressed him,
according to the German custom, with "thee" and "thou." Such an excuse
for drinking a "smollis" was not to be neglected. The new town-clerk
took the teacher's arm and dragged him by force to the inn, where the
toasts were drunk in the most approved forms, the "brothers hail"
standing arm in arm and clinking their glasses as they sang.
After these preliminary operations, the College Chap entered the family
council at home, and advocated the teacher's suit of Hedwig with his
usual eagerness and impetuosity.
The betrothal of the two lovers was solemnized with the accustomed
ceremonies. They plighted their troth to each other in the presence of
her father and brother, of the old squire, and of Buchmaier, whom the
teacher had invited in lieu of kindred or other friends.
When the transaction was over, Hedwig left her room with the
bridegroom--for to that name, in German parlance, he was now
entitled--and embraced him for the first time, saying, "I do love you
dearly,--dearly!"
They repaired to her grandmother's room, who was lying ill in bed, and
knelt down at her bedside.
"He is mine now, forever," said Hedwig. She could not say more. The
grandmother laid her hands upon them and muttered a prayer; after which
she said, "Get up, and don't kneel here: you mustn't kneel anywhere but
before God. Don't I tell you? I am the messenger who is to give them
notice in heaven that you have found each other. Teacher, what's your
mother's name? I'm going to her the minute I get there, and to your
father too; and then I mean to take my Jack Adam, and my brothers and
sisters, and my parents with me, and my three grandchildren that are
gone, and we'll all sit down together and talk about you and pray for
you; and then you must be happy. Hedwig, I leave you my necklace,
you'll find it in the closet there. And there's a wreath beside it,
from my wedding: take good care of it: it will bring blessings down on
you. Let your children smell at it after the christening. And, though
you should get married soon after I go, you must have music at your
wedding. Do you hear? You sha'n't be grieving for me, and the
seven-league dance you must dance for me: I will look down on you with
joy, and the whole family up there shall celebrate the wedding too."
The lovers tried to dispel her anticipations of death; but she replied,
"I feel just as if somebody was pulling my arm all the time, and
saying, 'Make haste: it's time.' But it isn't hard enough yet: it must
come harder. You mustn't cry now: don't. I am going into good hands,
a'n't I? I thank the Lord for having let me live long enough to see
Hedwig get a good husband. Love each other, and honor each other.
"Hedwig, he's a studied man, and they often get kinks into their heads:
I know that from my sister. You must have patience with him. These
studied men have very different notions from other folks, sometimes,
and then they let them out the wrong way and to the wrong person. And
you, teacher, when you get my Hedwig, my dear Hedwig----" She could not
speak further: the girl lay on her neck, weeping.
The old woman had spoken quite fluently, her cough having disappeared
entirely; now, however, she sank upon her pillow exhausted. The lovers
stood looking upon her sadly. At last she raised herself again, and
said, "Hedwig, go and ask Valentine's Christina to stay with me: I
sha'n't die to-day yet. You mustn't come to me again all day. Go, now,
both of you, and be in good spirits: promise me to be in good spirits."
The teacher executed the commission she had given to Hedwig, and then
both were dismissed from the bedside. Their hearts continued to quiver
with sadness until they had seen Buchmaier's Agnes, who managed to
enliven them with her usual chat and raillery.
Then they walked in the fields, followed by the white hen. The seed was
not yet in the ground,--so that there was no objection to her being at
large. The breath of Nature recalled their souls to the full gladness
of the occasion. Around them autumn was at work among the yellow
leaves; but in their hearts it was all spring.
Next day Hedwig's grandmother called for the Eucharist. The teacher did
duty for the sexton, and carried the lantern for the parson: a
considerable portion of the congregation assembled at the door and
prayed while Maurita was being "served" within. The only reflection
occupying the teacher's thoughts during the ceremony was, "Would that
all freethinkers could meet death with equal confidence!" Maurita
received the sacrament with open, beaming eyes, then turned to the wall
and spoke no more. When they looked at her after a time, she was dead.
Maurita was buried with silent and devout sadness, unaccompanied by
loud weeping or wailing. The whole village mourned. Even old George the
blacksmith said, with a seriousness unusual to him, "I am so sorry she
is dead! My turn comes next."
When the teacher returned from the burial, Hedwig embraced him, and
said, weeping, "I want you more than ever now: I have no grandmother
any more."
The teacher had found another tie to attach him to the village: the
corpse of a friend rested in its soil.
[Illustration: The corpse of a friend rested in its soil.]
Thus we have accompanied the good Maurita to the entrance of the life
beyond, and the teacher to the opening of a new life on earth. We
cannot follow the good old grandmother to heaven: let us see, a little
longer, what happened to the teacher.
His betrothal had given great satisfaction throughout the village. Even
the children playing on the site of the fire were sometimes involved in
excited discussions, as they endeavored to explain their relationship
to Hedwig, and therefore to the teacher. Johnnie had not a great many
friends in the village; but this event gave pleasure to all. Everyone
whom the teacher met shook hands and wished him much joy and happiness.
Every one had something good to tell of Hedwig. Men and women who would
otherwise never have thought of conversing with the teacher now chatted
like old acquaintances. Mat came to his house, shook his hands warmly,
and said, "Ah, I was the one that told you it must come so: don't you
remember? You might have given me a farm and you wouldn't have pleased
me more. When the old teacher dies you shall have the two fields he
farms now: it's good land, and, if you'll let me know, I'll work two or
three days for you with pleasure."
The teacher was doubly pleased at this friendly spirit. He saw the good
hearts of the villagers; and he also saw how firm a footing he had
gained in their affections, and how much he had bettered the prospect
of exerting a beneficent influence over them.
Mankind are no longer accustomed to receive benefits emanating from no
other motive than the general desire to do them good. They have been
betrayed and disappointed so often that now they meet the
philanthropist with intuitive suspicion. They think so very general an
aspiration must cloak some very particular design. They will permit no
one to love them unreservedly but those who are related to them by some
special bond of kindred or other relationship.
Winter stalked into the village with rapid strides. The villagers
remained at home and enjoyed what their toil had gathered. Threshing,
and a little manuring, was the only kind of labor that could be
performed. When the grain was threshed, all was silent. Here and there
a travelling peddler might be heard crying "Spindles! wives' spindles!"
The snow drifted about the street, and all cuddled around the genial
tile stove. At such times an evil spirit would walk in the village in
broad daylight,--the spirit of idleness. Whomsoever the spirit looked
at was doomed to yawn and gossip and quarrel. The time of rest was not
a time of recreation, because there had been no exertion to rest from.
Young men sat for whole days in the tavern, playing cards; and, though
so sorely burdened with excess of time, they never thought of going
home till the last stroke of the "police-hour" of eleven had brought in
the beadle and the landlord's inevitable notice to quit. Others went to
bed early and drowned their time in sleep; while still others soiled it
with wickedness.
[Illustration: Here and there a travelling peddler might be heard.]
Idleness is the root of all evil. The industrious alone are
intrinsically cheerful, peaceable and well meaning; idlers easily lean
to gambling and drunkenness, and are prone to wrangling, quarrels, and
treachery. It is for this reason, and this alone, that all the vices
love to dwell among the so-called upper classes of society.
While the greater part of the villagers were thus vegetating, the
teacher had awakened to a double existence. It sometimes happens that a
man who has had a violent fever rises from his bed an inch or two
taller than before. Thus our friend, while his flying pulses studied
Hedwig's life and being, had made wonderful progress in the
understanding of the people's character. As he had formerly "sipped the
intellectual breath of beauty" from the productions of inanimate
nature, leaving to others the task of turning into use her treasures,
so now he recognised the presence of a higher principle in every living
intelligence. Every person who crossed his path was a representative of
some portion or place of the people's character. Instead of looking
down upon others from the eminence of his own intellectuality, he
forgot himself, and unconsciously looked up to the intelligence he
detected in every other. The others were raised in his estimation,
because he thought only of that which ennobled them: himself had sunk,
because he was only reminded of himself by those petty occurrences of
every-day life which brought out the lesser traits in his own nature.
He was a man who understood the inmost thoughts and feelings of all
around him. He boldly followed up his resolve to give them a taste of
the pleasures of the mind: he was sufficiently matured himself to
penetrate the rough bark which concealed the core of their minds and
hearts.
In the evening he would read aloud the papers at the inn. He had many
explanations to give, and many false impressions to remove: for the
College Chap, who had previously acted as oracle, had taken pleasure in
"stuffing up the natives." A little circle habitually gathered round
him, while others played cards at the table: even these, however, would
occasionally listen to what he was saying, by which many a trick was
lost.
Little by little the teacher obtained their confidence, and they spoke
their minds more freely. With all the excellence of his intention, he
still found it difficult to translate himself entirely into their ways
of thinking. It is an easy thing to say, "I love the people!" but
to be prepared at all times to receive all sorts of crudities with
respect, without taking offence at habits and customs often repulsive
and obdurate,--to follow the discursive ones through a thousand
pointless digressions,--to sympathize with the impetuous in a
jargon of incoherent impulses and sentiments,--requires a power of
self-abnegation, a degree of control over one's own individuality, with
which but very few are favored. Thanks to his clear understanding of
the task, our friend was one of the number.
One evening Mat began, "Mr. Teacher, I'm going to ask a stupid
question; but why is that paper called the 'Suabian Mercury,' and not
the 'Suabian Markery'? Sure it is a markery; because every thing that
happens is marked down there. Is 'Mercury' High German for 'Markery'?"
"You've caught the old robin in his nest," said the College Chap.
"You're right there, Mat: those fellows in Stuttgard don't know any
thing about it. If I was you I'd go down and tell 'em: they'll give you
a premium, depend upon it."
The teacher explained that Mercury had been the messenger of the gods,
and the god of trade, in ancient Greece.
"Yes; but how does he come to be called 'Suabian'?" asked Mat, again.
"Well, they chose to give that name to the paper," answered the
teacher. He had never thought about it himself.
"I want to know," began Hansgeorge: "did the Greecelanders believe in
more gods than one?"
"Of course," replied the College Chap. "One of 'em manured and the
other sowed, one rained and the other thundered: they had a particular
god or goddess for every particular job. The Greeks even allowed their
gods to marry."
"I guess they were saints or angels," said Wendel the mason, "or
tutelaries; but they must have had some sort of a captain over them, or
it would be a carnival stupid enough to split your sides with
laughing."
"You weren't by when they built the tower of Babel, neither, mason,"
said the College Chap. "Of course they had a captain, and a trump card
he was: he had a jealous wife, though, and she gave him lots of
trouble. Now, I'll leave it to the teacher whether all this isn't as
true as gospel."
Suppressing a sigh, the teacher gave the company a cursory sketch of
the Grecian mythology. Some of the wonders included in it created much
sensation. It occurred to him, also, how strange it was that he should
be expounding the Hellenic sages in a smoky bar-room of the Black
Forest. All this was the doing of the Suabian Mercury.
It was almost impossible to persuade the farmers that the Greeks were
not "jackasses." He told them of the wise and good Socrates, and of his
martyrdom.
"Why, that was almost as bad as the way they treated our Savior," said
Kilian of the Frog Alley.
"Certainly," replied the teacher. "Whoever undertakes to teach a new
and wholesome truth by its right name and without circumlocution must
take a cross for his pains." He sighed as he said this; for it seemed
to have some bearing upon his own case: the task he had undertaken was
not an easy one.
As they went away, the men said to each other, "We've had a fine
evening for once: you get a little wiser, and time passes round before
you know it."
The teacher had formed the design of reading something to the farmers
about the Grecian mythology: fortunately, however, he laid his hand
upon a very different book,--a collection of German proverbs. On
entering the bar-room, he took the book from his pocket, saying, "Let
me read you something."
There were wry faces on all sides; for farmers regard books as their
natural enemies. Mat spoke first:--
"Better tell us a story, Mr. Teacher."
"Yes, yes; tell us something: don't read," was the general response.
"Well, just listen a little while," said the teacher: "if you don't
like it, say so, and I'll stop."
He began to read the proverbs, pausing after every one.
"Why, that's what George the blacksmith says," and "That's Spring Bat's
word," "That's what old Maurita used to say," "That's your speech,
Andrew, Mike, Caspar," was soon heard from different quarters of the
room. The players laid aside their cards and listened; for at times a
pithy sentence would provoke general merriment.
The teacher could not refrain from asking, with an air of some triumph,
"Shall I read on?"
"Yes; read on till morning," said every one; and Kilian of the Frog
Alley added, "It must have been the smartest kind of a man that made
that book; for he knew every thing. I wonder if he wasn't one of the
ancient sages."
"Yes: those are your sort of folks, Kilian," said some one in a corner.
"Be quiet, now," cried others. "Read on, Mr. Teacher."
He did so. Sometimes corrections and additions were suggested, which
the teacher would gladly have noted in writing, but refrained for fear
of restraining the open-heartedness of the audience. They were
overjoyed to find the whole stock of their collective wisdom thus
heaped up in a single granary. One or two discussions arose in
reference to the explanation, or the truth of this or that proverb,
with which the teacher never interfered; others would urge the
disputants to silence; while still others urged the teacher to proceed.
A bright fire was burning, which our friend had the satisfaction of
having kindled.
When he returned the next evening, he found more guests than usual.
They had lost their dread of books, and immediately inquired whether he
had not some similar entertainment for them.
"Yes," said the teacher, taking out a book. But this time things were
not destined to go so smoothly; there were tares among the wheat, sowed
by the College Chap, who had a deep-seated aversion to any thing
serious or sensible. With some partisans whom he had enlisted, he sat
at a table and began to sing. The teacher was at a loss.
"Why, Constantine," said Mat, "a'n't you ashamed of yourself, and you a
town-clerk?"
"I've paid for my wine, and have as good a right here as the next man,"
replied the College Chap; "and the tavern isn't a place to read books
in."
There was a general murmur.
"Hold on," said Mat, "we'll soon fix this. Landlord, I'll go and get
some wood, and we'll make a fire in the room upstairs. Whoever wants to
listen may come up, and whoever don't may stay where he is."
"I'll go," said Thaddie, who had come this evening also. The stove was
soon in a glow, for Thaddie was afraid of losing something by making up
the fire afterward. Mat sat down beside the teacher and snuffed the
candle. The story was Zschokke's "Village of Gold-Makers."
In spite of its fine subject and elevating tendency, the book was far
from earning the applause which the teacher had expected: it was so
interwoven with the experiences of peasant-life that every one felt
himself qualified to judge it. It would occupy too much of our space to
repeat all the opinions expressed. Whenever the phrase recurred,
"Oswald opened his lips and spoke," Buchmaier smiled in derision of its
formality. Many of the ideas were lost; while others received a general
nod of approbation.
To the teacher's surprise, the first thing manifest when the story had
reached its close was that most of the company sided with the village
and against Oswald. Mat soon hit upon the reason of this incongruity in
saying, "What I don't like is that Oswald seems to do all the good in
the village alone."
"And I," said Thaddie, "would like to pull off his feather and his
star: he's a fine fellow, and don't want them gimcracks."
"You're right," replied Buchmaier. "He plays the gentleman too much,
anyhow; and as for his hereditary prince, what's he good for? But what
were you going to say, Andrew? Bring out the wild-cats."
"I think Oswald has no business to put his nose into other people's
pots and pans. What's he got to do with their cooking?"
"And I think," said Kilian, "the farmers are made out a good deal too
stupid: it isn't quite so bad, after all."
"And you're a learned man yourself, too," said Hansgeorge. Everybody
laughed.
"My notion is," said Wendel the mason, "the village is a deal too bad
at first and a deal too good afterward. I don't see how things can
change so in one and the same place."
"What puts me out most," said Buchmaier, "is that they can't get
through without even making out what sort of clothes people shall wear
and what they sha'n't. That's just like the cruelty-to-animals
societies. These things must be left to every man's own taste and
fancy. And once I could hardly help laughing when Oswald, in his
uniform and with the feathers on his hat, embraced the thirty-two men
one by one: there's a job for you!"
The teacher called to mind that the book had been written years ago,
when people were far more ceremonious than at present. He adverted to
the fine moral of the book and the many fine passages it contained. He
showed how great is the use of position, money, dress, and other
externals to those who desire to carry out good intentions among men,
and concluded by saying that it was unjust to make such incidental
trifles an excuse for condemning the whole.
"No doubt about that," said Buchmaier. "If I could see the man that
wrote that book, I'd take off my hat rather than to the king himself,
and say, 'You're a good fellow, and mean well by us.' That's my
notion."
When they rose to go, Thaddie nudged Mat, and said, in a whisper,
"Come! out with it now, or they'll all run away."
"What do you say, men," began Mat, "to getting the teacher to read to
us an evening or two every week?"
"Why, that would be first-rate," cried all.
"I'm quite ready," said the teacher. "Let's have a meeting to-morrow
night, say in the school-room. Meantime, all can think about the
society, and make proposals."
"Yes, that's right," said every one: and they parted in great
good-humor.
The meeting, which was held next day, was stormy. The teacher, with
Buchmaier's assistance, had prepared a draft of a constitution. It was
read paragraph by paragraph, with a long pause after each. At every
pause there was a buzz of conversation; but when the talkers were
requested to express their opinions publicly they suddenly ceased. None
but Mat, Hansgeorge, Kilian, and Wendel could be induced to address the
whole company. A general tempest was provoked by the paragraph,--
"During the continuance of the reading-nights no smoking shall be
permitted."
There was no end to the angry mutterings, until Buchmaier, nodding to
the teacher, as if to say, "Didn't I tell you so? I know my men," moved
to "strike out the law about smoking altogether."
"Yes, yes!" they all exclaimed as with one mouth. Buchmaier
continued:--
"So, whoever can't do without smoking, let him smoke. It'll be hard for
the teacher to read in the steam; so, if he has to stop, nobody can
blame him. But one thing we will stick to: if any man's pipe goes out,
he sha'n't light it again till the teacher's done reading. He may sleep
if he can't keep his eyes open; but he sha'n't snore."
A roar of laughter ensued, after which Buchmaier went on:--
"So we won't put a word about smoking into the law, and we'll only have
the understanding that, when the reading is all done, every man shall
light his pipe with the wisdom he's got by listening, and smoke what's
been told him. Is that right, or not?"
"Yes: that's right."
"And whoever wants to talk must take the pipe out of his mouth," said
the voice of an unknown speaker, who has been too modest to reveal
himself to this day.
Another knotty point was the place of meeting. With a fine tact,
the teacher objected to the school-room. All the members of the
town-council being present, the large anteroom of the town-hall was
fixed upon.
On Jack George's motion, it was resolved that every man should be at
liberty to have his glass of beer before him, but no more. This
proposal made Jack George so popular that he was elected to the
executive committee with Mat and Kilian.
There were many other difficulties to be overcome; but a knot of
enthusiasts had gathered around the teacher, who carried him over every
thing in triumph. The foremost of these were Mat and Thaddie. The
latter only regretted that he could not find some herculean labor to
perform for the teacher: he would gladly have run through the fire to
please him.
On the other hand, the society had two mortal foes, in the landlord of
the Eagle and the College Chap. The former feared for his custom, and
railed against the teacher, who since his betrothal boarded with his
intended father-in-law. The College Chap suspected "psalm-singing" in
all things, and said that his brother only meant to catch the people
first and pluck them afterward.
It is a customary trick of the monarchical Governments of Europe to
disarm demagogues by appointing them to office. In pursuance of the
same policy, the teacher made Constantine "alternate reader." Now that
it afforded scope for his ambition, the College Chap was one of the
most devoted adherents of the society.
Thus the teacher gradually learned to understand men and to govern
them. He made efforts to gain the support of the old teacher and of the
Jewish schoolmaster. What the former wanted in zeal the latter richly
atoned for. Some Jews, who, being engaged in agriculture or in
mechanical trades, were always at home, also took an active part.
The selection of the books was not easy. Our friend soon found that
didactic reading, or that which aimed immediately at moral instruction
and improvement, must not be allowed to preponderate. Without degrading
the matter to mere amusement, he read extracts from the Limpurg
Chronicles, Gleim's poems, and the lives of Schubart, Moser, Franklin,
and others. Particular success attended the reading of Paul and
Virginia, and of Wallenstein's Camp, to which were added some chapters
from Simplicissimus. The greatest attention, however, was excited by
the reading of K[oe]rner's "Hedwig, the Bandit's Bride," by the
teacher, the College Chap, and the Jewish teacher. The exalted diction
and wonderful incidents produced a great impression. At the close of
the piece, Mat inquired, "What became of the robbers in the cellar?
Were they burned or hanged?"
The teacher could not repress a laugh at this sympathetic question, but
he knew not what to answer. Perhaps one of our readers will have the
goodness to inform him.
Sometimes the old popular books were read likewise: the Schildburgers
aroused especial merriment.
The teacher now rarely found time to enter general reflections into his
note-hook: what he thought was at once communicated to those around
him, and what he felt was expressed to Hedwig. We find one or two
observations, however, in those half-forgotten leaves:--
"When I look at these lucubrations, it occurs to me that I used to be a
great egotist: I meant to swallow the whole world, instead of giving
the world any benefit from my being in it. What is the value of all
this selfish refinement of feeling compared to a single sound thought
imparted to the mind of another! How glad I am to have all this behind
me!"
"How easy it is to appear great, learned, and superior, if you withdraw
from intercourse with the people, build a private palace of knowledge
and thought, a castle on a hill, far from the denizens of the valley!
But the moment you descend to mingle with the inhabitants of the plain,
the moment you live among them and for them, you find to your
astonishment that often you are ignorant of the simplest things and
untouched by the finest thoughts. I have read of princes who never, or
scarcely ever, are seen by the people. For them it is easy enough to be
hedged with majesty."
"As the breath of the land and sea returns to them after having been
congealed into rain-drops in upper air, so the spirit of a people must
return from the lofty realms of literature to its source,--the people's
heart."
"There can be no doubt that many of the world-renowned Grecian heroes
were no more educated in what we now term education than my Hansgeorge,
Kilian, Mat, Thaddie, Wendel, and so on, not to speak of Buchmaier,
Bat, owing to the publicity of their political and social organization,
of their arts, of the forms of worship which emanated from the very
core of the people's heart, a world of thoughts, feelings, views, and
delicate suggestions hovered in the air. People were not restricted to
Biblical stories, narratives of men and women who had lived in other
climes and under other traditions, having no immediate correspondence
with their own condition. They heard of their own forefathers, who had
lived as they lived, who had acted thus and so and thought so and thus:
particular sentiments and anecdotes were handed down from generation to
generation; all these things concerned them nearly; and at need the
descendants emulated the heroism of their ancestors. We give the name
of sacred history to the fortunes of a foreign people, and neglect our
own as profane. The Greeks had Homer by heart; and this gave them a
fund of sayings and images adapted to their condition. We Germans have
no one to take his place: even Schiller is not in the reach of every
class of the people. Almost all we have is a stock of national wisdom
garnered up in the form of proverbs, which has developed itself
independently of the Old and New Testament. We have the sentiment of
the people incarnate in their songs. This the Greeks had not."
Soon after the reading-room was organized, the teacher established a
musical association, which was joined by all the single men and a few
of the married ones. This appeased mine host at the Eagle, as they met
for practice in his room up-stairs. Though virtually the master-spirit
of the whole, our friend devolved the ostensible management upon the
old schoolmaster, who was marvellously well fitted for the office. They
wisely devoted the most of their attention to popular songs. The
villagers were delighted thus to come by their own again in a new dress
and without the omission of the text consequent upon mere oral
transmission. One by one, some new songs were cautiously introduced,
great attention being paid to the time and emphasis.
As the opposition of the College Chap had been the chief obstacle of
success of the reading-room, so the arrogance of George threatened to
stifle the glee-club in the bud. Considering himself a singer of
renown, he took the lead, but disdained any reference to time and
measure. The steps taken to conciliate him failed: he left the club,
and his secession threatened to dismember it. Its good effects had
already been perceived: many vulgar and improper songs had been
displaced by better ones; and, though the preference might be owing to
their novelty rather than to their superiority, yet the better words
and tones, once introduced, could not but exercise their legitimate
influence.
George now noised abroad that the teacher meant to make the grown-up
folks sing children's songs, and that it was a shame for grown-up
people to sing them. He soon drew a party around him, and the number of
those who remained faithful dwindled away. Thaddie offered to give
George a good whacking; but Buchmaier found a more gentle method of
preserving the club. He invited the parson and all the members of the
club, except George, to sup with him on New Year's Eve. This infused
new life into the dry bones.
The parson had left the teacher entirely undisturbed; for he was not
one of those who decry every thing good which they have not originated
themselves.
On New Year's Eve there was great rejoicing in Buchmaier's house.
"Mr. Teacher," said Buchmaier, "when you're married you must get up a
glee-club for the girls."
"And the young married women may come too," cried Agnes.
"Yes; but you must keep them singing all the time, or they'll talk the
devil's ears off."
Many a toast was given. Boys otherwise noted for their bashfulness here
made speeches in presence of the parson, the teacher, and the squire.
At last Thaddie seized a glass and drank to "the teacher and his
lassie," which was drunk with never-ending cheers.
With Hedwig he was on the happiest footing. She willingly followed all
his suggestions the moment she was convinced that he no longer desired
to remodel her whole being but only to further her native development.
At first his experience was singular. Whenever he wished to direct her
thoughts into a higher channel, he made a thousand preparations and
inductions. He meant thus and so, and she must not misapprehend him.
Once Hedwig said, "Look here: when you want me to think something, say
it right out, and don't make so many concoctions about it. I'll tell
you whether I like it or not."
So he dropped this last remnant of his solitary wanderings, and they
understood each other perfectly. Even in school the new impetus to his
mind was invaluable. He illustrated abstractions by illustrations drawn
from what was familiar to all. He labored earnestly at a history of the
village, intending to make it the starting-point for his instruction of
the history of the country.
[Illustration: They went to church, preceded by the musicians.]
Some wiseacres predicted that the teacher's zeal would not be of long
duration. We take the liberty to think otherwise.
Spring came, and the bells repaired to Rome to tell the story of the
village: they had fewer sins than usual to report of the past winter.
After Easter came the wedding-day, which had been fixed on the
anniversary of the teacher's arrival in the village. On the evening
before, Hedwig went to the old teacher and asked him to do his best in
the prelude next day. He smiled, and said, "Yes: you shall like it."
Next day they went to church, preceded by the musicians. Hedwig dressed
like her playmate Agnes, the teacher decorated with a nosegay, like his
playmate Thaddie, Buchmaier, Johnnie, and the Jewish teacher behind
them. When all had assembled, the old teacher began the prelude. Every
one smiled; for the old joker had interwoven the air of the
Lauterbacher very skilfully into his piece. Soon after, the glee-club
struck up the chant,--
"Holy is the Lord!"
and the nuptial tie was fastened with joyous earnestness, Blessings
attend it!
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: Bartholomew's Sebastian's.]
[Footnote 2: Not a lord of the manor, according to the English
acceptation of the term, but a sort of village mayor, elected by the
farmers out of their own number. Very little of the feudal tenure
remains in the Black Forest, the peasants being almost everywhere lords
of the soil.]
[Footnote 3: A ring of hard wood or stone fixed to the end of the
spindle, to weigh it down and improve its turning.]
[Footnote 4: About half a cent.]
[Footnote 5: And thereby escape being taken as a recruit.]
[Footnote 6: Joseph; Joe.]
[Footnote 7: The name of a tract of ground. All the lands belonging to
a village are divided into such tracts, every tract having particular
qualifications. These are subdivided, and the subdivisions distributed
among the farmers: in this manner every farmer has a portion of every
kind of ground belonging to the farm-manor.]
[Footnote 8: If the American reader is tempted to doubt or to contemn
this stretch of economy, he must remember the different standards
governing the people of the Old and the New World in this respect.]
[Footnote 9: Clotho holds the distaff, Lachesis spins the thread, and
Atropos severs it.]
[Footnote 10: Black Forest provincialism:--a scamp, a loafer.]
[Footnote 11: Suabian.]
[Footnote 12: Brother.]
[Footnote 13: Son of God.]
[Footnote 14: What temptation a counterfeit wild cat holds out to the
traveller to sit down upon it, the translator is not in a condition to
explain,--probably on instance of the matter-of-fact character of the
American mind.]
JUST PUBLISHED.
THE GAIN OF A LOSS.
By the Author of "The Last of the Cavaliers."
_12mo, Cloth_, $1.50.
"If you want a good, new 'society novel,' rather carefully written, and
full of passion and incident, but cleanly and decent from cover to
cover, try THE GAIN OF A LOSS."--_Hartford Post_.
"Written with spirit and skill, adequate to interest, without fatiguing
the reader, and containing many traits of more than ordinary
attraction."--_Boston Transcript_.
"A capital story. Written, we should say, by a lady, and told most
charmingly. Its atmosphere is healthy--its creatures men and women like
ourselves--its scenes natural--its ending just what might have been
expected. It is really pleasant in the multitude of tame novels that
have been of late inflicted upon the reading community, to pick up a
book that so sparkles with vigorous life and natural sentiment."--_Troy
Times_.
"A novel of decided merit.... Will be read for the mere interest of the
story, while the excellent plot is sustained by an undercurrent of
thought and reflection that gives it a higher value."--_New York
Leader_.
"Told in a manner which would not be discreditable to Anthony Trollope
himself, and in fact, is very much in his vein,"--_Hartford Courant_.
* * * * *
THE FISHER MAIDEN.
By BJÖRNSTJERN BJÖRNSON.
_16mo, Cloth_, $1.25.
"An artist, not a photographer."--_Athenæum_.
* * * "There was room for a true genius, one with poetic insight and
thorough faith in the simple element at his command, and surely such a
man has recently arisen in Björnson The exquisite emotions,
apprehension of beautiful truths combined with musical sympathies,
constitutes sometimes a faculty in itself, and yields to mankind a
lyrist like Tennyson, and an idyllic thinker like Björnson."--_London
Spectator_.
"One of Björnson's best stories. The character of the heroine is
poetically delineated, and through her life he teaches the great
thought that the genius of an individual should determine his
destiny. The arguments in defence of his theory are spirited and are
just."--_New York Leader_.
"The workmanship is singularly fine, like some of that in Flemish
interiors and Moorish jewelry. There are few characters, but each is a
study, and the tale is both a story and an argument."--_N. Am. and U.
S. Gazette_.
"A story drawn from nature with the pen of a master."--_Boston
Traveller_.
"A gem--an incident in the literary history of the world."--_Troy
Times_.
LEYPOLDT & HOLT, PUBLISHERS,
451 _Broome St._, _New York_.
BY COPYRIGHT ARRANGEMENT WITH THE AUTHOR.
IN PRESS.
F. SPIELHAGEN'S
COMPLETE WORKS.
_Translated from the German._
I.
PROBLEMATIC CHARACTERS.
(_NEARLY READY._)
II.
THROUGH NIGHT TO LIGHT.
Translated by Prof. Schele De Vere.
III.
THE HOHENSTEINS.
Translated by Prof. Schele De Vere.
IV.
HAMMER AND ANVIL.
V.
IN RANK AND FILE.
Translated by J. M. Jeffries.
VI.
ROSE, AND THE VILLAGE COQUETTE.
* * * * *
SPECIAL NOTICE.
The publication of Problematic Characters has been delayed on account
of some difficulties with the translation. A new translation is now in
press.
LEYPOLDT & HOLT, PUBLISHERS,
451 _Broome St., New York_.
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