Winter had come again, and the world must open to the rough guest.
When he comes properly, let him come in, and welcome; but when he comes
at Christmas, with a wet shaggy coat, and fills one's room with mud,
and his boots smell of train-oil, he may stay away for all me.
But this time he came differently. He came, as he has often come to my
door, with ringing bells, and a snapping whip, and two gray horses
before the sleigh, stamping their feet, and he sprang from the sleigh
exactly like Wilhelm of Siden Vollentin, and rubbed his blue, frosty
cheeks, and thrashed his arms about his body, once--twice--thrice.
"Good morning, Herr Reuter, I have come for you. Compliments of the
Herr and of the Frau, and you need only step into the sleigh, for there
are heaps of foot-sacks and wraps there, and to-morrow is Christmas
eve, and little Hans charged me to drive fast."
Yes, when he comes like that, we both sing, my wife and I, "Come in,
come in, thou welcome guest!" and we treat the old fellow to a glass of
wine, and then get into the sleigh, and off we go,--ten miles an
hour,--and when old Winter sets us down at the door of Vollentin, Fritz
Peiters says, "Why the devil have you been so long on the road?" and
the Frau kisses my wife, and takes off her wrappings, and says to me,
"Uncle Reuter, I have got you short kale and long sausage," and the two
girls, Lising and Anning, whom I have so often carried in my arms when
they were tiny little things, come and give their old uncle a kiss, and
then hang about my dear wife, and Fritz and Max come, who are now at
the great Anclam gymnasium and greet us with a hearty shake of the
hand, and little Hans, who has been waiting his turn, comes, and jumps
and frolics around me, and climbs on my left knee, and there I must
hold him, the whole evening. And then little Ernest, the nestling, is
presented, and we stand about this little wonder of the world, and clap
our hands at his wisdom and understanding, and then comes
_grandmother_. And then begin the winter and Christmas pleasures, the
tree blazes, and the yule raps are rapped, and then comes a yule rap
from my dear wife, with a poem, the only one she ever wrote in her
life: "Here! sit, and here I sing, and ask for nothing more"--and the
melody goes no further, but it is enough of the kind.
And then comes the first Christmas day, and all is so solemn and still,
and our Lord strews the white snow flakes, like down, on the earth,
that no noise may be heard. And the second Christmas day comes, and
then come the Herr Pastor Pieper, and the Frau Pastorin, and the Herr
Superintendent and his wife, and then comes Anna, who is my darling,
for she used to be my scholar; and then comes the Frau Doctor Adam, and
the Frau Oberamtmann Schoenermark, and Lucia Dolle, she sits on the left
hand of the Adam and on the right of the Schoenermark, that is between
them,--and then! yes, then comes a round ball driving up, and the Herr
Doctor Dolle sits beside the ball, and rolls it out of the sleigh, and
gives it to a couple of maids who stand ready,--for they have
experience in the matter--and they unwind from the ball furs and cloaks
and comforters and foot-sacks, until the Herr Justizrath Schroeder comes
to light. But he is not finished yet, by a great deal. He must sit down
in a chair, and Fika takes one foot, and Marik the other, and they pull
off his great fur boots, while I hold him by his shoulders, lest they
should drag him off the chair.
Then comes another sleigh!--and out springs Rudolph Kurz, jumping clear
over the coachman's whip, and behind him comes Hilgendorf. Do you know
Hilgendorf? Hilgendorf, our Rudolph's principal? No? Let me tell you,
then, in a word, Hilgendorf is a natural curiosity, he has ivory
bones,--"pure ivory," and so strongly is this proprietor put together
by nature, that one who ventures to slap him on the shoulder or the
knee gets black and blue spots, merely on account of the ivory.
Then we drink coffee, and the Herr Justizrath tells stories, wonderful
stories, and he tells them with _much fire_, that is to say, he is
always lighting fresh matches, because he is constantly letting his
pipe go out, and before long he has smoked up the whole cupful of
lighters, and Max is stationed beside him, for the express purpose of
keeping him supplied. And then we play whist, with Von der Heyt and
Manteufel, and all the old tricks and dodges, for otherwise the Herr
Justizrath will not play. Then comes supper, and over the rabbit and
roast goose, the Herr Justizrath makes the finest poetry, with the
drollest rhymes, and there is great applause, and when we rise from
table, we press each other's hands, and separate in peace and joy, each
happy face saying, "Well, next year, again!"
But in Pumpelhagen, this year, there was no such merry Christmas;
winter had come, fine and clear; but that which makes it welcome, the
close meeting of heart with heart, had stopped outside, instead of
coming in, bringing joy by the coat-collar. Each sat with his own
thoughts, no one exchanged his love for another's, Fritz Triddelsitz
and Marie Moeller excepted, who sat together, the afternoon of the
second holiday, and eat gingernuts, until Fritz said, "No, I cannot eat
more, Marik, for to-morrow I shall have to ride to Demmin, to deliver
three tons of wheat; and if I should eat any more gingernuts, it might
make me sick, and I should not like that; and then I must pack up our
books for the circulating library, to exchange them in Demmin, so that
we may have something to read, in the evenings," and then he got up,
and went to look after his mare, and Marie Moeller had a misgiving that
the heart could not wholly belong to her, whose affections she shared
with a horse.
In another room, Habermann sat, alone with his thoughts, and they were
serious enough, when he reflected that his working on this earth had
come to an end, and that he might henceforth fold his hands in his lap;
and they were sad enough, when he reflected what an end it was, and how
the seed he had sowed for a blessing seemed to have sprung up as a
curse. In still another room sat Axel and Frida, together indeed, yet
each was lonely, for each had his own thoughts, and was shy of exposing
them to the other. They sat in silence, Frida quietly thoughtful, Axel
out of humor; then sleigh bells were heard in the court, and
Pomuchelskopp drove up to the door. Frida took up her needle-work, and
left the room; Axel must receive the Herr Neighbor alone.
A regular agricultural talk, about horse-raising and the price of
wheat, was soon in progress between the two gentlemen, and the holiday
afternoon would have passed innocently and peacefully enough, if Daniel
Sadenwater had not brought in the mail-bag. Axel opened it, and finding
in it a letter to Habermann, was about handing it to Daniel to deliver,
when he saw his own arms on the seal and, as he looked nearer,
recognized his cousin's handwriting.
"Is that confounded affair still going on, behind my back?" he
exclaimed almost throwing the letter in Daniel's face: "To the
inspector!"
Daniel went off, astonished, and Pomuchelskopp inquired, very
compassionately, what had happened to vex the young Herr.
"Isn't it enough to vex one, when my blockhead of a cousin obstinately
persists in his silly romance, with this old hypocrite and his
daughter?"
"Oh!" said Pomuchelskopp, "and I thought that was at an end, long ago.
I was told that your Herr Cousin, upon hearing the report, which is in
everybody's mouth, had broken off the business suddenly, and would have
nothing more to do with them."
"What report?" asked Axel.
"Why about your inspector and the day-laborer, Regel was his name, and
the two thousand thalers."
"Tell me, what do the people say?"
"Now, you know already. I thought you had given the old man notice
because of it."
"I know nothing of it, tell me!"
"Why it is universally known. People say, Habermann and the day-laborer
made a compromise; the inspector let the fellow get off, and had half,
or more, of the stolen money, and he gave him a recommendation, upon
which he got taken on as a sailor, in Wisman."
Axel ran about the room. "It is not possible! I cannot have been so
shamefully betrayed!"
"Ah! and the people say, also, that the two had planned it all out,
beforehand; but that I do not believe."
"And why not? What was the old sinner contriving with the woman, behind
my back? The fellow, who had always been sober before, must be
intoxicated, at this particular time!"
"Yes, but the burgomeister of Rahnstadt himself noticed that."
"Oh, the burgomeister! What could one do, with such a trial-justice?
Now he thinks it was a poor weaver's wife who stole the money from the
laborer on the highway. And why? Merely because she tried to get change
for a Danish double louis-d'or, which she had found; for she sticks to
that story, and the wise Herr Burgomeister has been obliged to let her
go.
"Yes, and the one who saw the louis-d'or, Kurz, the shop keeper, is a
connection of Habermann's."
"Ah!" cried Axel, "I would give a thousand thalers more, if I could get
to the bottom of this meanness."
"It would be a hard task," said Pomuchelskopp, "but, in the first
place, I would--when does he go?"
"Habermann? To-morrow."
"Well, I would examine his books with the greatest care; there is no
knowing but they may be wrong, also. Look particularly at the money
account; one often finds out something in that way. He seems to be in
pretty good circumstances; he is going to live in Rahnstadt, on his
interest. Well, he has been in a good place, for many years; but I know
for a certainty, that he had old debts to pay which were not
insignificant. Lately, as I have learned from Slusuhr, the notary, he
has done a considerable money business at high rates of interest, with
his few groschen, perhaps also with money belonging to the estate."
"Oh!" exclaimed Axel, "and once when I asked him"--he stopped abruptly,
not wishing to betray himself, but a feeling of hatred arose in him, as
he thought that Habermann might have helped him then, and would not,
because he did not offer him high enough interest.
Nothing of importance was said, after this, for each had enough to
occupy him in his own thoughts; and when Pomuchelskopp drove home, well
satisfied with his management, he left the young Herr von Rambow in
such a bitter, venomous state of mind, that he was angry with himself
and everybody else, and could not sleep the whole night, for hateful
thoughts.
In a third room, at Pumpelhagen, was another lonely man; Habermann sat
before his desk, with his books lying open, and was going over the last
month's accounts once more. Ever since he had managed for his young
Herr, he had brought in his accounts, every quarter, for examination;
but at one time the young Herr was too hurried to attend to them, and
at another he said; "Yes it is all right;" but scarcely looked at them,
and again he said it was quite unnecessary for him to examine them.
Habermann, however, had not taken advantage of this neglect; he kept
his books very carefully, as he had always been in the habit of doing,
and insisted that Fritz Triddelsitz should put down his grain account
regularly, every week, and on this point, if anything was wrong, he
scolded Fritz much more sharply, than about other things.
As the old man sat at his work, Fritz came in, and asked about one
thing and another connected with his journey to Demmin, and when
Habermann had given him his instructions, and he was going out, the old
man called after him, "Triddelsitz, have you made out your grain
account?"
"Yes," said Fritz, "that is, I have begun it."
"Well, I wish you to finish it, this evening, and take care that it
balances better than the last."
"All right," said Fritz, and went out. Daniel Sadenwater came in, and
brought the inspector a letter; the old man got up, and seated himself
by the window, and when he recognized Franz's hand, his heart beat
quicker, and as he read and read, his eyes grew bright, a great joy
beamed upon his heart and thawed all the frost and ice which had lately
gathered there, just as the sun melts the snow from the roofs, and it
falls in drops to the ground. He read and read, and his eyes grew
moist, and tears dropped softly on the paper.
Franz wrote him how he had heard that Habermann was to leave
Pumpelhagen, and was now, therefore, free; that, under the
circumstances, the consideration he had hitherto exercised toward Axel
must give way to Franz's own earnest wishes, which left him no peace,
and drove him, though in spite of her father's request, to write to
Louise herself; and he enclosed a letter which he begged Habermann to
deliver to his daughter, and which he hoped might make three people
truly happy.
The old man's hands trembled, as he laid the letter to his child in his
pocketbook, his knees shook, as he walked up and down, so much was he
agitated by the thought that upon the step which he was about to take
depended the happy or unhappy future of his child; he seated himself in
the sofa-corner, and it was long before he was composed enough to look
at the matter with deliberation. So the morning sea rages in wild
waves, and at noon, they are less boisterous, but it still looks dark
and threatening over the water, and at evening the smooth mirror
reflects the blue heavens, and the light summer clouds drift across it,
and the setting sun frames the picture in his golden rays.
So it was with the old man; as the waves of emotion subsided, grave
thoughts came over him; he asked himself, earnestly and carefully,
whether it would be right for him to yield, whether he would violate
his obligations, if he said, "Yes," against the will of his young
master.
But what obligations had he, to a man who had rewarded him with
ingratitude, who had driven him away, almost with shame and disgrace?
None at all. And the pride rose in him, which one in a dependent
position must so often repress, and which he only knows, who has a
clear conscience; he would no longer sacrifice his best, most sacred
feelings, to the ingratitude of an unreasonable boy, or the happiness
of his child to an unjust, aristocratic prejudice. And when he had
reached this conclusion, out of the tranquil sea shone the reflection
of a lovely evening sky, and he sat long, gazing at the future of his
two children, as at bright summer clouds drifting over it, and out of
doors the setting sun was shining on the white snow, and its beams fell
upon his white hair.
While he sat, absorbed in these happy thoughts, the door opened
hastily, and Krischan Degel rushed in: "Herr Inspector, you must come,
the Rubens mare has a dreadful colic, and I don't know what to do for
her." The old man sprang up, and went in haste to the stables.
Scarcely had he gone, when Fritz Triddelsitz came in, carrying his
travelling-bag, and the books for the circulating library, with some
shirts and his proprietor's uniform, in which he meant to cut a figure
at Demmin, and depositing them on a chair by the window, was about to
begin packing when his eye fell upon Habermann's account-book, for the
old man, in his agitation, had forgotten to put his book away.
"That just suits me," said Fritz, and took the book to enter his grain
account, but he must carry it to the window, for it was growing quite
dark.
He had not quite finished, when Krischan Degel rushed in again.
"Herr Triddelsitz, you are to go immediately--quick! to the granary,
and bring a wrapping cloth, we are going to pack the mare in wet
sheets."
When Fritz heard some one coming, he thrust Habermann's book behind him
in the chair, and as Krischan hurried him off, thrusting the key of the
granary into his hand, he left the book lying there, and ran out. At
the door of the granary, he met Marie Moeller, who had just come from
milking. "Marie," said he, "do me the favor just to pack my things in
the bag,--they are all on the chair by the window, and don't forget the
books!"
Marie did it, and in the twilight, and lost in her loving reflections,
she packed up Habermann's account book with those which were to go back
to the library.
When Habermann returned from the stables he locked up his desk without
any premonition of evil, and the next morning Fritz Triddelsitz was off
at cock-crowing, with his load of wheat, and his travelling-bag, also
without any premonition of evil. When the old inspector had given the
day-laborers their instructions, for the last time, he thought of his
own affairs, and began to put up his luggage, that he might be ready to
leave in the afternoon. He was not quite ready, when Daniel Sadenwater
came in, and called him to the Herr von Rambow.
Axel had passed a very restless night, his best thorough-bred mare, on
which he had set great hopes, had been sick, the flea, which
Pomuchelskopp had put in his ear, had stung him, he was annoyed at his
unaccustomed position of managing for himself, and he must pay
Habermann his salary, and also for the outlays which he had made in
paying the laborers' wages, and he did not know how much it would be,
or whether his cash would hold out. He could not humble himself however
before the inspector, who had given him warning, so he must try to make
some difficulty in the business, and discover some reason for refusing
to pay him immediately. Such a reason would be hard to find; but he
could pick a quarrel, and that might answer for a reason. A pitiable
means, although a very usual means; and that Axel should resort to it,
shows how rapidly his pride as a man and a nobleman was declining; but
nothing drives a weak man to underhand ways quicker than the need of
money, when he must keep up appearances, and "poor and proud" is a true
proverb.
As Habermann entered, he turned to the window, and looked through the
panes.
"Is the mare well again?"
"No," said Habermann, "she is still sick, I think it would be best to
send for the horse doctor."
"I will give orders. But," he added, sitting down, and still gazing
stiffly out of the window, "that comes from there being no proper
supervision of the stables, from feeding the spoiled musty hay."
"Herr von Rambow, you know, yourself, that the hay got wet, this
summer, but it isn't musty. And you yourself undertook the oversight of
the blood-horses, for, a few weeks ago, when I had ordered a slight
alteration in the stable, you forbade it, with hard words, and said you
would take the horses under your own supervision."
"Very well! very well!" exclaimed Axel, leaving the window, and walking
up and down the room, "we know all that, it is the old story."
Suddenly he stopped before Habermann, and looked him in the face,
though a little unsteadily: "You are going to-day?"
"Yes," said Habermann, "according to our last arrangement----"
"I am not really obliged," interrupted the young Herr, "to let you go
before Easter; you must at least stay till the day after New-Year's."
"That is true," said Habermann, "but--"
"Oh, it is all the same," said Axel, "but we must settle our accounts
first. Go and get your books."
Habermann went.
Axel had already laid his plans, that he might not be embarrassed about
his money affairs; when Habermann came with his books, he would say he
had not time to examine them, and if Habermann insisted, he could mount
his high horse, and say, the day after New Year's would be time enough.
But he was to get off more comfortably, Habermann did not come back. He
waited and waited, but Habermann did not come; at last, he sent Daniel
after him, and with him there came the old man, but in great
excitement, very pale, and crying, as he entered the room: "My God!
what has happened! How is it possible, how can it be!"
"What is the matter?" inquired Axel.
"Herr von Rambow," cried Habermann, "yesterday afternoon, I balanced my
grain and money accounts, and locked up the book in my desk, and now it
is gone."
"Oh, that is admirable!" cried Axel, mockingly, and the seed which
Pomuchelskopp had yesterday planted in his soul began to sprout and
grow, and shoot up, "Yes, that is admirable! So long as no one wanted
the book, it was there safe enough, but as soon as it is wanted, it is
missing!"
"I beg of you," cried Habermann in anguish, "do not judge so rashly, it
will be found, it must be found," and with that, he ran out again.
After a while, he returned, saying, in a weak voice: "It is not there;
it has been stolen from me."
"Oh, that is charming!" exclaimed Axel, working himself into a passion.
"At one time you say there is never any stealing here,--you know,
about my two thousand thalers,--and another time it must have been
stolen,--just as it suits your convenience."
"My God! my God!" cried the old man, "give me time, Herr!" and he
clasped his hands. "Before God, my book is gone!"
"Yes!" exclaimed Axel, "and the day-laborer Regel is gone, too, and the
people know _how_ he got away, and my two thousand thalers are also
gone, and people know _where_ they have gone. Were they down in your
book?" asked he, walking up to Habermann, and looking sharply in his
face.
The old man looked at him, he looked around him to see where he was,
his folded hands fell apart, and a fearful trembling went through his
limbs, as when a great river breaks up its covering of ice, and the
blood shot through his veins into his face, like the water in the great
river, when it is free, and the blocks of ice tower up and the dam
gives way: 'Ware children of men!
"Rascal!" he cried, and sprung at Axel, who had stepped back, as he saw
the passion he had roused. "Rascal!" he cried, "my honest name!"
Axel reached towards the corner where a gun was standing.
"Rascal!" cried the old man again, "your gun, and my honest name!" and
there ensued a struggle and a wrestling for the weapon, Habermann had
caught it by the barrel, and tried to twist it out of his hand. Bang!
it went off. "Oh, Lord!" cried Axel, and fell backwards towards the
sofa; the old man stood over him, holding the gun in his hand. Then
the door was torn open, and the young Frau rushed in, through the
powder-smoke, to Axel: "Good Heavens, what is this!" and all the love
which she had formerly cherished for him broke, like a ray of sunlight
through the clouds which had obscured it, she threw herself down by
him, and tore open his coat: "My God! my God! Blood!"
"Let it be!" said Axel, trying to raise himself, "it is the arm."
The old man stood motionless, the gun in his hand; the stream had gone
back to its bed, but how much human happiness had it ruined in its
overflow! and the meadows and fields of fertile soil were covered with
mud and sand, and it seemed as if nothing could ever grow there again.
Daniel came running in, and one of the maids, and, with their help,
Axel was lifted to the sofa, and his coat removed; his arm was
dreadfully torn by the small shot, and the blood streamed to the floor.
"Go for the doctor!" cried the young Frau, trying to stanch the blood
with cloths, but what she had at hand was not enough, she sprang up to
fetch more, and must pass Habermann, who still stood there silent and
pale, gazing at his master.
"Murderer!" cried she, as she went out, "murderer!" she repeated, as
she came in again; the old man said nothing, but Axel raised himself a
little and said: "No, Frida, no! he is not guilty of that," for even an
insincere man will give his God the glory, when he feels His hand close
to his life; "but," he added, for he could not avoid the old excusing
and accusing, "he is a traitor, a thief. Out of my sight!"
The blood shot into the old man's face again, he would have spoken, but
he saw that the young Frau turned away from him, he staggered out of
the door.
He went to his room; "He is a traitor, a thief," kept ringing through
his head. He placed himself at the window, and looked out into the
yard, he saw all that was passing, but saw it as in a dream; "A
traitor, a thief," that was all he understood, that alone was real.
Krischan Degel drove out of the yard, he knew he was going for the
doctor, ho opened the window, he wanted to call to him to drive as fast
as possible; but--"a traitor, a thief," he spoke it out, involuntarily;
he closed the window. But the book! The book must be found. The book!
He opened the chests and boxes which he had packed, he scattered his
little possessions all about the room, he fell upon his old knees,--not
to pray, for "he is a traitor, a thief," but to feel with his cane
under his desk, under his chest of drawers, under his bed; he must find
the book, the book! But he found nothing. "A traitor, a thief." He
stood at the window again, he looked out; but he had his cane in his
hand, what did he want of his cane? Would he go out? Yes, he would go
out, he would go away, away from here!--away! He put on his hat, he
went out of the door, and the gate. Whither? It was all one! it made no
difference; but, from old habit, he took the path to Gurlitz. With the
old way, came the old thoughts; "My child! my child!" he cried, "my
honest name!" He felt in his breast pocket, yes, the pocket-book was
there, he had his daughter's happiness in his hands. What should he do
now? He had ruined this letter for his child, it was destroyed forever
with his honest name and by this cursed shot! and the first bitter
tears were wrung from his tormented soul, and with them his good
conscience came back, and its soft hand made room in his constrained
breast, so that he could draw breath again; but his honest name, and
his child's happiness, were gone for ever. Oh, how happy he was
yesterday, sitting in his room, with the letter in his hand that Franz
had written to his daughter, what blessedness that letter was to bring
her, what happiness would bloom from it, what a bright future he had
painted! and now it was all gone and lost, and the brand which was
impressed upon him must burn into the heart of his only child, and
devour and consume it.
But what had his child to do with it? Why should it stand in the way of
her happiness? No, no! The curse and disgrace of the father was visited
upon the children, to the fourth generation, and the same thorny hedge,
which would sever him now from all honest people, would interpose
between his child and happiness. But he was innocent! Who would believe
him, if he said so? Those whose white garments of innocence the world
has once soiled with filth must walk in them through life; no one can
wash them clean, even if our Lord should come down from heaven, and do
signs and wonders, that innocence should be brought to light,--the
world would not believe. "Oh!" he cried, "I know the world!" Then his
eye fell upon Gurlitz, upon Pomuchelskopp's manor house, and out of a
corner of his heart, which he had believed forever locked, rose a dark
spirit and spread her black wings over him, so that the bright winter
sunlight no longer fell upon him; this was hate, which sprang up in his
heart. The tears of compassion, which he had wept over his child, dried
in his eyes, and the voice which had spoken in him, against his will,
called again. "A traitor, a thief!" and the dark spirit moved her
wings, and whispered thoughts to him, which flashed out like flames:
"It is his doing, and we are enemies once more!" He went through
Gurlitz, looking neither to the right nor the left, all which he had
held dear had disappeared for him, he was merely conscious of his
hatred, and that drove to a single aim, and in a definite path.
Braesig stood in the way, near the Pastor's barn, he went to meet his
old friend: "Good morning, Karl. Well, how is it? But what ails you?"
"Nothing, Braesig. But leave me, let me alone! Come to-morrow to
Rahnstadt, come to-morrow" and he passed on.
As he came to the elevation, beyond Gurlitz, from which Axel had first
shown his young wife his fair estate of Pumpelhagen, and where her warm
heart had throbbed with such pure joy, he stood still, and looked back;
it was the last point from which he could see the place where he had
lived so many happy years, where he had suffered such fearful anguish,
and where his honor and happiness had been turned to disgrace and
misery. A tempest raged in his soul. "Miserable wretch! Liar! And she?
'Murderer,' she called me, and yet again, 'murderer!' and when she had
spoken the shameful word she turned herself away from me. Your
unhappiness will not wait long,--I could, and would, have turned it
aside, I have watched over you, like a faithful dog, and like a dog,
you have thrust me out; but"--and he walked on toward Rahnstadt, and
hate hovered over him, on her dark wings.