In Rahnstadt, in the Frau Pastorin's house, there was great running up
and down stairs, the day after Christmas, for Louise was putting the
last touches to the arrangement of her father's room: and when she
would think, now it was all ready, there was always something more that
she must do for his comfort. Noon came; but her father had not yet
arrived, although they expected him to dinner; she put a plate for him,
however, for he might still come.
"I don't know," she said to the Frau Pastorin, "why my heart is so
heavy today."
"What?" cried the little Frau, "only three months in the city, and
already having premonitions, like a tea-drinking city lady? What has
become of my fresh little country girl?" and she patted her daughter's
cheek, affectionately.
"No," said Louise, taking the friendly hand, and holding it fast in her
own, "I do not mind such vague presentiments, mine are unfortunately
very definite misgivings, whether my father will feel contented here,
in the loss of his usual occupations, and will accustom himself to city
life."
"Child, you talk as if Rahnstadt were a Residence; no,--thank God! the
geese go barefoot here, as well as in Pumpelhagen, and if your father
takes pleasure in agricultural industry, he can see our neighbor on the
right carting manure with two horses, and our neighbor on the left with
three; and if he enjoys conversation about farming he has only to turn
to our landlord, Kurz, who will talk to him about renting fields, and
such matters, till he is as weary of them as we are."
Louise laughed, and as they rose from dinner, she said, "So, mother,
now lie down and rest a little, and I will walk along the Gurlitz road,
and perhaps I shall meet my father."
She wrapped her cloak around her, and tied a warm hood over her head,
and went along the road, where she was constantly in the habit of
walking, for it brought her nearer to the place where she had been so
happy, and when she had time she walked as far as the little rising
ground from which she could see Gurlitz, with the church, the
parsonage, and the church-yard, and if she had still more time, she
went on to see Lining and Gottlieb, and to talk with them of old and
new times. She walked on and on, but her father came not, the east wind
blew in her face, and colored her cheeks rosy red, till her lovely
countenance looked out of the dark hood like a bright spring day, when
it shines out of dark rain-clouds, filling the world with joy and hope.
But the water stood in her eyes; was that because of the east wind? Was
it because she was looking so sharply along the road for her father?
Was it because of her thoughts? No, it was not the east wind, for she
had stopped, and was looking towards the west, and yet her eyes were
full of tears; it was not from looking for her father, for she was
gazing in the opposite direction, where the sun, like a ball of fire,
was just sinking behind the black fir-trees; it must have been her
thoughts. Such thoughts as, in joy and grief, play around a young
heart, entwining it as with a wreath of roses, so that it rejoices in
utter gladness, and again weeps bitterly, when the thorns of the
rose-wreath wound it to bleeding. But why was she looking westward? Ah,
she knew that he was there, who sent her from thence the dearest
greetings.
"Westward, oh, westward fly, my keel,
Westward my heart aspires,
My dying eyes will look to thee,
Thou goal of my desires!"
The old rhyme whispered itself in her ear, and she stood there flushing
rosy-red, full of sweet unrest over the secret power that spoke in her
heart, like a bright spring day when it goes to rest, and the glowing
clouds promise another fair day for the morrow.
She went farther, to the elevation where her father had stood, a couple
of hours before, and tasted the bitterness with which his fellow-men
had filled his cup; she stood there, looking towards Pumpelhagen and
Gurlitz, and the love which she had received from her fellow-creatures,
in these places, overflowed her heart, and the curses uttered in hatred
and misery, by that poor old heart, were washed away from the tablets
of the recording angel, by the daughter's prayers, and her tears of
love and thankfulness.
It was a mile from Rahnstadt to Gurlitz, and the winter sun was near
its setting; she must go home. Then she saw a man approaching from
Gurlitz, it might be her father, she stood still awhile, looking; no,
it was not her father! and she went on, but turned round again to look,
and now perceived that it was Uncle Braesig, who was hurrying up to her.
"God bless you, Louise! How? Why are you standing here, on the open
road, in this bitter wind? Why don't you go in, and see the young folks
at the parsonage?"
"No, Uncle Braesig, not to-day. I merely came out to meet my father."
"What? Karl Habermann? Why, isn't he with you?"
"No, not yet."
"But he went through Gurlitz, this morning, about half past twelve."
"He has been here? Oh, where can he be?"
Braesig remembered Habermann's agitated appearance, and, seeing the
anxiety of his child, he tried to comfort her: "It is often the case
with us farmers, we have one thing here, and another there, to attend
to; possibly he has gone over to Gulzow, or possibly he may be already
in Rahnstadt, attending to some business there. But I will go with you,
my child," he added, "for I have business in Rahnstadt, and shall stay
all night, and get back my three thalers from that sly rogue of a Kurz,
the syrup-prince, which he won from me at Boston. It is our club-day."
When they had gone a little way, they were met by a chaise from
Rahnstadt. It contained Krischan Daesel and Dr. Strump. The doctor
stopped, saying, "Have you heard? Herr von Rambow has met with an
accident, with a fowling-piece; he has shot himself in the arm. But I
have no time, the coachman was obliged to wait for me a great while; I
was not at home. Go ahead!"
"What is this?" cried Louise. "Has my father left Pumpelhagen, when
such an accident has just happened? He would not have done that."
"It may have occurred since he left," said Braesig, but when he thought
of Habermann's appearance that morning, he did not believe his own
excuse. Louise grew more and more anxious, and hastened with quicker
steps. Between her father's delay and the accident at Pumpelhagen she
could find no probable connection, and yet it seemed to her that they
must have something to do with each other.
Meanwhile, Habermann had arrived in Rahnstadt, at the Frau Pastorin's.
He had turned off from the direct road, and made a circuit, until he
could collect himself, that he might not appear before his child in
such fearful excitement. As he entered the Frau Pastorin's door, he had
indeed controlled himself, but the terrible conflict he had just fought
out in his heart left a lassitude and weariness, which made him look
ten years older, and could not but strike the little Frau immediately.
She sprang up, letting the coffee boil over, which she was taking off,
and cried:
"Good heavens! Habermann, what is the matter? Are you sick?"
"No--yes, I believe so. Where is Louise?"
"She went to look for you, didn't you meet her? But sit down! Bless me,
how exhausted you look!"
Habermann sat down, and looked about the room, as if to see whether he
were alone with the Frau Pastorin.
"Habermann, tell me, what ails you?" said the little Frau, grasping his
cold hands in her own.
"It is all over with me; I must go through the world, henceforth, as a
useless and dishonored man."
"Oh, no! no! Don't talk like that!"
"That the opportunity of working should be taken from me, I can bear,
though it is hard; but that I should also lose my honest name, that
pierces me to the heart, that I cannot bear."
"And who should take that from you?" asked the Frau Pastorin, looking
him trustfully in the eyes.
"The people who know it best, the Herr von Rambow and his wife," said
the old man, and began to tell the story with a weak, and often broken,
voice; but when he came to the end, how the young Frau had also
deserted him, had turned her back upon him, and let him go out of the
door, as a thief and a traitor, then his anger broke out, he sprang
from his chair, and walked up and down the room, with gleaming eyes and
clenched fist, as if he were ready for combat with the wicked world.
"Oh," he cried, "if that were only all! But they have injured me more
cruelly than they know, they have ruined my child's happiness along
with mine. There! read it, Frau Pastorin!" and he gave her the letter
from Franz. She read, the sheet trembling in her hand, so greatly had
the story excited her, while he stood before her, and looked at her,
without once turning away his eyes.
"Habermann," she said, grasping his hand, when she had read it, "don't
you see the finger of God? The injury which one cousin has done you,
shall be made up to you by the other."
"No, Frau Pastorin," said he sternly, "I should be the scoundrel which
the world will henceforth deem me, if I could let a brave, trustful man
take to his house a wife with a dishonored name. Poor and honest! For
all I care! But dishonest? never!"
"Dear heart!" cried the little Frau, "where is my Pastor, now? If my
Pastor were only here! He could help and counsel us.
"That he could," said Habermann, to himself. "I cannot do it," he
cried, "my child must decide for herself, and you must help her, you
have done more to educate her sense of right and wrong, than I alas!
have been able to do. If my child considers it right and honourable, in
spite of everything, to accept his offer, if you yourself agree with
her, then let it be! I will exert no influence in the matter, I will
not see her, until she has decided. Here is a letter from Franz to her,
give it to her, telling her, beforehand, what has happened; just as I
have told you, is the truth. I will go up to my room; I cannot, I dare
not touch a finger." He left the room, but came back again; "Frau
Pastorin, consult her happiness only, have no regard for mine! Forget
what I said before. I will do what I can to keep my dishonoured name in
concealment."
He went out again, saying to himself as he mounted the stairs, "I
cannot do otherwise, I cannot do otherwise." As he threw himself down
on the sofa, in his little room, and everywhere about him saw the hand
of his daughter, how she had arranged and ordered everything for his
comfort, he put his hand over his eyes, and wept. "Shall I lose all
this?" He sighed deeply. "And why not? why not? If it is for her
happiness," he cried aloud, "I will never see her again!" The
house-door opened, he heard Braesig's voice, he heard the bright
greeting of his child. All was still again, he listened for every
sound. Now Frau Pastorin was telling what had happened, now his
darling's heart was torn. Slowly there came steps up the stairs; Braesig
came in, looking as silent and composed as if death were walking over
his grave, his eyebrows, which he generally raised so high when
anything unusual occurred, lay deep and heavy over his eyes, he said
nothing but "I know, Karl, I know all," and sat down by his friend, on
the sofa.
So they sat long, in the half-twilight, and neither spoke; at last
Braesig grasped Habermann's hand: "Karl," said he, "we have known each
other these fifty years. Don't you remember, at old Knirkstaedt's? What
a pleasant youth we had! always contented and joyous! and, excepting a
couple of foolish jokes that we played together, we have, upon the
whole, nothing to reproach ourselves with. Karl, it is a comfortable
sort of feeling, when one can look back upon old days, and say,
'Follies, to be sure, but nothing base!'"
Habermann shrank back, and drew his hand away.
"Karl," said Braesig again, "a good conscience is a fine thing, when one
is growing old, and it is noticeable, quite noticeable, how this good
conscience stands by us when we are old, and will not leave us. Karl,
my dear old boy!" and he fell upon Habermann's neck, and wept bitterly.
"Braesig," said Habermann, "don't make my heart heavy, it is heavy
enough already."
"Eh, how, Karl! How can your heart be heavy? Your heart is as pure as
Job's; it should be as light as a lark, which mounts in the clear
heavens; for this story of the infamous--no, I won't talk about that; I
would say---- Why, what were we talking about? Yes, so! about the
conscience. It is a wonderful thing, about the conscience, Karl! For
instance, there is Kurz, with his, for he has one, as well as you and
I, and I suppose he will stand before God with it sometime; but before
me he stands very badly, for he peeps at the cards, when we play
Boston; he has a sort of groschens-conscience; for, you see, in great
things, he is quite correct, for example, in renting the house to the
Frau Pastorin; but ell-wise, and pot-wise and pound-wise, he takes what
he can get, he isn't at all ashamed, that is when he can get anything;
when he don't get anything he is ashamed of himself. And let me tell
you, Karl, if you live here, you must have a good deal of intercourse
with him, and that pleasure will be a good deal like his conscience,
for he is fond of discoursing about farming, and it is as if he were
taking a drive for pleasure in a manure-cart. It will be no pleasure to
you, and so I have thought, when I have seen our young pastor through
his spring seed-time, and everything is in train, I will come over here
to you, and we can cheer each other up a little; and then in harvest
time, we can go out to Gurlitz, to keep the poor fellow from getting
into difficulties; and he will not, for Juern is a considerate fellow,
and he himself begins,--thank God,--to do all sorts of useful things,
with Lining's assistance. And when he has finished his first year, you
shall see, he will be quite rid of his Pietistry, but we must let him
struggle a little sometimes, that he may learn to know himself and the
world, and find that there is something more in human life than to read
psalm-books. Yes, and then I will come to you, Karl, and we will live
as they do in Paris, and you shall see, Karl, this last quarter of our
lives shall be the best piece of the whole ox."
And he embraced him again, and talked of past times and future,
alternately, like a mother trying to divert her child to other
thoughts. The moon shone in at the window, and what can better heal a
torn heart, than its soft light, and the love of an old, tried friend,
who has been true to us? I always think that the bright, warm sunshine
is more suitable for love, but with friendship, the moonlight
harmonizes best.
While they were sitting thus, the door opened, and, with light step, a
slender form entered the room, and remained standing, in the full
moonlight, the arms crossed on her breast, and the white face gleaming
in the moonshine, as if it were a statue of white marble, against a
dark wall of yew-trees: "Was hat man Dir, Du armes Kind, gethan?"[7]
Braesig left the room, without speaking. Habermann covered his eyes with
his hand as if something pierced him to his inmost heart. The slender
form threw itself at his side, the folded arms opened to embrace him,
and the white face pressed itself to his. For a long time, there was
silence, at last the old man heard light, soft words breathed in his
ear: "I know what you think right; I am your child--am I not? Your
darling child."
Habermann threw his arm about his darling child.
"Father, father!" she cried, "we will not part! My other father, who is
now with God, has told me how you would not be separated from me, when
you were in the deepest trouble and sorrow, when the good laborer's
wife wanted to keep me; now you are again in trouble and sorrow, would
you be parted from me _now_? should I leave you _now_?" and she pressed
him to her heart, saying softly, "thy name is my name, thy honor is my
honor, thy life is my life."
Much was spoken, in the sweet moonlight, in the cozy little room, but
of all this nothing shall be betrayed, for when a faithful father and a
loving child talk thus together, talk for their whole lives, our Lord
himself is with them, and it is not for the world, 'tis for the two
alone.
Down-stairs, in the Frau Pastorin's living-room, it was quite
different. Frau Pastorin sat in her arm-chair, and cried bitterly; the
dear, good Frau was quite beside herself,--Habermann's misfortune had
moved her deeply,--but when she must rouse this fearful conflict in the
breast of her dear child, when she saw the struggle going on, and
afterwards saw confidence and courage getting the mastery in that dear
heart, in spite of wounds and sorrow, she felt as if she had
maliciously destroyed the happiness of her child, and her poor heart
was torn with self-reproach and sorrow and compassion, till she broke
out into bitter weeping. Braesig, on the contrary, had used up his
compassion, he had done his utmost, when with Habermann, to keep back
his wrath against the wretchedness of mankind, and when he came down to
the Frau Pastorin, and, in the darkness, was not aware of her distress,
he broke loose:
"Infamous pack of Jesuits! What? Such a man as Karl Habermann, would
you destroy his honor and reputation? It is like Satan himself! It is
as if one held the cat, and the other stabbed it. Curses on them----"
"Braesig, Braesig, I beseech you," cried the little Frau Pastorin, "stop
this unchristian behavior!"
"Do you call that unchristian behavior? It seems to me like a song of
the holy angels in Paradise, if I compare it with the scurvy tricks of
this pack of Jesuits."
"Braesig, we are not the judges of these people."
"I know very well, Frau Pastorin, I am not the magistrate, and you are
not in the judge's chair, but when a toad hops across my path, you
cannot expect me to look upon it as a beautiful canary bird. No, Frau
Pastorin, toads are toads, and Zamel Pomuchelskopp is the chief toad,
who has spit his venom upon us all. What do you say to his chicanery
that he has contrived against me? You see, in the one foot-path, which
has led to the pastor's acre, for this thousand years, so far as I
know, he has had a stake put up, so that we cannot go there, and he
sent word to me that if I went there, he would have my boots pulled
off, and let me go hopping about in the snow, like a crow. Do you call
that a Christian disposition? But I will complain of him. Shall such a
fellow as that liken me to a crow? And Pastor Gottlieb must complain of
him. How can he forbid him the foot-path? And young Jochen must
complain of him, for he has said openly, young Jochen was an old
blockhead, and young Jochen is not obliged to put up with that. And you
must complain of him, because he would not build a widow-house, since
all the people have told me there must be Acts about it. And Karl
Habermann must complain of the young Herr. We must organize revolution
against the Jesuits, and if I can have my way, we will all drive
to-morrow, in a carryall, to Gustrow, to the court of justice, and
complain of the whole company, and we will take along five advocates,
so that each may have one, and then, hurrah for a lawsuit!"
If he had known that Louise had suffered most from the Jesuits, he
might have proposed taking another advocate for her; but as yet, he had
no suspicion of her troubles. Frau Pastorin tried to pacify him, but it
was not an easy task, he wanted to turn everything topsy-turvy, and the
misfortunes of his old friend had so agitated his heart, that the
troubles which usually lay in its depths, the farm-boy angers, and the
card-playing vexations, all came to the surface. "I came over here,"
said he, "to amuse myself, since it was club-day, and to win back my
three thalers from that old toad of an evil-doer, that Kurz, which he
got out of me with his infamous cheating, and now the devil must hold
his confounded spy-glass before my eyes, and bring all the wickedness
of the world right into the neighborhood. Well, I call that amusing!
And Frau Pastorin, if you don't think ill of it, I might spend the
night here with you, for this stupid game of Boston will come to
nothing, and it would be a good thing for me to sleep with Karl,
because he needs somebody to cheer him up."
Frau Pastorin said she should be glad to have him stay, and the evening
was spent in maledictions on his side, and efforts at pacification upon
hers. Habermann and Louise did not appear, and when Braesig went up to
his old friend, Louise was no longer there.
The next morning Braesig took leave of his old friend, with these words:
"Rely upon it, Karl, I will drive to Pumpelhagen, myself, and look
after your affairs. You shall get everything, though it makes me creep
all over, to cross a threshold where you have been thrust out so
infamously."
The same morning, Habermann sat down and wrote to Franz; he told him
truly and circumstantially what had happened lately in Pumpelhagen, he
wrote of the dreadful conclusion the matter had arrived at, and
informed him of the shameful suspicions which had fallen upon him, and
finished with the statement that he and his child were of one mind,
they must refuse his offer. He wanted to write warmly and heartily of
the friendship which he felt for the young man, but he could not speak
freely, as before, he seemed constrained. At last he begged him
earnestly, to leave him and his child to themselves; they two must bear
their fate, alone.
Louise wrote also, and when, towards evening, the Frau Pastorin's maid
took the letter to the post, she stood at the window, and looked after
her, as if she had taken leave of her dearest friend in the world
forever. She looked at the sun, which was going down in the west, and
murmured, "My dying eyes shall look to thee, thou goal of my desires."
But she did not turn red as yesterday, she stood there pale, and, as
the last rays of the sun disappeared behind the houses, a deep sigh
rose from her oppressed heart, and as she turned away bitter tears
flowed down her pale cheeks. The tears flowed not for her lost
happiness, no, for his.
As Braesig came to the parsonage, the young Frau Pastorin met him at the
door; "God bless you, Uncle Braesig, I am glad you have come here,--no,
not here, in Pumpelhagen there are dreadful stories. Dr. Strump has
been here,--our Juern was taken sick suddenly, last night, he was
delirious,--and I ran for the doctor, who had been at Pumpelhagen, to
speak to him as he passed through the village,--and he told me dreadful
things,--not he, properly speaking, he only let himself be questioned,
but his coachman told me that--ah, come in, it blows so out here!" and
she drew him into the house. Here she told him all that the people
said, that her dear Uncle Habermann had shot Axel, and had gone off,
nobody knew where, but probably to take his own life. Braesig comforted
her with news that Habermann was alive, and told her about the
shooting, then inquired how it was with the young Herr, and learned
that Dr. Strump did not think it a dangerous case. He then went to see
Juern, who apparently had an attack of pneumonia. By this time, it was
noon, and he must pursue his journey to Pumpelhagen, to attend to
Habermann's affairs, and must also look out for another coachman. He
inquired about in the village, but nobody would go to drive, and help
him to load the goods; one had this, another that excuse, and finally
he resolved to play coachman himself, when old Ruhrdanz, the weaver,
said, "Well, it is all one to me, what he says to it; if he wants to
chicane me, he may. I will drive you, Herr Inspector."
Braesig made no objections, being very glad to find some one to help him
with the loading, and they drove off.
"Ruhrdanz," asked Braesig, "what did you mean by chicaning?"
"Why, Herr, he has forbidden us all to do anything for the folks at the
parsonage; we must not even take a step for them."
"Who has forbidden you?"
"Eh, he, our Herr Pomuchelskopp."
"Infamous Jesuit!" said Braesig to himself.
"If we did so, he told us, we might fodder our cows next winter on
sawdust, he wouldn't give us a handful of hay or straw, and we might
build with bricks, for he would give us no wood or turf."
Braesig turned dark with anger, but the old man was fairly launched, and
went on, under full sail:
"And we must be always ready for him, night or day. I was out for him,
the whole holiday, and got home last night, at ten o'clock."
"Where did you go?"
"Eh, to Ludswigslust, to the old railroad."
"What had you to do there."
"Eh, I had nothing to do there."
"But you must have had business there."
"Why, yes, I had business; but it came to nothing, for he had no
papers."
"Well, what was it, then?"
"You see, he sent down from the Court, I should drive a ram down to the
old railroad; well, I did so, and we got there all right. There was a
fellow standing at the station; he let me pass, and I said to him,
'Good morning,' says I, 'here he is.' 'Who?' he asked. 'The ram.' says
I. 'What of him?' says he. 'Well, I don't know,' says I. 'Has he any
papers?' asked he. 'No,' says I, 'he hasn't any papers.' 'Blockhead,'
says he, 'I asked if _he_[8] had any papers.' 'No,' says I, 'I told you
before, the ram has no papers.' 'Thunder and lightning!' says he, 'I
asked if _he himself_ had any papers.' 'What?' says I, 'if I? What do I
want of papers? I was to deliver him here.' You see, the fellow was
undecided, and first he turned me out, and then he put out the old ram
after me, and there we both stood by the train. Huiueue! said the old
thing, and then it went off, and we stood there, he had no papers, and
I had no papers, and what should I do about it? I loaded him in again,
and drove back home. And when I went up to the house, last evening,
there was a great uproar, and I thought our Herr would eat me up, he
flew at me so. But what did I know? If he must have papers, he should
have given them to somebody. But so much I know, if our Herr were not
such a great Herr, and if he hadn't such a stiff backbone, and if we
all held together, we would try a tussle with him. And his old Register
of a wife is a thousand times worse than himself! Didn't she beat my
neighbor Kapphingsten's girl half dead, last spring? She beat the girl
three times with a broomstick, and shut her up in the shed, and starved
her, and why? Because a hawk had carried off a chicken. Was it her
fault that the hawk carried off the chicken, and was it my fault that
he had given me no papers?"
Braesig listened to all this, and, though yesterday he wanted to start a
revolution against Pomuchelskopp, to-day he kept perfectly still, for
he would never have forgiven himself, if he had, by a thoughtless word,
excited the people against their master.
They came to Pumpelhagen, and drove up to the farm-house door. With a
great leap, Fritz Triddelsitz came out of the house to Braesig: "Herr
Inspector, Hen Inspector! I truly could not help it, Marie Moeller
packed the book up, through an oversight, and when I went to change my
clothes, in Demmin, there was the book."
"What book?" asked Braesig hastily.
"Good gracious! Habermann's book, that all this uproar has been about."
"And that book," said Braesig, catching Fritz by the collar, and shaking
him, till his teeth chattered in his head, "you infamous greyhound, did
you take that book to Demmin with you?" and he gave him a push towards
the door: "In with you! Bring me the book!"
With fear and trembling, Fritz brought out the book; Braesig snatched it
from his hand. "Infamous greyhound! Do you know what you have done? The
man who in his kindness and love has tried to make a man of you, who
has covered all your stupidities with a silken mantle, you have ruined,
you have brought into this shameful quarrel."
"Herr Inspector, Herr Inspector!" cried Fritz, deadly pale, "Oh, Lord!
it wasn't my fault, Marie Moeller packed up the book, and I rode from
Demmin to-day, in two hours, to bring it back again as soon as
possible."
"Marie Moeller!" cried Braesig, "what have you to do with Marie Moeller?
Oh, if I were your Herr Father, or your Frau Mother, or even your Frau
Aunt, I would lash you till you ran like a squirrel along the wall.
What have you to do with that old goose of a Marie Moeller? And do you
think to make up for your stupidity by gallopping over the public road?
Shall the innocent beast suffer for your fault? But come now, come
before the board! Come before the judgment seat, to the gracious Frau!
You shall tell her how it has all happened, and then you can go and
parade with Marie Moeller."
And with that, he went off, and Fritz followed slowly behind, his heart
full of misgivings.
"Announce me, with the young man, to the gracious Frau," said Braesig,
to Daniel Sadenwater, when they came to the porch, and he pointed to
Fritz. Daniel made a sort of half-grown bow, and went. Fritz stood
there, like butter in the sun, making a face, which came very readily
to him, since his days at Parchen, because he used to make it when
there was a conference of teachers, and his misdeeds came up for
judgment. Braesig stood bent up in the corner, with the book under his
arm, and tugged alternately at his left and right boot-straps, that his
yellow tops might appear to the best advantage. When the gracious Frau
came, and went into the living-room, he followed her, quite red from
the stooping and his excitement, and Fritz, very pale, went in behind
him.
"You wished to speak to me, Herr Inspector?" asked the young Frau,
looking now at Braesig, and now at Triddelsitz.
"Yes, gracious Frau, but I would first beg you graciously to hear what
this Apothecary's son, this--infamous greyhound,"--he was going to say,
but restrained himself--"young man has to say, he has a fine story to
tell you."
The young Frau turned a questioning glance upon Fritz, and the old
fellow began to stammer out his story, growing first red, and then
pale, and told it pretty much as it happened, only that he left out
Marie Moeller's name, ending with, "And so the book came, by an
oversight, into my travelling bag."
"Out with Marie Moeller!" cried Braesig, "the truth must finally come to
light!"
"Yes," said Fritz, "Marie Moeller packed it up; I had so much to do that
day."
The young Frau was greatly disturbed. "So it was all only an unhappy
accident?"
"Yes gracious Frau, it was so," said Braesig, "and here is the book, and
here, on the last page, is Habermann's account, and there are four
hundred thalers due him, beside his salary, and it is right, and
balances, for Karl Habermann never makes mistakes, and when we were
boys he used to excel me myself, in the accuracy of his reckoning."
The young Frau took the book with trembling hand, and as she, without
thinking of it, noticed the sum total on the last page, the thought
shot confusedly through her mind, Habermann was innocent of this
charge, why not of the other, in which she had never believed? Fritz's
story could not be an invention, and she had done the man the bitterest
injustice; but he had shot her husband! In that, she found a sort of
excuse, and she said, "But for God's sake, how could he shoot at Axel?"
"Gracious Frau," said Braesig, raising his eyebrows very high, and
putting on his most serious expression, "with your favor, those are
abominable lies; the young Herr took aim at him, and as Habermann was
trying to wrest the gun from him, it went off, and that is the whole
truth, and I know all about it, because he told me himself, and he
never lies."
Dear heart, she knew that, and she knew also, that so much could not be
said of her husband; at the first, in his first excitement, he had
said, "He is not a murderer," but since then, he had constantly
affirmed that Habermann had shot him. She sat down, and laid her hand
over her eyes, and tried to take counsel with herself; but it was of no
use; she collected herself with an effort, and said, "You have come, I
suppose, to receive the money for the inspector; my husband is
suffering, I cannot disturb him now, but I will send it."
"No, gracious Frau, I did _not_ come for that," said Braesig, drawing
himself up, "I came here to tell the truth, I came here to defend my
old friend, who was my playmate sixty years ago."
"You have no need to do that, if your friend has a good conscience, and
I believe he has."
"I see, by this remark, gracious Frau, that you know human nature very
poorly. Man has two consciences, the one inside of him, and that no
devil can take from him, but the other is outside of him, and that is
his good name, and that any scamp may take from him, if he has the
power, and is clever enough, and can kill him before the world, for man
lives not for himself alone, he lives also for the world. And these
wicked rumors are like the thistles, that the devil and his servants
sow in our fields, they stand there, and the better the soil is the
bigger they grow, and they blossom and go to seed, and when the top is
ripe, then comes the wind,--no man knows whence it cometh or whither it
goeth, and it carries the down from the thistle-top all over the field,
and next year the whole field is full of them, and men stand there and
scold, but no one will take hold and pull up the weeds, for fear of
getting his fingers pricked. And you, gracious Frau, have also been
afraid of pricking your fingers, when you let my old friend be driven
out of your house, as a traitor and a thief, and I wanted to tell you
that, and to tell you that _that_ hurt my Karl Habermann the worst of
all. And now farewell! I have nothing more to say." With that, he left
the room, and Fritz followed him.
And Frida? Where was the bright young wife with her clear eyes and
sound understanding, who looked at everything so sensibly and quietly?
This was not the same woman, the cool, intelligent composure had
changed to restless agitation, and before the clear eyes lay a shadow,
which hindered her from looking about her. "Ah," she exclaimed, "untrue
again! All these suspicions are merely the progeny of lies, of
self-deception and the most unmanly weakness! And my distress for him,
my love for him, must make me a sharer in his wrong, I must give a
deadly wound to this honest heart that loved me so truly! But I will
tell him!"--she sprang up,--"I will tear away this web of lies!" but
she sank down again, in weakness; "no, not yet; I cannot; he is too
ill." Ah, she was right; insincerity and falsehood surround in a wide
circle even the most upright heart, and come nearer and nearer, and
draw it into the whirlpool, till it no longer knows whether it is out
or in, when cool composure is lost, and considerate thought is absorbed
in fear or hope.
When Braesig came to his wagon, Ruhrdanz, with the help of Krischan
Daesel and others, had packed nearly all the goods, and what was left
soon found a place. Braesig was getting into the wagon by Ruhrdanz, when
Fritz Triddelsitz held him fast: "Herr Inspector, I beg of you, tell
Herr Habermann that I am innocent, that I couldn't help it."
Braesig would have made no answer, but when he saw Fritz's sorrowful
face, he pitied him, and said, "Yes, I will tell him; but you must
reform." Then he drove off.
"Herr Inspector," said Ruhrdanz, after a little while, "it is none of
my business, and perhaps I should not speak of it; but who would have
thought it--I mean about Herr Habermann."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing,--I only mean that he should go off so suddenly, and then
this shooting."
"Eh, that is all stuff and nonsense," said Braesig, in vexation.
"So I said, Herr Inspector; but the groom Krischan, he stood there, as
we were packing, and he said that the whole disturbance came from the
confounded papers, because Herr Habermann had no regular papers to
show. Yes, so I say, the confounded papers!"
"Habermann's papers are all right."
"Yes, so I say, Herr Inspector, but about the shooting! Our young Herr
Gustaving was telling about it this morning, all over the village."
"Gustaving," cried Braesig in his wrath, "is a rascal of a puppy! a
puppy who has not yet got his eyes open."
"So I say, and don't take it evil of me, Herr Inspector; but he is the
best of the lot, up at the Court. For, you see, there is the old--well,
Orndt's nephew was here last week, and he came from Prussia to Anclam,
and he said that our Herr always had human skin on his stick, he banged
the people about so; but the Prussians wouldn't put up with him, and
the people went to the Landgrafenamt, or to the Landrathenamt,--I don't
know what the old thing is called,--and complained of him, and the
Landgraf turned him out in disgrace. I wish we had such a Landgraf in
our neighbourhood, for the court of justice is too far off."
"Yes," said Braesig hastily, "if you had such a Landrath as that, you
would have something rare."
"So I say, Herr Inspector, but once he went rather too far, for he beat
a woman who was in the family way, and injured her severely, and, you
won't take it ill of me, Herr Inspector, but I think that was a great
crime. Then they complained of him to the king, and he commanded that
he should be imprisoned in Stettin for life, and drag balls after him.
Well, then, his old woman went to the king, and fell down on her knees
to him, and the king let him out, on condition that he should wear an
iron ring round his neck, all his life long, and every autumn he should
drag balls, for four weeks, in Stettin,--he was there this last
autumn,--and that he should leave the country; and so he came here; but
now tell me, Herr Inspector, if he should be driven away from here,
where could he go?"
"Where the pepper grows, for all I care," said Braesig.
"Yes, so I say, Herr Inspector; but don't take it ill of me, I don't
believe they would take him there; for, you see, he has money enough to
buy a place, but how about his papers? For when the king comes to see
his papers, and he reads that he must wear an iron ring on his neck,
and that that is the reason he always wears such a great thick
neck-cloth, then they will have nothing to do with him."
"Eh, then you will have to keep him," said Braesig.
"Well, if there is no other way, then we must keep him; he is, so to
speak, married to us. Get up!" he cried, and drove at a trot, through
Gurlitz; and Braesig fell into deep thought. How strangely things went
in the world! Such a fellow, who had such a reputation, was yet in
circumstances to ruin an honest man's good name; for he was quite
certain that Pomuchelskopp was at the bottom of all the stories, and
that he had taken pains to set them in circulation was evident from
Gustaving's share in the matter.
"It is scandalous," he said to himself, as he got down, in Rahnstadt,
at the Frau Pastorin's, "but take care, Zamel! I have taken one trick
from you, with the pastor's acre, I shall get another; but first I must
complain of you, about the 'crow!'"