After church next day, for it was Sunday, Kurz came in to see Habermann
and Braesig:
"Good day! good day! I am angry; nothing but vexations the whole day!
What? Such a set of people! Won't let a man speak at all! Eh, one might
better keep swine than be a democrat! They listen to the stupidest
speeches, and cry 'Bravo,' and give serenades, disturbing people out of
their sleep, and when one tries to make an important subject clear to
them, do they drum and pipe then? and they call that a Reformverein!"
"Listen to me, Herr Kurz," said Braesig, stepping up to him, fully two
inches taller than usual, "it is very unbecoming in you, to sneer at
that serenade, for that serenade was given to _me_, and _you_ would
have been turned out again, if the well-meaning Herr Schultz and I had
not taken you under our protection. What? What does the old proverb
say? 'When it is the fashion, one rides to the city on a bull;' but it
is not the fashion in the Reformverein, and if one persists in riding
in and rampaging about on a bull, the people won't stand it, and they
turn him out, with his bull, for the Reformverein is not designed for
such purposes."
"It is all one to me!" cried Kurz, "other people rode in on donkeys,
and were treated with great distinction."
"You are a rude fellow!" cried Uncle Braesig, "you are an impertinent
rascal! If this were not Karl Habermann's room, I would kick you down
stairs, and you might carry your bones home in a bag."
"Hush, Braesig, hush!" interposed Habermann, "and you, Kurz, ought to be
ashamed of yourself, to come here stirring up strife and contention."
"I had strife and contention last evening; I have had strife and
contention all day long. This morning, when I had hardly opened my
eyes, my wife began with strife and contention; she is not willing I
should go to the Reformverein."
"She is quite right, there," said Habermann, seriously, "you are not a
fit person to go, for, with your hasty, inconsiderate behavior, you do
nothing but mischief;" and leaving him he went over to Braesig, who was
running up and down the room, puffed up like an adder: "Braesig, he
couldn't have meant it so."
"It is no consequence to me, Karl, what such an uncouth, malicious,
miserable beast thinks of me. Riding in on a donkey? Fie, it is nothing
but the meanest envy."
"I did'nt mean _you_!" cried Kurz, running up and down the other side
of the room, "I meant my brother-in-law, Baldrian, and the dyer, and
the other blockheads. And is'nt it enough to drive one crazy? First,
the quarrel with my wife, about the Reformverein, then a quarrel with
my shopman,--he slept till nine o'clock this morning, was out singing
on the streets last night, and at the beer-house, till four o'clock;
then a quarrel with the stable-boy and the horse-doctor,--my
saddle-horse has got the influenza,--then another quarrel with my wife,
she don't want me to have anything to do with farming."
"There she is right again," interrupted Habermann. "All your farming
amounts to nothing, because you don't understand it."
"So! I don't understand it? Nothing but vexations! Afterwards the
stupid servant maid, she put on a table-cloth for dinner that came down
to the floor; well, we sit there, a customer rings, I am provoked with
the shopman because he doesn't start up immediately, start up myself,
catch the table-cloth between my feet, and pull off the soup-tureen,
and the whole concern, on the floor. Do you see, then my wife comes,
and holds me fast, and says, 'Kurz, go to bed, you are unlucky to-day;'
and every time that I get angry, she says, 'Kurz, go to bed!' It is
enough to drive one crazy."
"And your wife was right again," said Habermann, "if you had stayed in
bed, you would not have come here to make trouble."
"So?" cried Kurz, "did you ever lie in bed all day, with sound limbs,
merely because it was an unlucky day? I will never do it again, no
matter how much my wife begs me. One worries himself to death! She took
away my boots and my trousers, and I lay there and fretted, because I
could not get up, if I wanted to."
Uncle Braesig began to laugh heartily.
"Well," said Habermann, "then you came over here, and got vexed again."
"Eh, how?" said Kurz, "I did'nt mean that at all, I only came over to
ask you two Herr Inspectors if you would go with me to my field, and
see if it was ready for ploughing."
Through Habermann's persuasions the quarrel was made up, and the three
farmers went to the field, Kurz making close calculations, and reeling
off his agricultural phrases, while Braesig said to himself, "Who is
riding on the donkey now?"
"I have a piece of ground here," said Kurz, "measuring a hundred and
fifty square rods, and I have bought ten cartloads of manure from
Kraenger the butcher, real, fat, slaughter-house manure; I am going to
plant beets; I had it strewed yesterday; is'nt that enough, gentlemen?
Look here!" and he turned out of the road into the field.
"Very badly strewed!" said Braesig. "A properly manured field should
look like a velvet cover," and he began to poke the lumps apart with
his stick.
"Never mind," said Kurz, "something will grow, it is good
slaughter-house manure, cost me ten thalers."
All at once he stood stock still, caught at the air with his hands, and
looked wildly around him.
"Good heavens!" cried Braesig, "what is the matter?"
"Thunder and lightening!" cried Kurz, "the devil is in it! This is not
my field, this next one is mine, and that confounded rascal has gone
and put my manure on another field! And I told him to do it! Ten
thalers! And the carting! And the strewing! Isn't it enough to make one
crazy?"
"Eh, Kurz, that is not so bad," said Habermann, "that can be settled,
your neighbor will be good-natured, and pay for the manure."
"That is the very thing!" cried Kurz. "This is baker Wredow's field,
whom I have such a quarrel with about the stadtbullen; he had better
take care!"
"There's a farmer for you," said Braesig very quietly, "carting his
manure into other people's fields!"
"It is enough to drive one crazy!" cried Kurz, "but I will save what I
can," and he ran to the boundary of the field, and began tossing the
lumps of manure over into his field with his stick, and worked away,
until he was out of breath with exercise and rage, and then he threw
his stick across the field, and panted out the words: "I will have
nothing more to do with it! Why didn't I stay in bed! When I get home,
and get hold of that rascal of a boy,--children, I beg you, hold me
fast, or something dreadful will happen!"
"Rely upon me," said Braesig, "I will hold you," and he caught him by
the coat-collar at once.
"But what was the stick to blame for?" said Habermann, going to pick it
up. Something stuck fast to the stick, Kurz had thrust it through, with
his working, and thrown it away with the stick; the old man was going
to shake it off, but as he looked at it, he stood still. Braesig had
been occupied with Kurz, and had not paid attention to his old friend,
and he now called.
"Come, Karl, we are going! There is nothing to be made of this
business."
He got no answer, and as he looked at his friend, he saw him standing,
with something black in his hand, which he regarded with fixed
attention, not turning nor moving.
"Good heavens, Karl, what have you there?" cried Zachary Braesig, going
towards him. Still he got no answer, Habermann, pale as death, was
looking at that which he held in his hand, and which made his features
quiver with agitation.
"Karl, Karl! What have you found, what is the matter?"
And at last the words burst from Habermann's struggling breast: "That
packet! This is that packet!" and he held out to Braesig a piece of
waxed cloth.
"What? What sort of a packet?"
"Oh, I have held it in my hand, I have seen it for years, waking and
dreaming! See, here is the von Rambow coat of arms, here are the marks
on the cloth. It was put together like that, it was of that size! It
was put up so, with the two thousand thalers in gold! This is the
packet, which Regel was sent to Rostock with."
AH this came out as disjointedly, anxiously and confusedly, as when one
talks in a dream, and the old man seemed to be so overpowered by
excitement that Braesig sprang towards him, and held him, but he held
the cloth fast, as if it had grown into his heart, and Braesig raised
himself, to look at it nearer,--Kurz came up also, without noticing any
thing remarkable, for he was not yet over his vexation: "Well," he
exclaimed, "now, tell me, isn't it enough to drive me crazy? There lies
my manure, there lies my ten thalers, on baker Wredow's field."
"Thunder and lightning!" cried Braesig, "do leave your confounded manure
in peace! Your talk is as bad as the stuff itself. There is your
cane,--we must go home. Come, Karl, recollect yourself."
And when Habermann had taken a few steps, the color returned to his
face, and a restless agitation and a driving haste came over him, he
began to ask after this thing and that; of whom Kurz had bought the
manure, when it was loaded, how it was loaded, what sort of a man the
butcher Kraeuger was, and then he stood still, and folded the packet
together, and looked at the creases in the cloth, and at the seal,
while Kurz quite forgot his anger, and wondered what had came over the
old inspector, that he should take so much interest in his manure and
his ten thalers. At last Braesig told him about the matter, but he made
him promise with a fearful oath, that he would not repeat a word of it,
to any one; "For," said he, "you are one of the people whose tongues
run away with them."
And then they stood together in the street, and deliberated how the
wrapper of the packet could have come into the butcher's yard, and
Kurz, as well as Braesig, was of the opinion, that it was impossible the
butcher could have anything to do with the business,--he was too
respectable a man.
"Yes," said Habermann, and the old energy and decision and judgment,
which he had seemed to lose in his trouble and grief, had quite come
back to him, "yes, but a neighbor might have thrown it over there. Does
the butcher live alone in the house?"
He had tenants in the back part of the house, Kurz said, but he did not
know who they were.
"I must go to the burgomeister," said Habermann, and as they came back
into the town, he went to his house. Kurz would have gone with him, but
Braesig held him back: "We two have lost nothing." And as he said
farewell to him, at his own door, he added, "You belied me to-day in
the most shameful manner; I have forgiven you, however, the 'riding on
a donkey;' but if you breathe a word about Karl Habermann's business, I
will wring your neck for you,--you confounded old syrup-prince, you!"
Habermann found the burgomeister at home; he told him about his
discovery and laid the waxed cloth together in the previous folds,
while the burgomeister grew more and more attentive, and finally said:
"Yes, to be sure, to be sure! I had the packet in my hand, also, when I
gave the messenger his pass; the examination, that followed
immediately, fixed it clearly in my memory, and if I were called as a
witness, I must testify that it is the same, or one exactly like it.
But, my dear Herr Habermann, the trace is still too indistinct; for
example, the butcher certainly can have nothing to do with the
business, he is one of our best citizens; it is not to be thought of."
"But there are other people in the back of the house."
"That is true, yes! Do you know who lives there? Well, we can soon find
out," and he touched the bell. The waiting-maid came in.
"Fika, who lives in the back part of the house with Kraeuger the
butcher?"
"Eh, Herr, widow Kaehlert lives there, and then Schmidt the weaver,"
said Fika.
"Schmidt? Schmidt? Is that the weaver Schmidt, who is divorced from his
wife?"
"Yes, Herr, and people say he is going to be married again, to the
widow Kaehlert."
"So? so? Do people say that? Well, you may go;" and the burgomeister
walked up and down, thinking and thinking, and then stopped before
Habermann, and said, "It is really a remarkable coincidence; that is
the divorced husband of the woman, whom we took up once for
examination; you know, she claimed to have found the Danish double
louis-d'ors."
Habermann said nothing, fear and hope were struggling too powerfully in
his breast.
The burgomeister touched the bell again; Fika came: "Fika, go round to
butcher Kraeuger's, and tell him I want him to come here, in a quarter
of an hour."
Fika went; and the burgomeister said to Habermann, "Herr Inspector,
these are very significant indications; yet it is possible we may come
to a dead halt; I can give you very little encouragement. But even if
we arrive at no certainty, what does it matter? No reasonable being can
have any suspicion of you. I have been really troubled to see that you
have taken such utterly groundless suspicions so much to heart. But I
must ask you to go now; people will certainly think you are concerned
in the matter. Say nothing about it, and take care that Kurz and Braesig
are silent also. Yes--and--yes, that will do! You can send Inspector
Braesig to me, to-morrow morning at nine o'clock."
Habermann went, and Kraeuger the butcher came.
"Dear Herr Kraeuger," said the burgomeister, "I sent for you, that you
might give me information on a few points. The widow Kaehlert and the
weaver Schmidt live with you?"
"Yes, Herr Burgomeister, they live in the back of my house."
"As I hear, weaver Schmidt is going to marry widow Kaehlert. Does the
woman know that there are some legal hindrances in the way of Schmidt's
contracting a second marriage?"
"Yes, Herr Burgomeister; I don't know about that last; I don't trouble
myself about the people; but, you know, these women folks! if these is
a courtship in the air, they are like the bees, and bring the news into
the house,--well, Herr Burgomeister, you won't take it ill, mine is
naturally no better than the rest; well, she came in lately, and said
the business was so far settled that Kaehlertsch was quite determined
about it, but the weaver wasn't ready yet. And Frau Kaehlert told Frau
Bochert, she had cooked and washed for him over a year, and it was time
he were making his preparations; but it was all the fault of that
baggage his divorced wife, who came and teased the weaver to take her
back again. If she should come again, however, she would trip her up,
and the weaver might cook and wash for himself."
"The widow Kaehlert must be very foolish," said the burgomeister, "to
want to marry that man. She has a little something, enough to live on;
but he has nothing in the world but his loom; that came out in the
evidence, at the divorce."
"Yes, it was so _then_. But, you see, Herr Burgomeister, I don't
trouble myself about him,--if he pays his rent, I have no further
business with him, and he has always done that honestly; and he has
rented, for this year past, a little room of mine, that opens into his,
and my wife says she went in there once, with Frau Kaehlert, and it was
very nicely fitted up, with a sofa, and pictures on the wall."
"He must have had a good deal to do then, and have earned a good deal."
"Eh, Herr Burgomeister, a weaver! and it is such a noisy business, they
can tell, all over the neighborhood, when the old loom stands still,
and there are a good many days, when I don't hear its music. No, he
must have something laid up."
"Then he lives very comfortably?"
"Yes, indeed! He has his fresh meat every day, and I told my wife, 'You
shall see,' I said, 'it is only because of the nice mutton and beef
that Kaehlertsch wants to marry him.'"
"Well, Herr Kraeuger, just tell me plainly,--I ask you in
confidence,--do you think the man is really an honest man?"
"Yes, Herr Burgomeister, I think he is. Now in some things I am very
observant, I have had some tenants who would run a splinter into their
fingers, in the yard, and when they pulled it out, in their kitchen, it
would be a four-foot log of my beechen timber, and when they went
through the shop, a pound of beef would jump into their coat-pockets,
and the apples from my trees were always falling at their feet. Well,
it isn't so with him; I say to you, don't meddle with him!"
The burgomeister was an honorable man, and a man of the best
intentions; but at this moment such good testimony in behalf of one of
his fellow-men, was not agreeable to him; he would rather have heard
that people thought the weaver a rascal. Some things are hard to
explain; but so much is certain, there are dark abysses in human
nature, and when such an abyss has opened in the office of the judge,
it has swallowed up thousands of innocent men. "Judge, judge justly!
God is thy master, and thou his servant!" is a fine old proverb, which
my father taught me when I was a little boy, but the weakness of human
nature does not always suffer us to act up to it, to say nothing of the
openly wicked, who seek their advantage in injustice.
The butcher had gone, and the burgomeister walked up and down the room,
thinking over the matter, and contriving how he could find out how the
waxed cloth came into the butcher's yard. Two things urged him
powerfully to this investigation, one was his deep compassion for
Habermann's troubles, the other, his firm persuasion that this was the
wrapper of the gold-packet which he had held in his own hand. But he
knew, also, that he had not yet a firm clue, which he could follow; yet
he was sure of so much, that the weaver's divorced wife still held
intercourse with him.
Habermann, also, was walking up and down in his room, hastily,
restlessly. Ah, how strongly he was impelled to share his hopes and his
prospects with his child, and the Frau Pastorin! But unrest for both?
And he had enough to do, to control his own.
Braesig sat in a chair, turning his head back and forth as Habermann
walked up and down the room, and looking at him; like Bauschan when
Jochen Nuessler had his cap on.
"Karl," said he, finally, "I am very glad to see you are growing so
active, and you shall see, it will have a good effect upon you. But, I
tell you, you must have an advocate. Take the Herr Advocate Rein; he is
a good fellow, who knows how to turn and twist, in spite of his length.
You can't go through with it alone, Karl; but he can help you, and, if
it is necessary, I can bring the matter before the Reformverein, and
your fellow-citizens can help you to your rights."
"Braesig, for mercy's sake! what are you thinking of? You might as well
tell it to the town-crier! I am dreadfully afraid Kurz will let it
out."
"Kurz? No, Karl, don't be afraid, he can't talk about it to-day, for I
have been to him and scolded him till he can scarcely see or hear, and
to-morrow you shall see he will have the croup, so that he cannot speak
a word."
"Braesig, I beg of you; Kurz have the croup?" and Habermann laughed in
spite of his agitation, "what are you talking about?"
"Karl, you needn't laugh at me! See, his saddle-horse has the
inflorentia,--the horse-doctor said so, and he ordered that the old
mare should be separated from the other horses, on account of the
infection, and there was Kurz running about the sick horse in his
cotton-wadded dressing-gown, feeling her here, and feeling her there,
and then he ran back to the sound ones, to see if they had caught it
already, and so he has infected the sound ones, for the infectious
matter would get into the cotton wool of the dressing-gown,--cotton
wool is the best thing in the world to carry infection,--and, you shall
see, he has caught it himself, and to-morrow he will have the croup.
The glanders is catching, why shouldn't the inflorentia be?"
Habermann passed a very restless night; but although he had not closed
an eye, he was full of energy next morning; a beam of hope had fallen
into the darkness, and gilded his prospects; but he could not stay in
the house, the four walls oppressed him, he must have room for his
restlessness, and long before Braesig went to the Rathhaus to keep his
appointment with the burgomeister, Habermann was wandering along the
quiet footpaths through the green spring fields. And what a lovely
spring it was! It was just as if heaven were saying to earth, "Hope
confidently!" and earth again to man, "Hope confidently!" and to the
old inspector also, she cried, with her green springing leaves and
bird-voices, "Hope confidently!"
Heaven did not keep her promise to earth, the next year was a year of
want; earth did not keep her promise to man, the next year was a year
of misery; would she keep her promise to the old man? He knew not, but
he trusted the message. He walked on, and on, he came to Gurlitz, he
went along the same pathway where he had walked with Franz, that
Palm-Sunday morning, when his daughter was to be confirmed. He knew
that it was on this day that love had first stirred in the young man's
heart,--Franz had written him so, he often wrote to him,--and a great
bitterness arose in him that the happiness, which had grown so silently
and purely in two innocent hearts, should be disturbed and destroyed by
the foolishness and injustice of another person, and be turned off,
abruptly, into another path which led to Rexow, that he need not go
through the Pumpelhagen garden.
A girl came towards him with a child on her arm, and as she came nearer
she stood still, exclaiming:
"Herr Inspector! Herr Inspector! How long it is since I have seen you!"
"Good day, Fika," said Habermann, and looked at the child, "how goes it
with you?"
"Ah, Herr, very badly; Krischan Daesel mixed himself up in that business
against the Herr, that we might be able to get married, and the Herr
has sent him away, and I should have gone too, but the gracious Frau
would not permit it. Well, if you want to get down, run then!" she said
to the child, who was struggling in her arms.
"I always have to take her out about this time," she added, "for the
gracious Frau is busy about the housekeeping, and the little one frets
after her."
Habermann looked at the child. She plucked flowers at the roadside, and
coming up to him with "Da! man!" she put a marigold blossom into his
hand, and through Habermann's heart shot the recollection of such a
flower, which another child--his own child--had put into his hand years
ago, and he lifted the child in his arms, and kissed her, and the child
stroked this white hair: "Ei! ei!" and he let her down, and turned to
go, saying, "Fika Degel, take her home, it will rain soon."
And as he went his way, the spring rain fell to the earth in gentle
drops, and his heart shone beneath it, like the fresh grain. What had
become of his hatred?
When Habermann reached Rexow, his sister sprang to meet him, as quickly
as her stoutness would allow:
"Karl! God bless you! Karl! Have you come at last! And how bright you
look! And so handsome! Dear brother, has anything happened? Has
something good happened to you?"
"Yes, child, yes; I will tell you by and by. Where is Jochen?"
"Jochen? Dear heart, you may well ask. Where he is, no mortal knows; he
comes and goes like a bird on the fence. Since the time when it was
settled that Rudolph and Mining are to be married next week, on
Friday,--you are coming to the wedding?--he has no rest, day nor night,
and busies himself about the farming, and now that the spring seed is
all planted and he has nothing in the world to do, he runs about the
fields, and when he comes home, he makes us all miserable. It is just
as if he would make up, in the eight days between now and the wedding,
what he has neglected for five and twenty years."
"Oh, let him work! It will do him no harm."
"So I say, but Rudolph is vexed because he follows him round so."
"Well, that won't last long. Is everything quiet here?"
"Oh, yes, and if Jochen had not wanted to make that speech about the
geese, we should have known nothing about the troubles, but at Gurlitz
and Pumpelhagen it looks badly."
"At Pumpelhagen, too?"
"Oh, yes, yes! They say nothing about it; he doesn't speak, and she
doesn't speak, but the whole region knows that it may break out, any
day. He has so many debts, now the day-laborers demand their wages, and
he has been letting them run up, and then they want you again for
inspector."
"Oh, that last is all nonsense!"
"So I said. No, I told the gracious Frau, my brother Karl will never
come to this place again."
"What?" asked Habermann, hastily, "have you been to see her?"
"Yes, indeed, Karl. Didn't Braesig tell you we were going?"
"He said you were going, but I did not know that you had been there."
"Yes, Karl, it happened this way; Triddelsitz came here with his
new-fashioned pistols, and said they would greet the day-laborers with
them, and I said to Jochen we must go to those people. Well, they had
affronted us, to be sure, and there was no need of our going; but,
Karl, the times! If one will not stretch out his hand to help a
neighbor in such times as these, I would, not give much for him! Well,
we rode over there, but what Jochen said to the young Herr, of course
no mortal knows. 'Jochen,' said I, 'what did he say to you?' 'Nothing
at all,' said he. 'What did you talk about?' I asked. 'Eh, what should
we talk about?' said he. 'What did he say to you at last?' said I. 'He
said adieu,' said he, 'but, mother, I shall not go there again.'"
"Well, how did she receive you?" asked Habermann.
"Eh, Karl, I believe if she had allowed herself she would have fallen
upon my neck and wept. She took me into her room, and looked so
friendly and natural, and when I told her that being a neighbor and a
friend, I had come to see if I could be useful to her in any way, she
looked at me kindly and quietly, and said, 'Tell me, how is your
brother?' and when I had told her you were pretty well,--thank
God!--she asked after Louise, and when I had told her good news of her,
she became quite cheerful, and began to tell me about her housekeeping;
but it was not as when a couple of housewives, like me, sit down
together to have a little sensible talk over their housekeeping; it was
a little too quick for me; but one could see very well she understood
it thoroughly. Dear heart, she may have need of it yet! See, Karl, I
plucked up courage, and stood up and took her hand in both mine, and
said she must not repulse me,--no one should throw away dirty water
until he was sure of clean; she might be in trouble,--of course she had
friends, but they might not be near at hand,--and then she must come to
me, for, as her neighbor, I was the nearest to her, as the Frau
Pastorin says, and whatever I could do should be done. Karl, the tears
stood in her eyes, and she turned away, and pressed them back, and when
she turned round to me again, her face was full of friendliness and
sweetness, and she took me by the hand, and said I should have my
reward, and she took me into another room, and lifted her little child
in her arms, and reached her towards me, and the little thing must give
me a kiss. What a dear sweet girl it is!"
"Yes, yes!" said Habermann, "I have seen her this morning. But did she
make no complaint?"
"Not a word, Karl. She said nothing of him, and nothing of their
troubles, and when we came away, we were as wise as before, at least I
was; for Jochen told me nothing, if he had really heard anything from
the young Herr."
"Well, sister, it is all the same. Every body knows that the young Herr
is in great pecuniary embarrassment; Pomuchelskopp gave him notice for
his money, and did not get it at St. Anthony's day, and has now sued
him; Moses has given him notice for St. John's day, and will not get
his money either, for in such times, and under such circumstances, he
can raise nothing, and then his estate must be sold, and it will go
very cheap, and Pomuchelskopp will buy it. In better times, and under
the right sort of management, the estate would bring a good price. You
will help the gracious Frau and so will I, I will gladly give up my
little capital, if the young Herr will consent to a sensible
management; but that would not go far. You must do something also; and
I will talk seriously to Moses, and it will be a sin and a shame if we
honest people cannot get the better of that old rascal, who muddied the
water in the first place, that he might catch his carp the easier!"
"Yes, Karl, if he would manage sensibly, and have you for inspector
again, then--"
"No, child," interposed Habermann, decidedly, "I shall never go there
again. But there are plenty of skilful farmers in the country,--thank
God!--and he must get such an one, and leave the management to him, we
will make that a condition."
"Yes, Karl, that is all very well; but now we have the outfit for
Mining,--Kurz might have done more about it, and for his only son, but
he is always filling one's ears with complaints, and, Karl, it might
make us trouble with Rudolph; and we must take care that we have
something to live upon, in our old age, and then our money is all tied
up in mortgages."
"Moses can arrange all that. You see, sister, you have promised the
Frau you would help her, and I know you meant what you said; now is the
time for you to help!"
"Yes, Karl, but Jochen! what will Jochen say?"
"Eh, Jochen! Jochen has done whatever you wanted for this five and
twenty years, he will do so still."
"Karl, you are right; he must do so. I have always managed for his
good, and would he set himself against me now? But he is always making
trouble; it is very hard to control him," and Frau Nuessler sprang up
from her chair, and struck her fist against the table, as if that were
Jochen.
"My dear child," said Habermann, "you have brought about a great deal
of good, in these long years; you will bring this about too. May God
help you! and now, adieu!" and he gave his sister a kiss, and departed.
What a pleasant walk he had! His restlessness of yesterday and that
morning were quite gone, such a sure hope had sprung up in him, and all
that he saw, the blue sky and the green earth, harmonized with his
mood, harmonized with the peace which had entered his heart. And as he
arrived at home, and his daughter scolded him, and the Frau Pastorin
wondered why he had not come home to dinner, which they had kept
waiting for him, he looked so bright and cheerful, that Braesig gazed at
him in astonishment, and said to himself, "Karl must have found out
some new indicium," for he had learned several new Latin phrases that
morning. And he sat there, and made the most frightful faces at
Habermann, until the old man finally understood them as signs that he
should go out, and went with him up-stairs to his room.
"Braesig," cried Habermann, in some excitement, "do you know anything
about the business? Has anything come out?"
"Karl," said Braesig, walking up and down with his long pipe, and
tugging at a high shirt-collar, which sat very uncomfortably, as he did
not usually wear one, "Karl, don't you see anything unusual about me?"
"Yes, Braesig," said Habermann, "your shirt-collar, and it seems to
scratch you dreadfully."
"That is nothing. Higher up!"
"Eh, then I don't know."
"Karl," said Braesig, standing before him, "so as you see me here, I am
appointed assessor at the criminal court, and get, by the hour's
sitting, eight shillings, Prussian currency."
"Oh, leave that alone! But tell me, is there any prospect that anything
can come of the matter?"
Braesig looked his friend right in the eye, shook his head a little, and
said; "Karl, I dare not tell you anything, and I will not, the Herr
Burgomeister has expressly forbidden me to say anything here in town,
and especially to you, for the Herr Burgomeister says it will only be a
useless torment for you, and we must have more indiciums, for he can do
nothing without indiciums, and these confounded things can only be
obtained by the greatest secrecy, says the Herr Burgomeister, and, if
the whole city knows it, it would only give opportunity for all sorts
of confusions among the rascals. But so much I can tell you, they have
lied already, and they will keep on lying, till they fix themselves in
a trap."
There was a knock at the door; it was the letter-carrier, bringing
Habermann a letter: "From Paris," he said, and went away.
"Lord preserve us, Karl! You have very distinguished acquaintances! Who
the devil can it be? From Paris!"
"It is from Franz," said Habermann, and his hand trembled, as he
hastily broke the seal. Franz had often written to him, and every time
he had been in doubt whether to mention the correspondence to his child
or not,--until now, he had said nothing to her about it. He read; the
letter was full of friendship, and the old attachment; every word
expressed the recollection of old times; but not a single one referred
to his love. At the close, he said that he should remain in Paris until
St. John's day, and then return home. This last Habermann told Braesig,
as he put the letter in his pocket.
Braesig was walking back and forth meanwhile, thinking, and, if
Habermann had not been occupied with his letter, he must have heard
what he was saying to himself.
"Remarkable! quite remarkable! It seems to me like the finger of God!
The Herr Burgomeister can have no objection to that, Paris has nothing
to do with the indiciums, this is a purely private affair. Karl," he
said at last, standing before Habermann, and looking at him, as he had
seen the burgomeister look at the weaver that morning, "Karl, tell me
the real truth; does your young Herr von Rambow know,--your old pupil,
I mean,--that I know, that you and the Frau Pastorin know, that
something has happened between him and Louise, that nobody is to know?"
"Eh, Braesig, I don't know----"
"Good, Karl, I see I have not expressed my meaning clearly enough, I
mean, is he of the" opinion that you and the Frau Pastorin think that I
think well of his love for Louise, and that you have told me? That is
my opinion, and now tell me yours."
"Eh, Braesig, he knows that you know about it, and he knows that you
think well of it; but what of that?"
"Good, Karl; lose no words! But I must go now, I have invited David
Berger and his trumpeters and the whole glee club to Grammelin's this
evening, to a bowl of punch, and I must go and look after it. So,
adieu, Karl!" and he went, but came back again: "Karl, tell the Frau
Pastorin, I shall not be home to supper. If I should say anything to
her about the punch, she would preach me a little sermon; and you,
Karl, don't be alarmed if I come home late to-night. I have the key."
But he came back once more to say: "Karl, what can be done, shall be
done."
"I believe it," said Habermann, who thought he referred to the punch,
"you will do your business thoroughly." Braesig nodded, as if to say he
might rely upon him with confidence, and went.
Habermann sat there, and read his letter a second time, and who would
have thought that from this manuscript so many fair hopes would
blossom? The warm friendship, which spoke in the letter, soothed him
like the spring weather, and the trusting tone echoed sweetly in his
ears, as the song of birds. Should his hopes be again deceived? Time
would show!
Ah, time and hope! They stand over against each other, like the cuckoo
and the seven stars; a man who, after long darkness, ventures to hope
again, and sees the first faint gleams of happiness in the dark sky,
must yet wait patiently the time when the sun stands full in the
heavens.