CHAPTER XXVI

HOW FRENELI AND ULI GET OUT AND ARE FINALLY WEDDED

From this point on affairs went much better than Uli had expected, and

many a time he could not but think that he was faring better than he

deserved and was forcibly reminded of what his old master had said--that

a good name was veritable capital and worth more than gold and goods.

The rent was reasonable; but the chief thing was the extras. Some things

that he liked especially, to be sure, Johannes came and seized. That was

only reasonable, he said, to balance up the corn and cherry brandy that

his brother-in-law had talked them out of. The extras included not only

the entire live-stock, utensils and dishes, but also the

house-furnishings and the servants' beds. The appraisal was reasonable

throughout, so that the receiver could not be ruined if the things ever

had to be returned. There were some considerable reservations, but they

could be overlooked in view of the low rent. Uli was to feed one cow for

Joggeli, fatten two hogs, supply potatoes, sow one measure of flax-seed

and two of hemp, and furnish a horse whenever they wanted to drive. If

people are on good terms such reservations are seldom too heavy; but if

misunderstandings arise, then every reservation becomes a

stumbling-block.

Uli and Freneli could save most of their money and needed to buy very

little; the promised dowry did not fail; they received a bed and a

wardrobe as handsome as could be got in all the country round. Johannes,

without waiting for their choice, sent them a handsome cradle, which

Freneli would not admit for a long time, maintaining it was not meant

for them.

So in some anxiety of spirit they saw the time approach when Uli was to

take over the lease, given to him chiefly through confidence in his

ability and loyalty. First, however, he was to be married to Freneli.

Since New Year's there had been talk of it; but the girl always had

excuses for delay. Now she had not had time to think it all over; now

she had just been thinking it over and had decided it was better to wait

another Sunday or two; again she said she wanted to enter on her duties

as mistress immediately after the wedding, and not still be servant; or

else the shoemaker had her Sunday shoes, and she couldn't go on wooden

soles to the pastor to announce the marriage. So passed one Sunday after

another. * * *

Then one Sunday, when the shoemaker had brought the shoes, the dear God

sent a terrible snow-storm, such that no human being could take a dozen

steps with open eyes, and a dark night, the thickest and blackest that

ever was, interposed between heaven and earth. While the storm was at

his height and snow and hail rattled against the windows and piled up a

finger's length against the frames, while the wind whistled mournfully

about the roof, darkness came in at the windows thick and gloomy, so

that the lamp could scarcely prevail against it, the cats crawled

shivering to the back of the stove, and the dog scratched at the kitchen

door and crawled under the stove with his tail between his legs, Freneli

at length said, "Now Uli, get ready and we'll go; now folks certainly

won't be watching us." * * *

When they were ready and opened the kitchen door, Freneli had to make

three attempts before she could get out, and Uli had to look for his hat

on the other side of the kitchen. Her aunt began to wail and to implore

them in God's name not to go; they would be killed! But Freneli summoned

all her strength for a third attempt, and vanished in the snow-flurry; her

aunt's lamentations died away unheard. It was really almost a break-neck

undertaking, and Uli had to help the girl. With the wind directly in their

faces, they often lost the road, had to stand still at times and look

about them to see where they were and gather breath, or turn around to

let the strongest gusts go by; it took them three-quarters of an hour to

go the scant fifteen minutes' walk to the parsonage. There they first

shook off the snow as well as they could, then knocked on the door. But

they knocked long in vain; the sound was swallowed up in the howling of

the wind, which raged awesomely through the chimneys. Then Freneli lost

patience; in place of Uli's reverent knock she now tried her own, and it

was such that the indwellers started up from their seats and the

pastor's wife cried, "Mercy on us, what's that?" But the pastor calmed

her by saying that it was either a baptism or a wedding, only that, as

usual, Mary had not heard their first knocks. While Mary answered the

door he was lighting a light, so that the people need not wait long, and

as soon as Mary opened the door to say, "There's two people here, Sir,"

he was already stepping out.

Back of the house door stood the two, Freneli behind Uli. The pastor,

somewhat short, of middle age, but already venerable in appearance and

with shrewd features that could be either very sharp or very pleasant,

raised the light above his head, peered out with head bowed slightly

forward, and cried at last, "Why, Uli, is it you, in such weather? And I

suppose Freneli's behind you," he said, letting the light fall on her.

"But dear me," he cried, "in such weather? And the good mistress let you

go? Come, Mary," he called, "brush off these folks for me, and take this

collar and dry it." Mary came up very willingly with her lamp.

Now the pastor's wife opened the door, her light in her hand, and said,

"Bring them in here, why don't you? It's warmer than your study, and

Freneli and I know each other right well." There stood Freneli now in

the blaze of three lights, still between Uli and the door, not knowing

what expression to assume. Finally she put a good face on a bad game, as

the saying goes, came forward, and saluted the pastor and his wife quite

properly, saying that her aunt bade her wish them good evening, and

Joggeli too. All this Freneli said with the most innocent face in the

world.

"But," said the pastor, "why do you come in such a storm? You might have

lost your lives!"

"We couldn't manage it any other way," said Uli, who began to feel the

man's duty of taking his wife's obstinacy on his own shoulders--a duty

which one must eventually fulfil of necessity, either to avoid appearing

lien-pecked or to hide the weakness of his wife. "We couldn't wait any

longer," he continued, "as we wanted to ask the pastor to announce the

affair here and there, so that it could be published next Sunday."

They were rather late for that, the pastor said; he didn't know whether

the mail would reach both places before Sunday.

"I am sorry for that," said Uli; "I hadn't thought of it."

Freneli acted as if she had nothing to do with it, and talked quite

interestedly with the pastor's wife about the flax, which had seemed so

fine and still yielded so little when they combed it. When the

formalities were over the pastor said to Uli, "And so you're to be

tenant on Slough Farm? I'm glad of it. You're not like so many servants,

that don't even look human, to say nothing of Christian; you act like a

man and like a Christian too."

"Yes," said Uli, "why should I forget God? I need Him more than He does

me, and if I forget Him can I hope that He will think of me when He

bestows His gifts and His mercies?"

"Yes, Uli, that's fine," said the pastor, "and I think He has not

forgotten you either. You have a good farm and I think you're getting a

good wife."

Here the maid came in with the plates to set the table. Freneli noticed

it and stood up to go, although the hostess told them not to hurry, or,

better still, to have supper with them. But Freneli said they must go or

her aunt would think something had happened, thanked the pastor and

asked him to promise that he would come to see them, although they were

only leaseholders. They could always give them a cup of coffee, if they

would be satisfied with that. Her heart always rejoiced to see him, even

from a distance. Wishing them happiness and blessing in the holy state

of matrimony, the pastor himself lighted them out with candle held high,

and bade them to wish good evening to aunt and uncle for him. * * *

Nearer, and nearer came the fateful wedding-day. As on the day before

some holy Sunday, when solemn feelings almost irresistibly make their

way into the heart, almost as on the eve of her confirmation, so Freneli

felt on the eve of her wedding. Thoughtfully and seriously she did her

housework; perhaps she had never spoken so little as on that day. At

times she felt like weeping, and still she had a friendly smile for all

she met. Then again she would sink into deep reflection, in which she

forgot place and time and everything; she knew nothing of herself,

nothing of this brooding. Then when some one spoke to her, she would

start up as out of deep sleep; it seemed to her as if she had only just

recovered her eyes and ears, as if she were falling back upon the earth

from another world.

As they were sitting at supper, such an unexpected crash was heard on

the hill near the house that all started up. It was the men and some of

the day-laborers, who wished to proclaim to the world the glory of their

new masters. There lies hidden in this shooting and banging at weddings

a deep significance; the only pity is that so many a human life is

endangered by it. No hateful horn-blowing was heard; no horrible

serenades, such as envy or enmity offer to bridal couples, disturbed the

peaceful evening. * * *

Uli had a bad night. As they wanted to start at three in the morning the

hours for sleep were few, but it seemed as if they would not pass. He

could not sleep; many things busied his thoughts and tossed him

restlessly back and forth, and every thirty seconds he reached for his

watch. The whole importance of what he was now to become rolled itself

upon his soul with its entire weight. Then again lovely pictures danced

before his closed eyes. [Illustration: FIRST DANCING LESSONS _From

the Painting by Benjamin Vautier_] The spirit-hour was not long past

when he left his bed, in order to give the horse his fodder and to brush

and curry him thoroughly. When he had finished this work he went to the

well and began a similar task on himself. Then playful hands enfolded

him and Freneli brought him her loving morning salute. A glad hope had

drawn her to the well, and they lingered to caress each other in the

cold morning air as if mild evening zephyrs were blowing. All anxiety

and oppression forsook him now, and he hastened the preparations for

their departure. Soon he could go into the house for the hot coffee

which Freneli had made and for the white bread and cheese her aunt had

provided. Little peace did the girl have at the table, for the fear of

having forgotten something would not let her rest; again and again she

looked over the bundle of her belongings, and even then her aunt's

fur-lined shoes were nearly left behind. At last she stood there all in

readiness, sweet and beautiful. The two maids, whom curiosity had drawn

from their beds, encircled her with their lights, and were so absorbed

in admiration that they forgot that oil makes spots and that fire

kindles; a little more and Freneli, soaked in oil, would have gone up in

flame. Alas, in the fleshy bosoms of the poor maids heaved the yearning:

Oh, if they once had such pretty clothes, they would be as pretty as

Freneli; and then they too could ride off to be married to such a

handsome man!

Long before three o'clock they drove out into the cold, frosty morning.

Amid question and answer the flickering stars paled and sought their

sky-blue beds, and the good mother sun began to weave golden curtains

about them out of sparkling rays of light, so that their chaste

retirement, their innocent sleep, might not be sullied by the eyes of

curious sinners. Jack Frost shook his curls more mightily; driven by the

sun from the little stars to the dark bosom of the earth, away from his

heavenly sweethearts, he tried to caress earthly ones, wanted to embrace

Freneli and put his cold arms about the warm girl; his white breath was

already playing in the tips of her cap. The girl shivered and begged

Uli to take refuge just a moment in a warm room; she was shaking through

and through, and they would reach their destination soon enough.

It was one of the good old taverns whose proprietors do not change every

year, but where one generation succeeds the other. The innkeepers, who

were just sitting at their coffee as the bridal couple entered,

recognized Uli at once. Now a very friendly salutation, and the couple

must sit down and celebrate with them, whether or no. They were told not

to make a fuss about it, everything was ready, and nothing was more

grateful on such a cold morning than a cup of hot coffee. Freneli acted

somewhat bash-fully, for it seemed bold of her to sit down with them as

if that was her home. But the hostess urged her until she sat down,

surveyed her, and began to praise her to Uli, remarking what a pretty

wife he had; there hadn't been a prettier one there this long time. She

was glad he was doing so well; they had all been sorry when he went

away; one always liked to see a friend get along well. Not that there

weren't folks that couldn't bear to see it, but there weren't many such.

Uli asked whether she thought the pastor was up; he would go to him

first. He surely would be, they thought, especially on a Friday, when

folks usually came. Not that he was one of the earliest risers usually,

for he liked to lie abed; but he was getting old and so that could be

excused. But he had had a vicar during the winter, and he had never been

in sight before eight; everybody had been vexed that they had to have

such a lazy vicar. Here Uli asked whether it was customary to take the

bride along. No, they said; folks seldom waited in the parsonage.

Afterward a good many went back together to get the certificate. But the

bashful ones, or those that thought the pastor would have cause to say

something to them, would come right back to the inn, and only the lads

would go for the certificate. After Freneli had declined to go along and

had bidden Uli to let his master know and send word to have his master

and mistress come, he set out.

In his handsome dress and in the dark room the old pastor did not at

first recognize him, but then was heartily rejoiced. "I heard," he said,

"that you were doing well, were to get a fine lease and a good wife, and

had saved a tidy sum. It gives me great joy to bless a marriage that I

can hope will remain in the Lord. That you have saved something is not

the chief thing; but you wouldn't have it, and people wouldn't have had

so much confidence in you, if you were not honest and God-fearing, and

that's what pleases me most of all. The things of the world and the

things of the spirit are much closer to each other than most people

believe. They think that in order to get along well in the world, you've

got to hang up your Christianity on a nail. But it's just the reverse;

that's what causes the everlasting complaint in the world; that's why

most men make their beds so that they have to lie on nettles. Ask

yourself if you would be as happy now if you had stayed a vagabond,

despised by all. What do you think--what sort of a wedding would you

have had? Just imagine what kind of a wife you would have got, and the

prospects you would have had, and what people would have said when they

saw you going to be married, and then see how it is today; reckon up the

enormous difference. Or what do you think about it? Is blind fortune,

accident, so-called luck, back of it all? Folks are always saying: 'I

don't have any luck; you just can't do anything nowadays.' What do you

think, Uli? Is it only luck? Would you have had this luck if you had

stayed a vagabond? But the misfortune is just that people want to be

happy through luck and not by God-fearing lives on which God's blessing

rests. And so it's quite fitting that those who are only waiting for

luck should be deceived by it, until they come to the knowledge that

nothing depends on luck, but everything on the blessing of God."

"Yes, Your Reverence," said Uli, "I can't tell you how much happier I am

now than when I was one of the rabble that run around the streets. But

something depends on luck, too; for if I hadn't come to such a good

master no good would have come of me."

"Uli, Uli," said the pastor, "was that luck or God's decree?"

"It's all the same, I think," answered Uli.

"Yes," said the pastor, "it is the same; but it's not a matter of

indifference which you call it, as men think, and that's just where the

difference lies. The man that talks of luck doesn't think of God, nor

thank Him, nor seek His grace; he seeks luck of and in the world. He who

speaks of God's providence thinks of Him, thanks Him, seeks to please

Him, sees God's hand in everything; he knows neither bad nor good luck,

but to him everything is God's good guidance, which is to lead him to

blessedness. The different words are the expression of a different state

of mind, a different view of life; that is why there is so much

difference in the words, and it is important which one we use. And

however good our intentions, still, when we talk of luck, it makes us

frivolous or discontented; but if we speak of God's providence, then

these words themselves awaken thoughts in us and direct our eyes to

God."

"Well, yes, Your Reverence," said Uli, "you're about right in that, and

I'll bear it in mind."

"I hope you will come back here with your bride after the service?"

"Very willingly, if you wish it," said Uli; "but I'm afraid we shall

keep you from your work."

"No one does that," said the pastor; "for it is not only my office, but

also my pleasure, to speak on serious occasions a serious word to hearts

in which I can hope for good soil that will bear fruit. What the pastor

says on such occasions is not so soon forgotten."

Meanwhile Freneli had taken off the fur-lined shoes and put on the

proper cap, and with her own hands the hostess had fastened on the

wreath. It was made in the Langental fashion, she said. "But whatever

fashion it is, it's becoming to you," she continued.

The bells began to peal and Freneli's heart to beat loudly; her eyes

grew fairly dim with dizziness. The hostess brought her aromatic salts,

rubbed her temples with something, and said, "You mustn't take it so

hard, girlie, we all have to go through with it. But go now in God's

name; the pastor doesn't wait long on a Friday; he's a great one for

hurrying."

Uli took his Freneli by the hand and walked with her toward the church;

solemnly the solemn peals echoed in their hearts; for the sexton rang

the bells with all his skill, so that the clappers struck on both edges,

and not as if they were lame, now on one edge, now on the other. As they

came to the churchyard, the grave-digger was just busy at a grave, and

it was quiet about him; no sheep, no goat came and desecrated man's last

resting-place; for in this village the churchyard was no pasture for

unclerical animals.

Suddenly an irresistible melancholy came over Freneli. The venerable

mound, the digging of the new grave, woke gloomly thoughts. "That's no

good omen," she whispered; "they are digging a grave for one of us."

Before the church stood a baptismal party, one godmother holding a child

on her arm. "That means a child-bed for one of us," whispered Uli, to

comfort Freneli.

"Yes, that I'm to die in one," she answered; "that I must leave my

happiness for the cold grave."

"Just remember," said Uli, "that the dear God does everything and that

we mustn't be superstitious, but believing. That our graves will be dug

some day is certain; but that digging a grave means death to those who

come along I never heard. Just think how many people see a grave being

dug; if all of them had to follow soon, think what a lot of deaths

there'd be."

"Oh, forgive me," said Freneli; "but the more important a journey is the

more alarmed the poor soul gets and wants to know what will be the

outcome, and so takes every encounter as an omen, bad or good; do you

remember when you did the like?"

Then Uli pressed her hand and said, "You're right; but let us put our

trust in God and not worry. What He shall do to us, or give or take, is

well done."

They entered the church softly and hesitatingly; went separately to left

and right; saw a child taken into the covenant of the Lord; thought how

beautiful it was to be permitted to commend such a tender and feeble

being, body and soul, to the especial care of its Saviour, and how great

a load it must take from the parents' breasts, when they received in the

baptism the assurance that the Lord would be with them and let them feed

the child with His spirit, as the mother fed it with her milk. They

joined very reverently in the prayers, and thought how seriously they

would take it when they should have to promise as godparents to see to

it that a child should be brought to the Lord. The customary collect was

lost upon them in the importance of the serious moment that came nearer

and nearer. When the pastor stepped forward from behind the baptismal

fount, when Uli had taken Freneli by the hand, and they had stepped

forward to the bench, both sank to their knees, far anticipating the

ceremony, held their hands in fervent clasp, and with all their soul and

all their heart and all their strength they prayed and promised what the

words bid them--yes, and much more that gushed forth from their true

hearts. And when they arose, they felt exceedingly firm and cheerful;

both felt that they had won a great treasure for their whole life, which

must make them happy, which none could take from them by force or guile,

and with which they must remain united to all eternity.

When outside, Uli begged his bride to go with him to the pastor, to get

the certificate. Abashed, Freneli tried to decline, under the pretext

that she did not know him, that it was unnecessary, and so on. But she

went none the less, and no longer timorous, like a thief in the night,

but as well becomes a happy woman at the side of an honest man. Freneli

knew how to take herself in hand.

With kindness they were received by the pastor, a venerable, tall, lean

gentleman. There were not many who, like him, knew how to mingle

seriousness and graciousness, so that hearts opened before him as if

touched with a magic wand.

When he had looked at Freneli, he asked, "What do you think, Uli? Was it

due to luck or God's guidance that you got this little wife?"

"Your Reverence," said Uli, "you are right; I think her a gift of God."

"And you, little wife, of what mind are you?"

"I too have no other thought but that the dear God brought us together,"

said Freneli.

"I think so too," said the pastor; "God willed it; never forget that.

But why did He bring you two together? That one should make the other

happy, not only here, but also yonder--don't forget that either.

Marriage is God's sanctuary on earth, in which men are to consecrate and

purify themselves for Heaven. You are good people; be pious and upright;

but you both have faults. In you, Uli, I know one which steadily gains

power over you; it is avarice. You, Freneli, must have some too, but I

do not know them. These faults will appear little by little, and when a

fault becomes visible in you, Uli, your wife will be the first to see

it, and you can tell that by her face; and, on the other hand, you can

see what comes out in Freneli, and she can read it in your expression.

One almost becomes the other's mirror. In this mirror, Uli, you should

recognize your faults, and try to put them from you out of love for your

wife, because she suffers most from them; and you, wife, should assist

him in all gentleness, but should recognize your own faults too and try

to conquer them for Uli's sake, and he will help you too. If this labor

becomes too heavy for love, then God gives us child after child, and

each is an angel come to sanctify us; each brings us new lessons of how

to appear rightly before God, and new desires, to the end that the child

be prepared for a sacrifice that shall be holy and well-pleasing to God.

And the more you live together in this spirit, the happier you shall be

in Heaven and on earth; for, believe me, true worldly happiness and

heavenly happiness are to be found on exactly the same road. Believe me:

the dear God has brought you together to help each other gain Heaven, to

be prop and staff to each other on the narrow, toilsome way that leads

to eternal life, to level and lighten that way for each other through

love, meekness, and long-suffering--for it is rough and thorny. Now when

gloomy days come, when faults break out in one or the other, or both,

then think not of bad luck, as if that made you unhappy, but of the dear

God, who has long seen all these faults and who has brought you together

just so that one should cure the other and help him to mend his ways;

that is the purpose and the task of your marriage. And as love sent the

Saviour and led Him to the cross, so love must be active in you too;

that is the power which exceeds all others, which cures and betters.

With cursing and scolding, with threats and blows one can put down the

other, but not better him so that he can be well-pleasing to God.

Usually, the worse one grows, the worse the other becomes too, and so

they help each other down to hell. So never forget: God has brought you

together, and He will demand each of the other. Man, He will say, where

is your wife's soul? Woman, He will say, where is your husband's soul?

Act so that you can answer with one voice: Lord, here are we both, here

at Thy right hand. Forgive me, little wife, that I have spoken so

seriously to you this morning. But it is better that you be so talked to

now, than later, after Uli is dead, and men think him ruined by your

fault; and for Uli too it is better now than later, when he should have

brought you to the grave. But this I think neither of you would have

done, for you both look to me as if God and men might take pleasure in

you."

When Freneli heard him speak of dying, the tears rushed to her eyes, and

with agitated voice she said, "O, Your Reverence, there is no thought of

offense. I give you a hundred thousand thanks for your beautiful lesson;

I'll think of it as long as I live. And it would make me very glad if

you would some time come into our district and visit us, to see how your

words bear fruit in us, and that we haven't forgotten them."

The pastor said he would surely do so as soon as he came into their

district, and that might very easily happen. He considered them,

although they did not live in his parish, as quite half his sheep, and

they might depend upon it that if they prospered and were happy, nobody

would rejoice more than he. And if he could serve them in any way, let

it be what it would, and if it were in his power, they must surely come

to him; it would be a pleasure to him.

Thereupon they took their leave and all felt very happy and cheerful at

heart. A comforting, warming feeling had been aroused such as all people

ought to feel for each other at every meeting; then it would be

beautiful on God's fair earth. "Isn't that the friendliest gentleman?"

said Freneli as they went away; "he takes things seriously and still he

is so kind; I could listen to him all day long and never get tired of

it."

When they reached the inn the guests had not arrived, only the message

that Johannes would come soon, but that his wife could not very well get

away. Then Freneli cried, "You must go for her; drive up there, it's not

so very far; if you drive fast, you can be back in half an hour."

"I don't like to overwork Blackie; he has enough trotting to do today,"

answered Uli. "The host will probably lend a horse for that little

distance."

So it was done, and quite fortunately. Johannes had not yet started, and

his wife was very dubious about sitting in the tavern on a work-day,

unless there were a christening; what would folks say? He should have

come to them with his wife, instead of running up a bill there in the

tavern; they would have had enough for them to eat and drink. He knew

that well, said Uli; but that would have been presuming, and the

distance was too great beside, for they were going back today; he had

his hands full now. But he begged that they would come; otherwise he

would have to think they were ashamed of them.

"What are you thinking of, Uli?" exclaimed the mistress; "why, you know

how much we think of you. I ought to stay away now, just because you

could think such a thing." At the same time she was getting ready,

however, but would not permit her daughter to go along, whom Uli would

have liked to invite too. "I should think so!" said she; "and the cat

and the dog to boot; that would be fine! It's presuming enough for me to

come. Just wait, you'll be able to use your money in other

ways--housekeeping has a pretty big maw."

With eagerness Freneli had watched for them from the corner of the inn.

All that passed could not take their eyes from her, and when they were

past they would ask, "Whose bride is that? I haven't seen a prettier

girl in along time." Through the whole village went the news of the

pretty bride, and whoever could take the time or had any pretext, went

by the inn.

At last Uli came driving up and with great friendliness Freneli welcomed

them. "Well, here you've got to be wife, haven't you?" cried the old

mistress; "God bless you!" and stretched out her plump hand to Freneli.

"I just thought you'd make a couple; no two could have suited each other

better."

"Yes, but there wasn't anything at the time; only on the way home they

began to torment me, and I believe that was your fault, too," said

Freneli, turning to Johannes and offering him her hand. "But you just

wait; I'll make war on you, for discussing me so behind my back. Nice

customers you are! And if you do that to me any more, I'll pay you

back; just wait. We'll talk about you behind your backs, too."

Johannes answered, and Freneli met him again with well-chosen playful

words. When she had gone out for a moment, the old mistress said, "Uli,

you've got an amazingly well-mannered wife; she can talk well enough to

suit a manor-house, and the best of it is that she understands her work

just as well; you don't always find the two together. Look out for her;

you'll never get her match again!" Then Uli too began to sing her

praises with tears in his eyes, until Freneli came back.

As the conversation suddenly halted at her entrance, she looked

roguishly at them all in turn, and said, "There you've been talking

about me again behind my back and my left ear tingled; you just wait!

Uli, is it nice to begin accusing me that way, when I turn my back for

just a minute?"

"He didn't accuse you," said the old mistress, "just the opposite; but I

told him to look out for you, for he'd never get your match again. Oh,

if men only knew how the second wife often turns out, they'd be more

careful of the first! Not that I can complain. My husband I love and

value; I couldn't get a better one, and he allows me all I want; but I

see how it goes elsewhere."

"I was listening hard," answered Johannes; "but you ended up all right.

You're right! In some places the women have a hard time, in others the

men; it always depends on where there's understanding and then the

belief that there's a God in Heaven. Where there's no belief, evil is

king."

Hereupon they were invited into the back room. There the soup was

already served, a quart of wine was on the table, and beside it a little

pot of sweet, tea. She thought she'd make tea right off, said the

hostess; then anybody could take it that wanted to; some liked it, some

didn't. With unfeigned friendliness Freneli played the hostess, filled

the glasses, passed them around, and urged her guests to empty them;

all felt comfortable and at home. Uli sat down near the master and asked

him this and that--how to arrange his stables; what he thought it paid

best to plant; when he sowed this and that; what this or that soil was

best for. Johannes answered like a father, then asked in his turn, and

Uli gave his experience.

At first the women listened; but then Freneli's heart overflowed with

questions and she sought advice about the hundred and one things in

which a farmer's wife ought to be past-master; told how she had done

things heretofore, but wondered whether they could not be done better

and more profitably. Joyfully the old mistress revealed her secrets, but

often said, "I think you do it better; I must try that too." The

comfortable homeliness of the party lured in host and hostess, sensible

people, and both helped to advise and discuss what was best, and showed

their pleasure in much that they heard. And the more they heard the more

desire to learn did Uli and Freneli display and the more humble did they

become; they harkened to the experiences of the older people and

impressed them upon their memories, not burdened with useless things.

The afternoon passed by without their knowing it. All at once the sun

cast a golden beam into the room, and all that was in it floated

transfigured in its light. They started up in alarm at the unexpected

light, which almost seemed to come from a sudden conflagration. But the

hostess bade them to be at ease; that was only the sunlight; the sun

always shone in there in the spring before it set.

"Mercy, is it so late?" cried Freneli; "we must go, Uli."

"I didn't want to hurry you," said the hostess; "the moon will come up

before it's dark."

"How fast this afternoon went by?" said Johannes' wife. "I don't know as

I ever remember time going so fast."

"I feel the same way," said the hostess. "This wedding was something

different from that of so many young couples who are so bored they

don't know what to do except drink and play cards, and make you so tired

that you're glad when you see their backs. Why, sometimes I feel, when I

see a lad who can't do anything but curse on his wedding-day, and who

sticks out his borrowed pipe as if he wanted to pull down the moon, that

I'd like to give him a punch in the head, so that he'd have it where

other folks have it, and learn to talk like other folks."

The old mistress gave Freneli her hand and said, "You've grown very dear

to me, as God lives, and I won't let you go away until you promise me to

come back to us real soon."

"Very gladly," said Freneli, "if it's possible. I've been feeling, too,

as if I was talking to a mother; and if we only lived nearer, I'd come

only too often. But we have a big place and shan't be able to leave it

much, Uli and I. But you come to see us--you must promise me that; you

have grown-up children and you know your house will be all right even if

you are away."

"Yes, I'll come to see you, I promise. I've often said to Johannes that

I wondered what Slough Farm was like. And listen, if you should want a

godmother some time, don't take the trouble to go a long ways for one. I

know one that won't refuse."

"That would be good news," said Freneli, and plucked at a ribbon; "I

won't forget it, and will think of it if the time ever comes; you can

never know what may happen."

"Oh, yes, just about," laughed the other, "and then we'll see whether

you care for us or not."

Meanwhile Uli had paid the account, ordered the horse hitched up, and

now filled all the glasses and pressed them to drink a farewell glass.

Now the host came in with an extra bottle and said he wanted to do

something too and not have his drinks all paid for. He was glad that

they had been with him and he would be willing to put up a bottle of his

best every Friday if such couples would come to be married; he had had

his joy of them. When he heard that the bill had been paid, Johannes

insisted that the host bring another bottle at his expense; and the

stars were shining in the sky when, after a most affectionate farewell,

such as unrelated people seldom bid one another, the spirited Blackie

swiftly pulled a happy couple away--toward Paradise.

Yes, dear Reader, Freneli and Uli are in Paradise--that is, they live in

unclouded love, blessed by God with four boys and two girls; they live

in growing prosperity, for the blessing of God is their luck; their name

has good repute in the land, and far and wide they stand in high esteem;

for their aspiration is high, so high as to try to write their names in

Heaven. But not in a day, but after many a severe conflict did they

reach the level road and become certain of the goal.

* * * *

THE BRÄSIG EPISODES FROM UT MINE STROMTID[4]

TRANSLATED BY M.W. MACDOWALL

EDITED AND ABRIDGED BY EDMUND VON MACH, PH.D.

[UT MIND STROMTID: A story of my youth, depicts the joys and sorrows of

a North German country community during the lean years of the second

quarter of the nineteenth century. Human passions rent the hearts of men

then as now. Nobility of soul distinguished some, and was lacking in

many. Education was not universal, but common sense perhaps rather

frequent. The best road to a happy life, however, was then as always, a

kindly heart, a strict sense of justice, and a dash of unconscious

humor. This lucky combination endeared Uncle Bräsig to everyone, and

enabled him to make his blustering way cheerfully, yet serenely

conscious of all joys and sorrows, amid the vicissitudes of life. He

understood the human heart, whether it beat in the breast of a child or

a tired old man, of a villain or of a loving wife. Nobody, however, was

dearer to him than Mina and Lina Nüssler, his god-children. And naughty

little girls these angelic twins were too, without respect for

grandfather's peruke or grandmother's Sunday cap. They placed them on

their own curly locks, and danced the "Kringelkranz-Rosendanz," and in

so doing broke Mina's favorite toy-jar. In their eagerness to have it

mended they ran from the house.]

* * * * *

Just as the children entered the yard a little man came in at the gate.

And this little man had a red face, and a very imposing red nose which

he always held cocked up in the air. He wore a square cap of no

particular color with a tassel in front, and a long-tailed, loose, gray

linen-coat. He always kept his feet turned out in an exaggerated first

position which made his short legs look as if they were fastened to his

body in the wrong way. He had striped trousers and long boots with

yellow tops. He was not stout, and yet he was by no means thin, in fact

his figure was beginning to lose its youthful proportions.

The children walked on, and when they had got near enough for the

farm-bailiff--for such was the calling of the little man--to see what

they were wearing, he stood still, and raised his bushy yellow eye-brows

till they were quite hidden under his pointed cap, treating them as if

they were the most beautiful part of his face, and must therefore be put

away in a safe place out of all danger: "Bless me!" cried he. "What's

the matter? What on earth have you been about? Why you've got the whole

of your old grandparent's Sunday-finery on your heads!" The two little

girls allowed themselves to be deprived of their borrowed plumes without

remonstrance, and showing the broken jar, said that the wheel-wright was

to mend it. "What!" exclaimed Mr. farm-bailiff Bräsig--that was the way

he liked to be addressed--"is it possible that there is such insummate

folly in the world? Lina, you are the eldest and ought to have been

wiser; and, Mina, don't cry any more, you are my little god-child, and

so I'll give you a new jar at the summer-fair. And now get away with you

into the house." He drove the little girls before him, and followed

carrying the peruke in one hand and the cap in the other.

When he found the sitting-room empty, he said to himself: "Of course,

every one's out at the hay. Well, I ought to be looking after my hay

too, but the little round-heads have made such a mess of these two bits

of grandeur, that they'd be sure to get into a scrape if the old people

were to see what they've been after; I must stay and repair the mischief

that has been done."

[Illustration: FRITZ REUTER]

With that he pulled out the pocket-comb that he always carried about

with him to comb his back-hair over to the front of his head, and so

cover the bald place that was beginning to show. He then set to work at

the peruke, and soon got that into good order again. But how about the

cap? "What in the name of wonder have you done to this, Lina? It's

morally impossible to get it back to the proper _fassong_. Ah--let me

think. What's the old lady like on Sunday afternoons? She has a good

bunch of silk curls on each side of her face, then the front of the cap

rises about three inches higher than the curls; so the thing must be

drawn more to the front. She hasn't anything particular in the middle,

for her bald head shows through, but it always goes into a great bunch

at the back where it sticks out in a mass of frills. The child has

crushed that part frightfully, it must be ironed out." He put his

clenched fist into the cap and pulled out the frills, but just as he

thought he was getting them into good order, the string that was run

through a caser at the back of the frilled mass gave way, and the whole

erection flattened out. "Faugh!" he cried, sending his eye-brows right

up in the air. "It wasn't half strong enough to keep it firm. Only a bit

of thread! And the ends won't knot together again! God bless my soul!

whatever induced me to meddle with a cap? But, wait a bit, I'll manage

it yet." He thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew out a quantity of

string of different sizes, for like every farm-bailiff who was worth

anything he always carried a good supply of such things about with him.

He searched amongst his store for some thing that would suit the case in

hand. "Whip-cord is too thick; but this will do capitally," and then he

began to draw a piece of good strong pack-thread through the caser. It

was a work of time, and when he had got about half of it done, there was

a knock at the door; he threw his work on the nearest chair, and called

out: "Come in."

The door opened, and Hawermann entered with his little girl in his arms.

Bräsig started up. "What in the--" he began solemnly, then interrupting

himself, he went on eagerly: "Charles Hawermann, where have you come

from?" "From a place, Bräsig, where I have nothing more to look for,"

said his friend. "Is my sister at home?" "Every one's out at the hay;

but what do you mean?" "That it's all up with me. All the goods that I

possessed were sold by auction the day before yesterday, and yesterday

morning"--here he turned away to the window--"I buried my wife." "What?

what?" cried the kind-hearted old farm-bailiff, "good God! your wife.

Your dear little wife?" and the tears ran down his red face. "Dear old

friend, tell me how it all happened." "Ah, how it all happened?"

repeated Hawermann, and seating himself, he told the whole story of his

misfortunes as shortly as possible.

Meanwhile, Lina and Mina approached the strange child slowly and shyly,

stopping every now and then, and saying nothing, and then they went a

little nearer still. At last Lina summoned courage to touch the sleeve

of the stranger's frock, and Mina showed her the bits of her jar: "Look,

my jar is broken." But the little girl looked round the room uneasily,

till at last she fixed her great eyes on her father.

"Yes," said Hawermann, concluding his short story, "things have gone

badly with me, Bräsig; I still owe you thirty pounds, don't ask for it

now, only give me time, and if God spares my life, I'll pay you back

every farthing honestly." "Charles Hawermann, Charles Hawermann," said

Bräsig, wiping his eyes, and blowing his imposing nose, "you're--you're

an ass! Yes," he continued, shoving his handkerchief into his pocket

with an emphatic poke, and holding his nose even more in the air than

usual, "you're every bit as great an ass as you used to be!" And then,

as if thinking that his friend's thoughts should be led into a new

channel, he caught Lina and Mina by the waist-band and put them on

Hawermann's knee, saying "There, little round-heads, that's your uncle."

Just as if Lina and Mina were playthings and Hawermann were a little

child who could be comforted in his grief by a new toy. He, himself,

took Hawermann's little Louisa in his arms and danced about the room

with her, his tears rolling down his cheeks the while. After a short

time he put the child down upon a chair, upon the very chair on which he

had thrown his unfinished work, and right on the top of it too.

In the meanwhile the household had come back from the hay-field, and a

woman's clear voice could be heard outside calling to the maids to make

haste: "Quick, get your hoop and pails, it'll soon be sunset, and this

year the fold's[5] rather far off. We must just milk the cows in the

evening. Where's your wooden-platter, girl? Go and get it at once. Now

be as quick as you can, I must just go and have look at the children." A

tall stately woman of five-and-twenty came into the room. She seemed

full of life and energy, her cheeks were rosy with health, work, and the

summer air, her hair and eyes were bright, and her forehead, where her

chip-hat had sheltered it from the sun, was white as snow. Any one could

see the likeness between her and Hawermann at first sight; still there

was a difference, she was well-off, and her whole manner showed that she

would work as hard from temperament as he did from honor and necessity.

To see her brother and to spring to him were one and the same action:

"Charles, brother Charles, my second father," she cried throwing her

arms round his neck; but on looking closer at him, she pushed him away

from her, saying: "What's the matter? You've had some misfortune! What

is it?"

Before he had time to answer his sister's questions, her husband, Joseph

Nüssler, came in, and going up to Hawermann shook hands with him, and

said, taking as long to get out his words as dry weather does to come:

"Good day, brother-in-law; won't you sit down?" "Let him tell us what's

wrong," interrupted his wife impatiently. "Yes," said Joseph, "sit down

and tell us what has happened. Good-day, Bräsig; be seated, Bräsig."

Then Joseph Nüssler, or as he was generally called, young Joseph, sat

down in his own peculiar corner beside the stove. He was a tall, thin

man, who never could hold himself erect, and whose limbs bent in all

sorts of odd places whenever he wanted to use them in the ordinary

manner. He was nearly forty years old, his face was pale, and almost as

long as his way of drawling out his words, his soft blond hair, which

had no brightness about it, hung down equally long over his forehead and

his coat collar. He had never attempted to divide or curl it. When he

was a child his mother had combed it straight down over his brow, and so

he had continued to do it, and whenever it had looked a little rough and

unkempt, his mother used to say: "Never mind, Josy, the roughest colt

often makes the finest horse." Whether it was that his eyes had always

been accustomed to peer through the long hair that overhung them, or

whether it was merely his nature cannot be known with any certainty, but

there was something shy in his expression, as if he never could look

anything full in the face, or come to a decision on any subject, and

even when his hand went out to the right, his mouth turned to the left.

That, however, came from smoking, which was the only occupation he

carried out with the slightest perseverance, and as he always kept his

pipe in the left corner of his mouth, he, in course of time, had pressed

it out a little, and had drawn it down to the left, so that the right

side of his mouth looked as if he were continually saying "prunes and

prism," while the left side looked as if he were in the habit of

devouring children.

There he was now seated in his own particular corner by the stove, and

smoking out of his own particular corner of his mouth, and while his

lively wife wept in sympathy with her brother's sorrow, and kissed and

fondled him and his little daughter alternately, he kept quite still,

glancing every now and then from his wife and Hawermann at Bräsig, and

muttering through a cloud of tobacco smoke: "It all depends upon what it

is. It all depends upon circumstances. What's to be done now in a case

like this?"

Bräsig had quite a different disposition from young Joseph, for instead

of sitting still like him, he walked rapidly up and down the room, then

seated himself upon the table, and in his excitement and restlessness

swung his short legs about like weaver's shuttles. When Mrs. Nüssler

kissed and stroked her brother, he did the same; and when Mrs. Nüssler

took the little child and rocked it in her arms, he took it from her and

walked two or three times up and down the room with it, and then placed

it on the chair again, and always right on the top of the grandmother's

best cap.

"Bless me!" cried Mrs. Nüssler at last, "I quite forgot. Bräsig, _you_

ought to have thought of it. You must all want something to eat and

drink!" She went to the blue cupboard, and brought out a splendid loaf

of white household bread and some fresh butter, then she went out of the

room and soon returned with sausages, ham and cheese, a couple of

bottles of the strong beer that was brewed on purpose for old Mr.

Nüssler, and a jug of milk for the children. When everything was neatly

arranged on a white table cloth, she placed a seat for her brother, and

lifting her little niece, chair and all, put her beside her father. Then

she set to work and cut slices of bread, and poured out the beer, and

saw that there was enough for everybody.

"I'll be ready to give you something presently," she said, stroking her

little girls' flaxen heads fondly, "but I must see to your little cousin

first. Here's a chair for you, Bräsig--Come, Joseph." "All right," said

Joseph, blowing a last long cloud of smoke out of the left corner of his

mouth, and then dragging his chair forward, half sitting on it all the

time. "Charles," said Bräsig, "I can recommend these sausages. Your

sister, Mrs. Nüssler, makes them most capitally, and I've often told my

housekeeper that she ought to ask for the receipt, for you see the old

woman mixes up all sorts of queer things that oughtn't to go together at

all; in short, the flavor is very extraordinary and not in the least

what it ought to be, although each of the ingredients separately is

excellent, and made of a pig properly fattened on peas." "Mother, give

Bräsig some more beer," said Joseph. "No more, thank you, Mrs. Nüssler.

May I ask for a little kümmel instead? Charles, since the time that I

was learning farming at old Knirkstädt with you, and that rascal

Pomuchelskopp, I've always been accustomed to drink a tiny little glass

of kümmel at breakfast and supper, and it agrees with me very well, I am

thankful to say. But, Charles, whatever induced you to have any business

transactions with such a rascal as Pomuchelskopp? I told you long ago

that he was not to be trusted, he's a regular old Venetian, he's a

cunning dog, in short, he's a--Jesuit." "Ah, Bräsig," said Hawermann,

"we won't talk about it. He might have treated me differently; but still

it was my own fault, I oughtn't to have agreed to his terms. I'm

thinking of something else now. I wish I could get something to do!" "Of

course, you must get a situation as soon as possible. The Count, my

master, is looking out for a steward for his principal estate, but don't

be angry with me for saying so Charles, I don't think that it would do

for you. You see, you'd have to go to the Count every morning with

laquered boots, and a cloth coat, and you'd have to speak High-German,

for he considers our provincial way of talking very rude and

uncultivated. And then you'd have all the women bothering you, for they

have a great say in all the arrangements. You might perhaps manage with

the boots, and the coat, and the High-German--though you're rather out

of practice--but you'd never get on with the women. The Countess is

always poking about to see that all's going on rightly in the

cattle-sheds and pig-sties,--in short--it's, it's as bad as Sodom and

Gomorrah." "Bless me!" cried Mrs. Nüssler, "I remember now. The

farm-bailiff at Pümpelhagen left at the midsummer-term, and that would

just be the place for you, Charles." "Mrs. Nüssler is right, as usual,"

said Bräsig. "As for the _Councillor[6]_ at Pümpelhagen"--he always gave

the squire of Pümpelhagen his professional title, and laid such an

emphasis on the word councillor that one might have thought that he and

Mr. von Rambow had served their time in the army together, or at least

had eaten their soup out of the same bowl with the same spoon--"as for

the _Councillor_ at Pümpelhagen, he is very kind to all his people,

gives a good salary, and is quite a gentleman of the old school. He

knows all about you too. It's just the very thing for you, Charles, and

I'll go with you tomorrow. What do you say, young Joseph?" "Ah!" said

Mr. Nüssler meditatively, "it all depends upon circumstances." "Good

gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Nüssler with a look of anxiety on her pretty

face. "I'm forgetting everything today. If grandfather and grandmother

ever find out that we've been having a supper-party here without their

knowledge, they'll never forgive me as long as I live. Sit a little

closer children. You might have reminded me, Joseph." "What shall I do

now?" asked Joseph, but she had already left the room.

A few minutes later she came back, accompanied by the two old people.

There was an expression of anxious watchfulness and aimless attention in

both faces, such as deaf people often have, and which is apt to

degenerate into a look of inanity and distrust. It is a very true saying

that when a husband and wife have lived many years together, and have

shared each other's thoughts and interests, they at last grow to be like

one another in appearance, and even when the features are different the

expression becomes the same. Old Mr. and Mrs. Nüssler looked thoroughly

soured, and as if they had never had the least bit of happiness or

enjoyment all their lives long, such things being too expensive for

them; their clothes were threadbare and dirty, as if they must always be

saving, saving, and even found water a luxury that cost too much money.

There was nothing comfortable about their old age, not a single gleam of

kindliness shone in their lack-lustre eyes, for they had never had but

_one_ joy, and that was their son Joseph, and his getting on in the

world. They were now worn out, and everything was tiresome to them, even

their one joy, their son Joseph, was tiresome, but they were still

anxious and troubled about his getting on in the world, that was the

only thing they cared for now. The old man had become a little childish,

but his wife had still all her wits about her, and could spy and pry

into every hole and corner, to see that everything was going on as she

wished.

Hawermann rose and shook hands with the old people, while his sister

stood close by looking at them anxiously, to see what they thought of

the visitor. She had already explained to them in a few words, why her

brother had come, and that may have been the reason that the old faces

looked even sourer than usual, but still it might be because she had

provided a better supper than she generally did. They seated themselves

at table. The old woman caught sight of Hawermann's little girl: "Is

that his child?" she asked. Her daughter-in-law nodded. "Is she going to

remain here?" she asked. Her daughter-in-law nodded again. "O--h!" said

the old woman, drawing out the word till it was long enough to cover all

the harm she thought the cost of the child's keep would bring upon her

Joseph. "Yes, these _are_ hard times," she continued, as though she

thought speaking of the times would best settle the question, "_very_

hard times, and every man has enough to do to get on in the world

himself." Meanwhile the old man had done nothing but stare at the bottle

of beer and at Bräsig's glass: "Is that my beer?" he asked. "Yes,"

shouted Bräsig in his ear, "and most excellent beer it is that Mrs.

Nüssler brews, it's a capital _rajeunissimang_ for a weak stomach!"

"What extravagance! What extravagance!" grumbled the old man. His wife

ate her supper, but never took her eyes off the oak chest opposite.

Young Mrs. Nüssler, who must have studied the peculiarities of her

mother-in-law with great care, looked to see what was the matter, and

found to her horror and dismay that the cap was gone from its stand.

Good gracious! what had become of it? She had plaited it up that very

morning, and hung it on the stand. "Where's my cap?" the old woman at

last inquired. "Never mind, mother," said her daughter-in-law bending

toward her, "I'll get it directly." "Is it done up yet?" The young woman

nodded, and thought, surely grandmother will be satisfied now, but the

old woman glanced into every corner of the room to see what she could

find out. Bräsig's countenance changed when he heard the cap spoken of,

and he looked about him hastily to see where the "beastly thing" could

have got to, but in another moment old Mrs. Nüssler pointed at little

Louisa Hawermann, and said with a venomous smile, like a stale roll

dipped in fly-poison: "It must be plaited all over again." "What's the

matter?" cried her daughter-in-law, and starting up as she spoke, she

saw the ends of the cap ribbons hanging down below the hem of the

child's frock; she lifted her niece off the chair, and was going to have

picked up the cap, but the old woman was too quick for her. She seized

her crumpled head-gear, and when she saw the flattened puffs, and

Bräsig's bit of pack-thread hanging half in and half out of the caser,

her wrath boiled over, and holding up her cap so that every one might

see it, exclaimed: "Good for nothing chit!" and was going to have struck

the little girl over the head with her cap.

But Bräsig caught her by the arm and said: "The child had nothing to do

with it," and then growled out in a half whisper: "The old cat!" At the

same moment loud crying was to be heard behind the grandmother's chair,

and Mina sobbed: "I'll never, never do it again," and Lina sobbed: "And

I'll never do it again." "Bless me!" cried young Mrs. Nüssler, "it was

the little girls who did all the mischief. Mother, it was our own

children that did it." But the old woman had been too long accustomed to

turn everything to her own advantage, not to know how to make a

judicious use of her deafness; she never heard what she did not want to

hear; and she did not want to hear now. "Come," she shouted, and signed

to her husband. "Mother, mother," cried her daughter-in-law, "give me

your cap, and I'll set it to rights." "Who's at the fold?" asked the old

woman as she left the room with old Joseph. Young Joseph lighted his

pipe again. "Good gracious!" said Mrs. Nüssler, "she's quite right

there, I ought to be at the fold. Ah well, grandmother won't be civil to

me again for a month." "Crusty," said Bräsig, "was an old dog, and

Crusty had to give in at last." "Don't cry any more, my pets," said the

mother, wiping her little girls' eyes. "You didn't know what harm you

were doing, you are such stupid little things. Now be good children, and

go and play with your cousin, I must go to my work. Joseph, just keep an

eye on the children, please," and then Mrs. Nüssler put on her chip-hat,

and set off to the fold where the cows were milked.

"A mother-in-law's the very devil!" said Bräsig. "But you, young

Joseph," he continued, turning to Mr. Nüssler, who was smoking as calmly

as if what had happened was nothing to him, "ought to be ashamed of

yourself for allowing your mother to bully your wife." "But," said young

Joseph, "how can I interfere? I am her son." "You needn't actually

_strike_ her," said Bräsig, "because your parents are given you by God,

but you might give her a little filial advice now and then, such as

befits an obedient son, and so prevent the devil of dispeace getting

into the house. And as for you, Charles Hawermann, don't take a little

tiff like this to heart, for your sister has a cheerful disposition, and

an affectionate nature, so she'll soon be on good terms with the old

skin-flints again, and they can't get on without her, she's the mainstay

of the household."

"But now," and he pulled an enormous watch out of his pocket, the kind

of watch that is called a warming-pan, "it's seven o'clock, and I must

go and look after my work-people." "Wait," said Hawermann, "I'll go part

of the way with you. Good-by for the present, Joseph." "Good-by,

brother-in-law," said young Joseph from his corner.

As soon as they were out of doors Hawermann asked "I say, Bräsig, how

could you speak of the old people in such a way before their son?" "He's

quite accustomed to it, Charles. No one has a good word for the two old

misers, they've quarreled with all the neighbors, and as for the

servants, _they_ take very good care to keep out of the old wretches'

sight." "My poor sister!" sighed Hawermann; "she used to be such a merry

light-hearted girl, and now, shut up in a house with such people, and

such a Nuss (slow) of a man." "You're right enough there, Charles, he is

an old Nuss, and Nüssler (slow-coach) is his name; but _he_ never

bullies your sister, and although he is such an ass that he can manage

nothing himself, he has sense enough to see that your sister is quite

able to keep everything straight." "Poor girl! She married that man for

my sake, to make my way easier for me, she said; and for our old

mother's sake, to give her a comfortable home with one of her children

in her latter days." "I know, I know, Charles. I know it from my own

experience. Don't you remember it was during the rye-harvest, and you

said to me, Zachariah, you said, you must be in love, for you're leading

in your rye quite wet. And I said; how so? On the Sunday before that we

had had spruce-beer, and your sister was one of the party, or else I

shouldn't have led in the rye in such weather. And then I told you that

if I didn't change my mind your sister was the only one of my three

sweethearts that I'd marry. Then you laughed heartily, and said, she was

too young. What has being young to do with it? I asked. And then you

said that my other two sweethearts came first, and so they ought to have

the preference. And then you laughed again, and didn't seem to believe

that I was in earnest. A short time afterward my lord the Count changed

_his_ mind, and said he wouldn't have a married bailiff. And then a

little more time passed, and it was too late. Young Joseph made her an

offer, and your mother begged her so hard to take him, that she

consented. Ah well, that marriage ought never to have been," and Bräsig

looked down gravely. After a moment's silence he went on--"When I saw

the twins I felt drawn to them, and thought that they might have been my

own, and I almost wished that the old woman, old Joseph, and young

Joseph were in their graves. It was indeed a happy day for the old

Jesuits when your sister brought her loving heart and cheerful nature

into their house, if it had been any one else there would have been

murder done long ago."

While they were talking they had left the village behind them, and were

now beside the large garden. Suddenly Hawermann exclaimed: "Look there,

the two old people are on the top of the hill yonder." "Yes," said

Bräsig with a derisive chuckle, "there they are, the hypocritical old

Jesuits, standing in their hiding-place." "Hiding-place?" asked

Hawermann, astonished. "Up there on the hill?" "Even so, Charles, the

old creatures can trust no one, not even their own children, and when

they want to say anything to each other that they can't explain by their

usual signs, they always go to the very top of the hill where they can

see that there are no eavesdroppers, and shout their secrets in one

another's ears. Look at them cackling away, the old woman has laid

another dragon's egg, and now they're both going to hatch it." "How

eagerly they're talking," said Hawermann. "Do you see how the old woman

is gesticulating? What can it all be about?" "I know what they are

laying down the law about, for I know them well. And Charles," he

continued after a short silence, "it is better that you should

understand the whole state of the case at once, and then you'll know how

to act."

"They're talking about you, and your little girl." "About me, and my

little girl!" repeated Hawermann in astonishment. "Yes, Charles--don't

you see. If you had come with a great purse full of money, they would

have received you with open arms, for money is the only thing for which

they have the slightest respect; but as it is they regard you and the

child in the light of beggarly poor relations who will take the very

bread out of the mouth of their unfortunate son." "Oh!" sighed

Hawermann, "why didn't I leave the child with the Rassows? Who is to

take care of her? Can you advise me what to do? I can't leave her here

in my sister's charge for my sister's sake." "Of course you'd like to

have her near you. Well, Charles, I'll tell you something. You must

remain at the Nüsslers tonight. Tomorrow we'll go and see the

_Councillor_ at Pümpelhagen: if we succeed there we'll look out for a

good place for the child in the neighborhood; and if we don't succeed,

we'll go to the town and board her for the present with Kurz, the

shopkeeper. And now good-night, Charles! Don't be down-hearted,

everything will look brighter soon." And so he went away.

Bräsig arrived in good time next morning to go to Pümpelhagen with

Hawermann. Mrs. Nüssler was sitting in the porch paying the

farm-servants, and Joseph was sitting beside her smoking while she

worked. Neither of the old people had come down yet, for the grandmother

had said to her daughter-in-law, she, at least, could not join them in

the parlor, for she had nothing to put on her head; and the grandfather

had said, they could all be quite happy without him. "That's really kind

of them," said Bräsig. "There's no fear of our dinner being spoilt now

by their bad temper, for, Mrs. Nüssler, I'm going to spend the day with

Charles. Come, Charles, we must be off. Good-by little round-heads."

When they were out in the yard Bräsig stood still, and said: "Look,

Charles, did you ever see anything more like the desert of Sahara? One

heap of manure here and another there! And look, that's the drain old

Joseph cut from the farm-yard to the village horse-pond. And as for the

roofs," he continued, "they have enough straw to make new ones, but the

old people think money expended on thatching sheer waste. I come here

often, and for two reasons; firstly because of my stomach, and secondly

because of my heart. I've always found that well-cooked food is not only

pleasant to the taste, but also produces a wholesome exhilaration when

followed by one of the little rages I generally get into here. And I

come here for the sake of your sister and the little round-heads. I know

that I am of use to her, for young Joseph just rolls on smoothly like

the wheel of the coach that runs every winter from here to Rostock. How

I should like to have him as leader in a three-horse team, harnessed

into a farm cart, and then drive him with my whip!" "Ah!" said Hawermann

as they came to a field, "they've got very good wheat here." "Yes, it's

pretty fair, but what do you think they were going to have had there

instead? Rye! And for what reason? Simply because old Joseph had sown

rye in that field every year for twenty-one years!" "Does their farm

extend to the other side of the hill?" "No, Charles, it isn't quite such

a fat morsel as all that, like bacon fried in butter and eaten with a

spoon! No, no, the wheat on the top of the hill is mine." "Ah, well,

it's odd how soon one forgets. Then your land comes down as far as

this?" "Yes, Charles; Warnitz is a long narrow estate, it extends from

here on the one side as far as Haunerwiem on the other. Now stand still

for a moment, I can show you the whole lie of the country from this

point. Where we are standing belongs to your brother-in-law, his land

reaches from my wheat-field up there to the right, as far as that small

clump of fir-trees to the left. You see, Rexow is quite a small farm,

there are only a few more acres belonging to it on the other side of the

village. To the right up there is Warnitz; and in front of us, where the

fallow ground begins, is Pümpelhagen; and down there to the left, behind

the little clump of firs, is Gürlitz."

"Then Warnitz is the largest!" "No, Charles, you've mistaken me there.

Pümpelhagen is the best estate in the neighborhood, the wheat-land there

produces forty-two loads, and that is eight more than Warnitz can show.

It would be a blessing if all the other places were like it. The

_Councillor_ is a good man, and understands farming, but you see his

profession obliges him to live in Schwerin, so he can't attend to

Pümpelhagen. He has had a good many bailiffs of one kind or another. He

came into the estate when everything was very dear, and there are a

considerable number of apothecaries[7] on it, so that he must often feel

in want of money, and all the more so that his wife is extravagant, and

likes to live in a constant whirl of gaiety. He is a worthy man and kind

to his people, and although the von Rambows are of very old family--my

master, the Count, often asks him to dinner, and _he_ will not admit any

but members of the nobility to the honor of his acquaintance--he goes

about quite _doucimang_, and makes no fuss about his position."

Hawermann listened attentively to all that was said, for if he succeeded

in getting the place of bailiff, these things would all be of importance

to him, but his thoughts soon returned to the subject of his greatest

present anxiety. "Bräsig," he said, "who is the best person to take

charge of my little girl?" "I can't think of any one. I'm afraid that we

must take her to the town to Kurz. Mrs. Kurz is an excellent woman, and

he, well he is a good hand at a bargain like all tradesmen. Only think,

he sold me a pair of trousers last year. I wanted them for Sundays--they

were a sort of chocolate color: well listen: the first morning I put

them on, I went through the clover-field, and when I came out of it, my

trousers were as red as lobsters, as high as the knee--bright scarlet I

assure you. And then he sent me some kümmel, it was Prussian made,

wretched sweet stuff, and very bad. I returned it, and told him a bit

of my mind. But he won't take the trousers back, and tells me he never

wore them. Does the fellow imagine that _I_ will wear red trousers?

Look, Charles, that's Gürlitz down there to the left." "And that, I

suppose, is Gürlitz church-steeple?" asked Hawermann. "Yes!" said

Bräsig, raising his eye-brows till they were hidden by the brim of his

hat--he always wore a hat on Sunday--and opening his mouth as wide as he

could, he stared at Hawermann as if he wanted to look him through and

through. "Charles," he exclaimed, "you spoke of Gürlitz church-steeple,

and as sure as your nose is in the middle of your face the parson at

Gürlitz must take your child." "Parson Behrens?" asked Hawermann. "Yes,

the same Parson Behrens who taught you and me at old Knirkstädt." "Ah,

Bräsig, I was just wishing last night that such a thing were possible."

"Possible? He must do it. It would be the best thing in the world for

him to have a little child toddling about his knees, and growing up

under his care, for he has no children of his own, has let all the glebe

land, and has nothing whatever to do but to read his books and study,

till any other man would see green and yellow specks dancing before his

eyes even with looking at him from a distance. It would be a capital

thing for him, and Mrs. Behrens is so fond of children that the little

ones in the village cling to her skirts whenever she goes there. She is

also a most excellent worthy woman, and so cheerful that she and your

sister get on capitally together."

"If it could only be," cried Hawermann. "What do we not both owe that

man, Zachariah, don't you remember that when he was assistant to the

clergyman at Knirkstädt, he held an evening class during the winter, and

taught reading and writing, and how kind he always was to us stupid

boys?" "Yes, Charles, and how Samuel Pomuchelskopp used to get behind

the stove and snore till he nearly took the roof off, while we were

learning the three R's. Don't you remember when we got to the rule of

three in our sums, and tried to get the fourth unknown quantity?

"Ah yes, in quickness I had the best of it, but in correctness, you had.

You got on better than I did in o'thography, but in _style_, in writing

letters, and in High German, I was before you. And in these points I'm

much improved since then, for I've made them my study, and of course

every one has his own _speshialitee_. Whenever I see the parson I feel

bound to thank him for having educated me so well, but he always laughs

and says he owes me far more for letting his glebe at such a good rent

for him. He is on very friendly terms with me, and if you settle down

here, I'll take you to call and then you'll see it for yourself."

Meanwhile they had reached Pümpelhagen, and Bräsig took Hawermann quite

under his protection as they crossed the court-yard, and addressing the

old butler, asked if his master was at home and able to see them. He

would announce the gentlemen, was the servant's reply, and say that Mr.

Farm-bailiff Bräsig was there. "Yes," said Bräsig. "You see, Charles,

that he knows me, and the _Councillor_ knows me also--and--did you

notice?--announce! That's what the nobility always have done when any

one calls on them. My lord the Count has three servants to announce his

visitors; that is to say, one servant announces to another who it is

that has called, and the valet tells his lordship. Sometimes queer

mistakes are made, as with the huntsman the other day. The first foot

man announced to the second: 'The chief huntsman,' and the second added

the word 'master,' and the third announced the arrival of a 'grandmaster

of the huntsmen.' So the Count came forward very cordially to receive

the strange gentleman who had come to see him, and--he found no one but

old Tibäul the rat-catcher."

The butler now returned and showed the two friends into a good-sized

room, tastefully, but not luxuriously furnished, and in the centre of

the room was a large table covered with papers and accounts. A tall thin

man was standing beside the table when they entered; he was a

thoughtful-looking, gentle-mannered man, and the same simplicity was

observable in his dress as in the furniture of his room. He appeared to

be about fifty-two or three, and his hair was of an iron gray color; he

was perhaps shortsighted, for, as he went forward to receive his

visitors, he picked up an eye-glass that was lying on the table, but

without using it: "Ah, Mr. Bräsig," he said quietly, "what can I do for

you?" Uncle Bräsig now involved himself in such a labyrinth of words in

his desire to speak grandly as befitted his company, that he would never

have extricated himself if the squire had not come to the rescue.

Looking more attentively at Hawermann he said: "You want * * *? but," he

interrupted himself, "I ought to know you. Wait a moment. Were you not

serving your apprenticeship twelve years ago on my brother's estate?"

"Yes, Sir, and my name is Hawermann." "Of course it is. And to what do I

owe the pleasure of seeing you here?" "I heard that you were looking out

for a farm-bailiff, and as I was in want of just such a place * * *."

"But I thought you had a farm in Pomerania?" interrupted the squire. Now

was the time for Bräsig to speak if he was going to say anything of

importance, so he exclaimed: "It's quite true, Mr. Councillor von

Rambow, that he had one, _had_ it, but has it no longer, and it's no use

crying over spilt milk. Like many other farmers he met with reverses,

and the hardness and wickedness of his landlord ruined him. What do you

think of that, Sir?"

At this moment there was a loud shout of laughter behind Bräsig's back,

and when he turned round to see who it was he found himself face to face

with a boy of ten or twelve years old. Mr. von Rambow also smiled, but

fortunately it never occurred to Bräsig that their amusement could mean

anything but satisfaction with a well delivered speech, so he went on

seriously: "And then he came a regular cropper." "I'm very sorry to hear

it," said Mr. von Rambow. "Yes," he continued with a, sigh, "these are

very hard times for farmers, I only hope they'll change soon. But now to

business--Alick, just run upstairs and see if breakfast is ready. It is

quite true that I am looking out for a new bailiff, as I have been

obliged to part with the last man, because of--well, his carelessness in

keeping accounts--but," said he, as his son opened the door and

announced that breakfast was ready, "you hav'n't had breakfast yet, we

can finish our talk while we eat it." He went to the door, and standing

there signed to his guests to precede him. "Charles," whispered Bräsig,

"didn't I tell you? Quite like one of ourselves?" But when Hawermann

quietly obeyed the squire's sign and went out first, he raised his

eyebrows up to his hair, and stretched out his hand as though to pull

his friend back by his coat-tails. Then sticking out one of his short

legs and making a low bow, he said, "Pardon me--I couldn't think of

it--the _Councillor_ always has the _paw_." His way of bowing was no

mere form, for as he had a long body and short legs it was both deep and

reverential.

Mr. von Rambow went on first to escape his guest's civilities, and

Bräsig brought up the rear. The whole business was talked over in all

its bearings during breakfast; Hawermann got the place of bailiff with a

good salary to be raised in five or six years, and only one condition

was made, and that was that he should enter on his duties at once. The

new bailiff promised to do so, and the following day was fixed for

taking stock of everything in and about the farm, so that both he and

his employer might know how matters stood before the squire had to leave

Pümpelhagen. Then Bräsig told the "sad life-story" of the old

thoroughbred, which had come down to being odd horse about the farm, and

which he "had had the honor of knowing from its birth," and told how it

"had spavin, grease and a variety of other ailments, and so had been

reduced to dragging a cart for its sins." After that he and Hawermann

took leave of Mr. von Rambow.

"Bräsig," said Hawermann, "a great load has been taken off my heart.

Thank God, I shall soon be at work again, and that will help me to bear

my sorrow. Now for Gürlitz--Ah, if we are only as fortunate there."

"Yes, Charles, you may well say you are fortunate, for you are certainly

wanting in the knowledge of life and fine tact that are necessary for

any one to possess who has to deal with the nobility. How _could_ you,

how _could_ you go out of the room before the _Councillor_?" "I only did

as he desired me, Bräsig, and I was his guest, not his servant then. I

wouldn't do so _now_, and believe me, he'll never ask me to do it

again." "Well, Charles, let me manage the whole business for you at the

parsonage. I'll do it with the greatest _finesse_." "Certainly Bräsig,

it will be very kind of you to do it for me; if it were not for my dear

little girl, I should never have the courage to ask such a favor. If you

will take the task off my shoulders, I shall look upon it as the act of

a true friend."

When they passed Gürlitz church they heard from the singing that service

was still going on, so they determined to wait in the parsonage till it

was over, but on entering the sitting-room, a round active little woman

about forty years old came forward to receive them. Everything about her

was round, arms and fingers, head, cheeks and lips; and her round eyes

twinkled so merrily in her round smiling face that one would at once

jump to the conclusion that she had never known sorrow, and her every

action was so cheery and full of life that one could easily see that she

had a warm heart in her breast. "How d'ye do, Mr. Bräsig, sit down, sit

down. My pastor is still in church, but he would scold me if I allowed

you to go away. Sit down, Sir--who are you? I should have liked to have

gone to church today, but only think, the clergyman's seat broke down

last Sunday; lots of people go to it, you see, and one can't say 'no,'

and old Prüsshawer, the carpenter, who was to have mended it this week,

is down with a fever." Her words poured out smoothly like polished

billiard-balls rolled by a happy child over the green cloth.

Bräsig now introduced Hawermann as Mrs. Nüssler's brother. "And so you

are her brother Charles. _Do_ sit down, my pastor will be delighted to

see you. Whenever Mrs. Nüssler comes here she tells us something about

you, and always in your praise--Mr. Bräsig can vouch for that. Good

gracious, Bräsig, what have _you_ got to do with my hymn-book? Just put

it down, will you. _You_ never read such things, you are nothing but an

old heathen. These are hymns for the dying, and what are hymns for the

dying to you? _You_ are going to live for ever. You're not a whit better

than the wandering Jew! One has to think of death sometimes, and as our

seat is broken, and the old carpenter has a fever, I have been reading

some meditations for the dying." While saying this she quickly picked up

her books and put them away, carefully going through the unnecessary

ceremony of dusting a spotless shelf before laying them down on it.

Suddenly she went to the door leading to the kitchen, and stood there

listening; then exclaiming: "I was sure I heard it--the soup's boiling

over," hastened from the room. "Well, Charles--wasn't I right? Isn't she

a cheery, wholesome-natured woman? I'll go and arrange it all for you,"

and he followed Mrs. Behrens to the kitchen.

Hawermann looked round the room, and admired the cleanly, comfortable,

home-like, and peaceful look of everything around him. Over the sofa was

a picture of our Saviour, and encircling it, above and below, were

portraits of Mr. and Mrs. Behrens' relations, some colored, some black,

some large, and some small. In the picture of our Lord, His hands were

raised in blessing, so Mrs. Behrens had hung the portraits of her

relatives beneath it that they might have the best of the blessing, for

she always regarded herself as the "nearest." She had hung her own

portrait, taken when she was a girl, and that of her husband in the

least prominent place over against the window, but God's sun, which

shone through the white window-curtains, and gilded the other pictures,

lighted up these two first of all. There was a small book-case

containing volumes of sacred and profane literature all mixed up

together, but they looked very well indeed, for they were arranged more

in accordance with the similarity of their bindings than with that of

their contents. Let no one imagine that Mrs. Behrens did not care for

reading really good standard works, because she spoke the Provincial

German of her neighborhood. Whoever took the trouble to open one of the

books, which had a mark in it, would see that she was quite able to

appreciate good writing, and her cookery-book showed that she studied

her own subjects as thoroughly as her husband did his, for the book was

quite full of the notes and emendations she had written at the sides of

the pages in the same way as Mr. Behrens made notes in his books. As for

her husband's favorite dishes she "knew them," she said, "by heart, and

had not to put in a mark to show where they were to be found."

And it was in this quiet home that Hawermann's little daughter was to

spend her childhood, if God let him have his wish. The raised hands in

the Saviour's picture would seem to bless his little girl, and the

sunlight would shine upon her through these windows, and in those books

she would read what great and good men had written, and by their help

would gradually waken from childish dreams into the life and thoughts of

womanhood.

As he was sitting there full of alternating hopes and fears, Mrs.

Behrens came back, her eyes red with weeping: "Don't say another word,

Mr. Hawermann, don't say another word. Bräsig has told me all, and

though Bräsig is a heathen, he is a good man, and a true friend to you

and yours. And my pastor thinks the same as I do, I know that, for we

have always been of one mind about everything. My goodness, what

hard-hearted creatures the old Nüsslers are," she added, tapping her

foot impatiently on the floor. "The old woman," said Bräsig, "is a

perfect harpy." "You're right, Bräsig, that's just what she is. My

pastor must try to touch the conscience of the two old people; I don't

mean about the little girl, she will come here and live with us, or I

know nothing of my pastor."

Whilst Hawermann was expressing his deep gratitude to Mrs. Behrens her

husband came in sight. She always talked of him as "_her_" pastor,

because he belonged to her soul and body, and "_pastor_" because of his

personal and official dignity. He had nothing on his head, for those

high soft caps that our good protestant clergy now wear in common with

the Russian popes were not the fashion at that time, in the country at

least, and instead of wide bands, resembling the white porcelain plate

on which the daughter of Herodias received the head of John the Baptist

from her stepfather, he wore little narrow bands, which his dear wife

Regina had sewed, starched and ironed for him in all Christian humility,

and these little bits of lawn she rightly held to be the true insignia

of his office, and not the gown, which was fastened to his collar with a

small square piece of board. "For, my dear Mrs. Nüssler," she said, "the

clerk has a gown exactly the same as that, but he dar'n't wear bands,

and when I see my pastor in the pulpit with these signs of his office

on, and watch them rising and falling as he speaks, I sometimes think

that they look like angels' wings upon which one might go straight away

up to heaven, except that the angels wear their wings behind, and my

pastor's are in front."

The parson was not an angel by any means, and was the last man in the

world to think himself one, but still his conduct was so upright, and

his face so expressive of love and good-will, that any one could see in

a moment that he was a good man, and that his was a serious, thoughtful

mode of life, and yet--when his wife had taken off his gown and

bands--there was a bright sparkle in his eye that showed he did not at

all disdain innocent mirth. He was a man who could give good counsel in

worldly matters as well as in spiritual, and he was always ready to

stretch out a helping hand to those in need of it.

He recognized Hawermann the moment he saw him, and welcomed him

heartily. "How d'ye do, dear old friend, what an age it is since I saw

you last. How are you getting on? Good morning, Mr. Bräsig." Just as

Bräsig was about to explain the reason of his and Hawermann's visit,

Mrs. Behrens, who had begun to take off her husband's clerical garments,

called out: "Don't speak, Mr. Hawermann; Bräsig be quiet, leave it all

to me. I'll tell you all about it," she continued, turning to her

husband, "for the story is a sad one--yes, Mr. Hawermann, terribly

sad--and so it will be better for me to speak. Come," and she carried

her pastor off to his study, saying in apology for doing so as she left

the room: "I am the nearest to him, you know."

[Illustration: BIBLE LESSON BENJAMIN VAUTIER]

When Mr. Behrens returned to the parlor with his wife, he went straight

up to Hawermann, and taking his hand, said: "Yes, dear Hawermann, yes,

we'll do it. We'll do all that lies in our power with, very great

pleasure. We have had no experience in the management of children, but

we will learn--won't we, Regina?" He spoke lightly, for he saw how

deeply Hawermann felt his kindness, and therefore wished to set him at

ease. "Reverend Sir," he exclaimed at last, "you did much for me in the

old days, but this * * *." Little Mrs. Behrens seized her duster, her

unfailing recourse in great joy or sorrow, and rubbed now this, and now

that article of furniture vigorously, indeed there is no saying whether

she might not have dried Hawermann's tears with it, had he not turned

away. She then went to the door and called to Frederika: "Here, Rika,

just run down to the weaver's wife, and ask her to send me her cradle,

for," she added, addressing Bräsig, "she doesn't require it." And Bräsig

answered gravely: "But Mrs. Behrens, the child isn't quite a baby." So

the clergyman's wife went to the door again, and called to the servant

"Rika, Rika, not the cradle. Ask her to lend me a crib instead, and then

go to the parish-clerk's daughter, and see if she can come this

afternoon. Good gracious! I forgot it was Sunday! But if thine ass falls

into a pit, and so on--yes, ask her if she will come and help me to

stuff a couple of little mattresses. It isn't a bit heathenish of me

to do this, Bräsig, for it's a work of necessity, as much so as when you

have to save the Count's wheat on a Sunday afternoon. And, my dear Mr.

Hawermann, the little girl must come to us this very day, for Frank,"

turning to her husband, "the old Nüsslers will grudge the child her

food, and Bräsig, bread that is grudged * * *" she stopped for breath,

and Bräsig put in: "Yes, Mrs. Behrens, bread that is grudged maketh fat,

but the devil take that kind of fatness!" "You old heathen! How _dare_

you swear so in a Christian parsonage," cried Mrs. Behrens. "But the

short and the long of it is that the child must come here today." "Yes,

Mrs. Behrens," said Hawermann, "I'll bring her to you this afternoon. My

poor sister will be sorry; but it's better for her and her household

peace that it should be so, and for my little girl * * *." He then

thanked the clergyman and his wife gratefully and heartily, and when he

had said good-by, and he and Bräsig were out of doors, he drew a long

breath of relief, and said "Everything looked dark to me this morning,

but now the sun has begun to shine again, and though I have a

disagreeable bit of business before me, it is a happy day." "What is it

that you have to do?" asked Bräsig. "I must go to Rahnstädt to see old

Moses. He has held a bill of mine for seventy-five pounds for the last

eighteen months. He took no part in my bankruptcy, and I want to arrange

matters with him." "Yes, Charles, you ought to make everything straight

with him as soon as you can, for old Moses is by no means the worst of

his kind. Now then, let's lay out our plan of operations for today. We

must return to Rexow at once, dine there, and after dinner young Joseph

must get the carriage ready for you to take your little girl to Gürlitz;

from Gürlitz you should drive on to Rahnstädt, and then in the evening

come over to Warnitz and spend the night with me, and early next morning

you can be at Pümpelhagen with the Councillor, who expects to see you in

good time." "That will do very well," said Hawermann.

[Wheat was again growing in the field by the mill, as when Hawermann

came to Pümpelhagen eleven years before. The same people still lived in

the various villages and estates, only the manor house of Gürlitz had

changed hands, for Pomuchelskopp, the man who had brought about

Hawermann's failure in Pomerania, lived there now. His was the only

house which uncle Bräsig shunned, everywhere else he was the welcome

guest bringing sunshine whenever he arrived. His breezy common sense

often recalled his friends from useless trains of thought. "Bräsig,"

said Hawermann, "I don't know what other people may think of it, but

life and work always seem to me to be one and the same thing." "Oh, ho!

Charles, I have you now! You learnt that from pastor Behrens. But,

Charles, that is a wrong way of looking at it, it goes clean against

Scripture. The Bible tells us of the lilies of the field, how they toil

not, neither do they spin, and yet our Heavenly Father feeds them. And

if God feeds them, they are alive, and yet they do not work. And when I

have that confounded gout, and can do nothing--absolutely nothing,

except flap the beastly flies away from my face--can I be said to work?

And yet I am alive, and suffer horrible torture into the bargain."

Gradually this torture grew so unbearable that uncle Bräsig had to

submit to treatment at a watering place.]

Spring was gone, and summer had come, when one Sunday morning Hawermann

received a letter from Bräsig dated from Warnitz, in which his friend

requested him to remain at home that day, for he had returned and

intended to call on him that afternoon. When Bräsig arrived, he sprang

from his saddle with so much force that one might have thought he wanted

to go through the road with both legs. "Oho!" cried Hawermann, "how

brisk you are! You're all right now, ar'n't you?" "As right as a

trivet, Charles. I've renewed my youth." "Well, how have you been

getting on, old boy?" asked Hawermann, when they were seated on the

sofa and their pipes were lighted. "Listen, Charles. Cold, damp, watery,

clammy-that's about what it comes to. It's just turning a human being

into a frog, and before a man's nature is so changed, he has such a hard

time of it that he begins to wish that he had come into the world a

frog: still, it isn't a bad thing! You begin the day with the common

packing, as they call it. They wrap you up in cold, damp sheets, and

then in woollen blankets, in which they fasten you up so tight that you

can't move any part of your body except your toes. In this condition

they take you to a bath-room, and a man goes before you ringing a bell

to warn the ladies to keep out of your way. Then they place you, just as

God made you, in a bath, and dash three pails of water over your bald

head, if you happen to have one, and after that they allow you to go

away. Well, do you think that that's the end of it? Nay, Charles,

there's more to follow; but it's a good thing all the same. Now you've

got to go for a walk in a place where you've nothing earthly to do. I've

been accustomed all my life to walk a great deal, but then it was doing

something, ploughing or harrowing, spreading manure or cutting corn, and

there I'd no occupation whatever. While walking you are expected to

drink ever so many tumblers of water, ever so many. Some of the people

were exactly like sieves, they were always at it, and they used to gasp

out 'What splendid water it is!' Don't believe them, Charles, it is

nothing but talk. Water applied externally is bad enough in all

conscience, but internally it's still more horrible. Then comes the

sitz-bath. Do you know what a bath at four degrees below zero is like?

It's very much what you would feel if you were in hell, and the devil

had tied you down to a glowing iron chair, under which he kept up a

roaring fire; still it's a good thing! Then you've to walk again till

dinner-time. And now comes dinner. Ah, Charles, you have no idea what a

human being goes through at a water-cure place! You've got to drink no

end of water. Charles, I've seen ladies, small and thin as real angels,

drink each of them three caraffes as large as laundry-pails at a

sitting--and then the potatoes! Good gracious, as many potatoes were

eaten in a day as would have served to plant an acre of ground! These

water-doctors are much to be pitied, their patients must eat them out of

house and home. In the afternoon the water-drinking goes on as merrily

as before, and you may now talk to the ladies if you like; but in the

morning you may not approach them, for they are not then dressed for

society. Before dinner some of them are to be seen running about with

wet stockings, as if they had been walking through a field of clover,

others have wet bandages tied round their heads, and all of them let

their hair hang down over their shoulders, and wear a Venus' girdle

round their waists, which last, however, is not visible. But in the

afternoon, as I said, you may talk to them as much as you like, but will

most likely get short answers unless you speak to them about their

health, and ask them how often they have been packed, and what effect it

had on them, for that is the sort of conversation that is most approved

of at a water-cure establishment. After amusing yourself in this way for

a little you must have a touche (douche), that is a great rush of

ice-cold water--and that's a good thing too. Above all, Charles, you

must know that what every one most dislikes, and whatever is most

intensely disagreeable is found to be wholesome and good for the

constitution." "Then you ought to be quite cured of your gout," said

Hawermann, "for of all things in the world cold water was what you

always disliked the most." "It's easy to see from that speech that

you've never been at the water-cure, Charles. Listen--this is how the

doctor explained the whole thing to me. That confounded gout is the

chief of all diseases--in other words, it is the source of them all, and

it proceeds from the gouty humor which is in the bones, and which simply

tears one to pieces with the pain, and this gouty substance comes from

the poisonous matter one has swallowed as food--for example, kümmel or

tobacco--or as medicine at the apothecary's. Now you must understand

that any one who has gout must, if he wishes to be cured, be packed in

damp sheets, till the water has drawn all the tobacco he has ever

smoked, and all the küimmel he has ever drunk out of his constitution.

First the poisonous matter goes, then the gouty matter, and last of all

the gout itself." "And has it been so with you?" "No." "Why didn't you

remain longer then? I should have stayed on, and have got rid of it once

for all if I had been you." "You don't know what you are talking about,

Charles. No one could stand it, and no one has ever done it all at once.

* * * But now let me go on with my description of our daily life. After

the touche you are expected to walk again, and by the time that is

finished it has begun to grow dusk. You may remain out later if you

like, and many people do so, both gentlemen and ladies, or you may go

into the house and amuse yourself by reading. I always spent the evening

in studying the water-books written by an author named Franck, who is, I

understand, at the head of his profession. These books explain the plan

on which the water-doctors proceed, and give reasons for all they do;

but it's very difficult to understand. I could never get further than

the two first pages, and these were quite enough for me, for when I'd

read them I felt as light-headed and giddy as if I had been standing on

my head for half an hour. You imagine, no doubt, Charles, that the water

in your well is water? He does not think so! Listen, fresh air is

divided into three parts: oxygen, nitrogen, and black carbon; and water

is divided into two parts: carbon and hydrogen. Now the whole water-cure

the'ry is founded on water and air. And listen, Charles, just think of

the wisdom of nature: when a human being goes out into the fresh air he

inhales both black carbon and nitrogen through his windpipe, and as his

constitution can't stand the combination of these two dreadful things,

the art of curing by water steps in, and drives them out of his throat.

And the way that it does so is this the oxygen grapples with the carbon,

and the hydrogen drives the nitrogen out of your body. Do you

understand me, Charles?" "No," said Hawermann, laughing heartily, "you

can hardly expect me to do that." "Never laugh at things you don't

understand, Charles. Listen--I have smelt the nitrogen myself, but as

for the black carbon, what becomes of it? That is a difficult question,

and I didn't get on far enough with the water-science to be able to

answer it. Perhaps you think that parson Behrens could explain the

matter to me, but no, when I asked him yesterday he said that he knew

nothing about it. And now, Charles, you'll see that I've still got the

black carbon in me, and that I shall have that beastly gout again."

"But, Zachariah, why didn't you remain a little longer and get thoroughly

cured?" "Because," and Bräsig cast down his eyes, and looked

uncomfortable, "I couldn't. Something happened to me. Charles," he

continued, raising his eyes to his friend's face, "you've known me from

my childhood, tell me, did you ever see me disrespectful to a woman?"

"No, Bräsig, I can bear witness that I never did." "Well, then, just

think what happened. A week ago last Friday the gout was very

troublesome in my great toe--you know it always begins by attacking the

small end of the human wedge--and the water-doctor said: 'Mr. Bailiff,'

he said, 'you must have an extra packing, Dr. Strump's colchicum is the

cause of this, and we must get rid of it.' Well, it was done; he packed

me himself, and so tight that I had hardly room to breathe, telling me

for my comfort that water was more necessary for me than air, and then

he wanted to shut the window. 'No,' I said, 'I understand the the'ry

well enough to know that I must have fresh air, so please leave the

window open.' He did as I asked, and went away.[8] I lay quite still in

my compress thinking no evil, when suddenly I heard a great humming and

buzzing in my ears, and when I could look up, I saw a swarm of bees

streaming in at my window, preceded by their queen. I knew her well,

Charles, for as you know I am a bee-keeper. One spring the school-master

at Zittelwitz and I got fifty-seven in a field. I now saw that the queen

was going to settle on the blanket which the doctor had drawn over my

head. What was to be done? I couldn't move. I blew at her, and blew and

blew till my breath was all gone. It was horrible! The queen settled

right on the bald part of my head--for I had taken off my wig as usual to

save it--and now the whole swarm flew at my face. That was enough for me.

Quickly I rolled out of bed, freed myself from the blanket, wriggled out

of the wet sheets, and reached the door, for the devil was at my heels. I

got out at the door, and striking out at my assailants blindly and madly,

shrieked for help. God be praised and thanked for the existence of the

water-doctor--his name is Ehrfurcht--he came to my rescue, and, taking me

to another room, fetched me my clothes, and so after a few hours' rest I

was able to go down to the dining-room-_salong_ as they call it--but

I still had half a bushel of bee-stings in my body. I began to speak to

the gentlemen, and they did nothing but laugh. Why did they laugh,

Charles? You don't know, nor do I. I turned to one of the ladies, and

spoke to her in a friendly way about the weather; she blushed. What was

there in the weather to make her red? I can't tell, nor can you,

Charles. I spoke to the lady who sings, and asked her very politely to

let us hear the beautiful song which she sings every evening. What did

she do, Charles? She turned her back upon me! I now busied myself with

my own thoughts, but the water-doctor came up to me, and said

courteously: 'Don't be angry with me, Mr. Bailiff, but you've made

yourself very remarkable this afternoon.' 'How?' I asked. 'Miss von

Hinkefuss was crossing the passage when you ran out of your room, and

she has told every one else in strict confidence.' 'And so,' I said,

'you give me no sympathy, the gentlemen laugh at me, and the ladies turn

their pretty backs upon me. No, I didn't come here for that! If Miss von

Hinkefuss had met _me_, if half a bushel of bee-stings had been planted

in _her_ body, I should have asked her every morning with the utmost

propriety how she was. But let her alone! There is no market where

people can buy kind-heartedness! Come away, doctor, and pull the stings

out of my body.' He said he couldn't do it. 'What!' I asked, 'can't you

pull bee-stings out of a man's skin?' 'No,' he said, 'that is to say, I

_can_ do it, but I dare not, for that is an operation such as surgeons

perform, and I have no diploma for surgery from the Mecklenburg

government.' 'What?' I asked, 'you are allowed to draw gout out of my

bones, but it is illegal for you to draw a bee-sting out of my skin? You

dare not meddle with the outer skin which you can see, and yet you

presume to attack my internal maladies which you can't see? _Thank_

you!' Well, Charles, from that moment I lost all faith in the

water-doctor, and without faith they can do nothing as they themselves

tell you when it comes to the point. So I went away quietly and got old

Metz, the surgeon at Rahnstädt, to draw out the stings. That was the end

of the water-cure; still it's a good thing; one gets new ideas in a

place like that, and even if one's gout is not cured, one gains some

notion of what a human being can suffer. And now, Charles, this is a

water-book I have brought you, you can study it in the winter-evenings."

[Three more years had passed, and Louisa Hawermann at the parsonage was

repaying her father's and her foster parents' love and care by growing

up the loveliest girl of the neighborhood. Uncle Bräsig, to be sure,

would have qualified this by saying "next to his two round-heads." No

qualification, however, was justified in the eyes of Frank von Rambow

and Fred Triddelfitz, the two young men studying agriculture under

Hawermann. They fell in love with her, each after his own fashion. Frank

deeply and lastingly, Fred--whom uncle Bräsig loved to call the "gray

hound"--ardently if not irretrievably. This, however, he did not know,

and as he felt his blood seething, he was thoroughly wretched.]

No human being can stand more than a certain amount of pain, after that

it becomes unbearable and a remedy must be found; now the only remedy a

lover finds effectual is an interview with his sweetheart. Matters had

come to such a pass with Fred that he could no longer exist without

seeing Louisa, so he began to lie in wait for her in all sorts of holes

and corners. Every hollow-tree was a good hiding-place from which he

could watch for her coming, every ditch was of use in concealing his

advance, every hill was a look-out from which he could sweep the country

with his gaze, and every thicket served him for an ambush. He was so

much in earnest that he could not fail to succeed in his attempts to see

her, and he often gave Louisa a great fright by pouncing out upon her,

when she least expected him, and when she was perhaps thinking of * * *

we will not say Frank. Sometimes he was to be seen rearing his long

slight figure out of a bush like a snake in the act of springing,

sometimes his head would appear above the green ears of rye like a seal

putting its head above water, and sometimes as she passed under a tree

he would drop down at her side from the branches where he had been

crouched like a lynx waiting for its prey. At first she did not mind it

much, for she looked upon it as a new form of his silly practical

joking, and so she only laughed and talked to him about some indifferent

subject; but she soon discovered that a very remarkable change had taken

place in him. He spoke gravely and solemnly and uttered the merest

nothings as if they had been the weightiest affairs of state. He passed

his hand meditatively across his forehead as if immersed in profound

thought, and when she spoke of the weather, he laid his hand upon his

heart as if he were suffering from a sudden pain in the side. When she

asked him to come to Gürlitz he shook his head sadly, and said: Honor

forbade him to do so. When she asked him about her father, his words

poured forth like a swiftly flowing stream: The bailiff was an angel;

there never was, and never would be such a man again on the face of the

earth; _his_ father was good and kind, but _hers_ was the prince of

fathers. When she asked after Miss Fidelia, he said: He never troubled

himself about women, and was utterly indifferent to _almost_ all of

them; but once when, as ill luck would have it, she asked him about

Frank, his eyes flashed and he shouted "Ha!" once or twice with a sort

of snort, laughed scornfully, caught hold of her hand, slipped a bit of

paper into it, and plunged head foremost into the rye-field, where he

was soon lost to sight. When she opened the paper she found that it

contained the following effusion:

TO HER.

"When with tender Silvery light

Luna peeps the clouds between,

And 'spite of dark disastrous night

The radiant sun is also seen

When the wavelets murmuring flow

When oak and ivy clinging grow,

Then, O then, in that witching hour

Let us meet _in my_ lady's bow'r.

"Where'er thy joyous step doth go

Love waits upon thee ever,

The spring-flow'rs in my hat do show

I'll cease to love thee never.

When thou'rt gone from out my sight

Vanished is my sole delight,

_Alas!_ Thou ne'er canst understand

What I've suffered at thy hand.

"My _vengeance_ dire! will fall on him,

The foe who has hurt me sore,

Hurt _me!_ who writes this poem here;

_Revenge!!_ I'll seek for evermore.

FREDERIC TRIDDELFITZ.

_Pümpelhagen, July 3d, 1842._"

The first time that Louisa read this effusion she could make nothing of

it, when she had read it twice she did not understand it a bit better,

and after the third reading she was as far from comprehending it as she

had been at first; that is to say, she could not make out who it was on

whom the unhappy poet wished to be revenged. She was not so stupid as

not to know that the "Her" was intended for herself.

She would have liked to have been able to think that the whole affair

was only a silly joke, but when she remembered Fred's odd manner she was

obliged to confess that it was anything but a joke, and so she

determined to keep as much as possible out of his way. She was such a

tender-hearted little creature that she was full of compassion for

Fred's sufferings. Now pity is a bridge that often leads to the

beautiful meadows stretched on the other side of it full of rose-bushes

and jasmine-hedges, which are as attractive to a maiden of seventeen as

cherries to a bird, and who knows whether Louisa might not have been

induced to wander in those pleasant groves, had she not been restrained

by the thought of Fred riding amongst the roses on the old sorrel-horse,

holding a great slice of bread and butter in one hand and a bottle of

beer in the other. In spite of her compassion for him she could not help

laughing, and so remained safely on this side of the bridge; she liked

best to watch Fred from a distance, for the sorrel might have lain down

in the pond again, and Fred might have smeared her with the bread and

butter. The stupidest lads under the sun may often win the love of girls

of seventeen, and even men with only an apology for a heart are

sometimes successful, but alas for the young fellow who has ever

condescended to wear motley, he can never hope to win his lady's

affection, for nothing is so destructive to young love as a hearty fit

of laughter.

Louisa could not restrain her laughter when she thought of the ludicrous

scene that had just taken place, but she suddenly stopped in the midst

of her merriment, for she felt as if a soft hand had just taken hers,

and as if a pair of dark eyes were looking at her affectionately.

Perhaps this thought may have come into her head because she caught

sight of Frank coming toward her from the distance. The next moment it

flashed into her mind that it was Frank on whom Fred wished to be

revenged, and so when they met a deep blush overspread her face, and

feeling that that was the case made her so angry with herself that she

blushed even deeper than before. Frank spoke to her in his usual

courteous manner about indifferent things, but she was strangely shy,

and answered him at cross-purposes, for her mind was full of Fred and

his vows of vengeance.

"Heaven knows what's the matter," thought Frank as he was returning home

after having walked a short way with her, "she isn't at all like herself

today. Is it my fault? Has she had anything to vex or annoy her? What

was that piece of paper she was tearing up?" Meanwhile he had reached

the place where he had met her. Some of the bits of paper were still

lying on the ground, and he saw on one of them, without picking it up:

"_Revenge!_ I'll seek for evermore. Frederic Triddelfitz." This made him

curious, for he knew Fred's handwriting, so he looked about and found

two more bits of paper, but when he put them together he could make

nothing more out of them but "clinging grows * * * that witching hour *

* * meet in my lady's bow'r. * * * Spring flowers. * * * I'll cease to *

* * from out my sight * * * my sole delight. * * * _Alas!_ thou ne'er *

* * my _vengeance_ dire! * * * The foe * * * _Revenge!!_ I'll seek for

evermore. Frederic Triddelfitz." The wind had blown away all the rest.

There was not much to be made out of it, but after a time Frank came to

the conclusion that Fred Triddelfitz was in love with Louisa, dogged her

footsteps, and wanted to be revenged on her for some reason only known

to himself. It was a ridiculous affair altogether, but still when he

remembered that Fred Triddelfitz was as full of tricks as a donkey's

hide of gray hair, and that he might easily do something that would be

of great annoyance to Louisa, Frank determined to keep watch, and not to

let Fred out of his sight when he went in the direction of Gürlitz.

Fred had broken the ice, he had spoken, he had done his part, and it was

now Louisa's turn to speak if anything was to come of it. He waited, and

watched, and got no answer. "It's a horrid shame," he said to himself.

"But she isn't up to this sort of thing yet, I must show her what she

ought to do." Then he sat down and wrote a letter in a feigned hand.

Address: "To Her that you know of.

Inscription: "Sweet Dream of my soul!

"This letter can tell you nothing, it only contains what is absolutely

necessary for you to learn, and you will find it in the _third_

rose-bush in the _second_ row. I'll tell you the rest by word of mouth,

and will only add: Whenever you see a _cross_ drawn in white _chalk_ on

the garden-door, you will find the disclosure of my sentiments under the

flower-pot beside the third rose-bush in the Second row. The _waving_ of

a _pocket-handkerchief_ on the _Gürlitz_ side of the house will be a

token of your presence, and of your desiring an interview; _my_ signal,

on the other hand, will be _whistling_ three times on the crook of my

stick. (Our shepherd taught me how to do it, and love makes everything

easy to learn.) _Randyvoo:_ The large ditch to the _right_ of the

bridge.