"From Him whom you know of."
"P.S. Pardon me for having written this in my shirt-sleeves, it is such
a frightfully hot day.----"
This letter fell into the wrong hands, for it was Mrs. Behrens who found
it when she went out to water her flowers, whilst Louisa, who was now a
notable little housekeeper, was busy indoors making gooseberry jam. The
clergyman's wife had no scruples about opening and reading the letter,
and after she had done so she was quite convinced that it was intended
for Louisa, and had been written by her nephew Fred.
She could not tell Louisa of her discovery, for that would simply have
been playing into Fred's hands, she had therefore to content herself
with talking of letters in general, and trying to find out in a
roundabout kind of way whether Louisa had received any epistles such as
she had in her pocket, but as the girl did not understand what she
meant, she determined not to tell her pastor what had happened. For, she
thought, why should she make him angry by telling him of the foolish
boy's love troubles, and besides that, it would have been very painful
for her to have to give evidence against her own flesh and blood--and
unfortunately Fred was her sister's son. But she wished with all her
heart that she could have had a few minutes' quiet talk with the culprit
himself, and that was impossible, for she never saw him by any chance.
She was very silent and thoughtful for a few days, and took the entire
charge of watering the flowers into her own hands. It was just as well
that she did so, for soon afterward she found a letter drenched with
rain under the third rose-bush in the second row. This letter was still
more to the point than the last:
Address: "To _Her_, the _only_ woman I adore.
Inscription: "Soul of my existence!!
"We are surrounded by pitfalls; I am aware that our foe watches my every
step. Cowardly _spy_, I _scorn_ you! Have no fear, Beloved, I will
conquer all difficulties. One bold deed will bring our love
_recognition._ At two o'clock tomorrow afternoon, when the _Dragon_ is
asleep that guards my _treasure,_ I shall expect to See your signal with
the pocket-handkerchief. As for myself, I shall then be hidden behind
the manure heap on the bank beside the large ditch, and shall whistle
three times on the crook of my stick to entice you to come to me.
And--even though the powers of hell should fight against me--I have
sworn to be ever
THINE"
Mrs. Behrens was furious when she read this letter. "The * * *! The * *
*! Oh you young rascal! 'When the dragon is asleep!' The wretch means me
by that! But wait a bit! I'll entice _you_ to come to _me,_ and though
the powers of hell won't touch you, if once I get hold of you, I'll give
you such a box on the ear as you never had before!"
About two o'clock next day, Mrs. Behrens rose from her sofa and went
into the garden. The parlor-door creaked and the garden-door banged as
she went out, and the parson, hearing the noise, looked out at the
window to see what it was that took his wife out at that unusual hour,
for as a general rule she did not move from her sofa till three had
struck. He saw her go behind a bush and wave her pocket-handkerchief.
"She's making signs to Hawermann, of course," said he, and then he went
and lay down again. But the fact of the matter is that she only wanted
to show her sister's son how much she longed to get within reach of his
ears. But he did not come, nor yet were his three whistles to be heard.
She returned to her room very crossly, and when her husband asked her at
coffee time to whom she had been making signals in the garden, she was
so overwhelmed with confusion that in spite of being a clergyman's
wife--I am sorry to have to confess it--she told a lie, and said that
she had found it so frightfully close she had been fanning herself a
little.
On the third day after that she found another letter:
Address: "To _Her_ who is intended for me by _Fate._
Inscription: "_Sun_ of my dark existence!!
"Have you ever suffered the _pains of hell?_ I have been enduring them
since two o'clock in the afternoon of the day before yesterday when I
was hidden behind the manure-heap. The weather was lovely, our _foe_ was
busy in the clover-field, and your handkerchief was waving in the
perfumed air like one of those tumbler pigeons I used to have long ago.
I was just about to utter the three _whistles_ we had agreed upon, when
that stupid old _ass_ Bräsig came up to me, and talked to me for a
_whole hour by the clock_ about the farm. As soon as he was gone I
hastened to the ditch, but, _oh agony!_ I was terribly disappointed. The
time must have seemed very long to you, for you were gone.--But now,
_listen._ As soon as I have finished my curds and cream this evening I
shall start for the place of _Randyvoo_ where I shall be hidden
punctually at _half-past eight._ This is Saturday, so the parson will be
writing his sermon, and the _Dragon_ will be busy, so it is a favorable
_opportunity_ for us to meet, and the _alder-bushes_ will screen us from
every eye. (Schiller!) Wait awhile--thy rest comes presently (Göthe) in
the _arms_ of thy _adorer,_ who would _sell_ all that is dear to him, if
he could _buy_ what is dear to thee with the proceeds.
"Again to meet! again to meet!
Till then I fain would sleep;
My longings and my thoughts to steep
In Lethe's waters dark and deep.
My loved one I again shall see,
There's rapture in the thought!
In the hope tomorrow of thee,
My darling, I fear nought.
"(The _beginning_ is by myself, the _middle_ part by Schiller, and the
_end_ by a certain person called Anonymous who writes a great deal of
poetry, but I have altered his lines to suit the present case.)
"_In an agony of longing to see you, EVER THINE._"
"_No!_" cried little Mrs. Behrens when she had read the letter. "This is
really too much of a good thing! Ah, my dear sister, I'm sorry for you!
Well, it's high time for _other_ people to interfere, and I think that
being his aunt, I am the proper person to do so. And I will do it," she
exclaimed aloud, stamping her foot emphatically, "and I should like to
see who'd dare to prevent me!"
"I promise not to interfere with you, Mrs. Behrens," said Bräsig, coming
from behind the bee-hives.
"Have you been listening, Bräsig?" asked Mrs. Behrens rather sharply.
"'Listening!' I never listen! I only keep my ears open, and then I hear
what's going on; and I keep my eyes open, and see what passes before me.
For instance, I see that you are very cross." "Yes, but it's enough to
drive an angel wild." "Ah, Mrs. Behrens, the angels are wild enough
already in all conscience, but we don't need to speak of them just now,
for I believe that the devil himself is going about Pümpelhagen."
"Goodness gracious me! Has Fred * * *?" "No," answered Bräsig, "I don't
know what it is, but certainly there's something up." "How?" "Mrs.
Behrens, Hawermann is in a bad humor, and that is enough to show you
that something unpleasant is going on. When I went to Pümpelhagen last
week I found him busy with the hay and rape-harvest, and said:
'Good-morning,' I said. 'Good-morning,' said he. 'Charles,' I began, and
was going to have said something when he interrupted me by asking:
'Have you seen Triddelfitz anywhere?' 'Yes,' I answered. 'Where?' he
asked. 'Sitting in the large ditch,' I said. 'Did you see young Mr. von
Rambow?' he asked. 'He's sitting in the next ditch close behind Fred,' I
replied. 'What are they doing?' he asked. 'Playing,' I said. 'You don't
give me much comfort,' he said, '_playing_, when there's so much to be
done!' 'Yes, Charles,' I said, 'and I played with them.' 'What were you
playing at?' he asked. 'We had a game at 'I spy,' Charles. You must
understand that your gray-hound was peeping over the edge of the ditch
toward Gürlitz, and your young nobleman was watching the gray-hound, so
I hid myself in the marl-pit, and watched them both. Whenever one of
them turned the others ducked, so there we sat peeping and ducking till
at last I found it a very tiresome amusement, and, leaving my
hiding-place, went to join Mr. von Rambow.' 'Good-day,' I said.
'Good-day,' he replied. 'Pardon me,' I said, 'but which of your
farming-operations is it that is occupying your attention just now?'
'I,' he stammered, 'w--wanted to see how the peas were getting on!'
'H'm!' I said. 'Ah!' I said. 'I understand.' Then I bade him 'good-by,'
and went to have a look at the gray-hound. Don't be angry, Mrs. Behrens,
but that's what I always call your nephew." "Not at all, not at all!"
cried the little lady, though her own name for him was different. Then
Bräsig continued: "'Good-day,' I said, 'may I ask what you are doing
here?' 'Oh, nothing in particular,' he said, looking rather foolish,
'I'm only looking at the peas.' 'Now, Charles,' I said, 'if you can get
the peas staked by setting those two lads to look at them, why all that
I can say is that you're a deuced lucky fellow.' 'The devil take it!' he
said, 'they're both up to some folly. Mr. von Rambow is quite changed
this summer, he isn't like the same person. He goes about in a dream,
forgets all that I tell him, and so I can't rely on him as I used to do.
And as for that other stupid dolt, he's worse than ever.' Now, Mrs.
Behrens, pray don't be angry with Hawermann for calling your nephew a
'stupid dolt.'" "Certainly not," replied Mrs. Behrens, "for that's just
what he is." "Well, you see that all happened a week ago, but this
morning I went out early with my fishing-rod to try whether I couldn't
catch a few trout, when just as I was coming in this direction I caught
sight of your nephew, the gray-hound. He slipped cautiously into the
garden, and after remaining there for a few minutes, came out again.
Meanwhile I perceived that the young nobleman was watching him from
amongst the thorn-bushes by the side of the ditch; but what was my
astonishment when I saw that my good old friend Charles Hawermann was
following them on the hill-side. I brought up the rear, and so we all
went on in single file quite round the village, and I couldn't help
laughing when I thought that each of us only knew of the presence of the
game he was stalking, and was totally unaware that he himself was being
stalked in his turn. We're all to be at it again tomorrow I believe, for
Hawermann, who has followed them twice already, is determined to get to
the bottom of the mystery; so if either you or the parson has a fancy to
join us in the hunt, you can follow me." "Thanks very much," said Mrs.
Behrens, "but I've got my part to play already. Bräsig, can you keep a
secret?" "Like a safe when the padlock is on," he answered. "No, no. Do
be serious. Can you be silent?" "I beg your pardon," he said gravely,
and clapped his hand on his mouth in token of shame at his ill-timed
jesting, though had any one else done it, he would have given him a
black eye for his pains. "Why well then, listen," said Mrs. Behrens, who
now proceeded to relate all that she knew of the affair. "Wheugh!"
whistled Bräsig, "what a fool that nephew of yours is." Mrs. Behrens
then read him the letters she had found. "Hang it," cried Bräsig, "where
did the young rascal get that grand way of expressing himself. Stupid as
he is in other matters, he can write much better than one would expect."
When she came to the bit about the dragon Bräsig laughed heartily, and
said:
"That's you, Mrs. Behrens, that's you!" "I know," she answered sharply,
"but the ass in the third letter is intended for you, so neither of us
need laugh at the other. But now, Bräsig, you see that it's quite
necessary that I should get hold of the little wretch, and box his ears
well for him." "You're quite right, and it's easily managed. Listen. You
and I must hide at the bottom of the garden at eight o'clock this
evening; at half past eight, Louisa must take her place in the ditch,
and you'll see that he'll come like a bear to wild honey; and then we'll
spring out upon him, and take him prisoner before he knows where he is."
"That won't do at all, Bräsig. If I were going to act in that sort of
way I shouldn't require your help. It would be a great misfortune if
Louisa were ever to know anything about this, and I'd rather that
neither Hawermann nor even my pastor should hear of it." "H'm, h'm!"
said Bräsig. "Then * * * then * * * Stop! I have it now. Mrs. Behrens,
you must make yourself as thin as possible, put on Louisa's clothes, and
go to the _randyvoo_ in her stead. Then, as soon as he is seated by your
side, and is on the point of kissing you, you must seize him by the
scruff of the neck, and hold on till I come." "Nay, Bräsig, that would
never do!" "Don't you think so, Mrs. Behrens? You understand that if he
doesn't see his sweet-heart in the ditch, you'll never manage to
inveigle him there; and if we don't nab him unexpectedly, we'll never
succeed in catching him, for he's a long-legged, thin-flanked
gray-hound, and if it came to a race, we'd be nowhere with our short
legs and round bodies." It was quite true; but no! she go to a
_rendezvous_? And Bräsig was very stupid, how could she ever get into
Louisa's gown? But Bräsig would not be convinced, he maintained that it
was the only way in which she could get the interview she wanted with
her nephew, and assured her that all she had to do was to put on
Louisa's shawl and Leghorn hat, and then go and sit on the edge of the
ditch. "You must remember to sit down," he continued, "for if you remain
standing he will see at once that you're a foot shorter, and at least a
foot broader than Louisa." At last--at last Mrs. Behrens allowed herself
to be persuaded, and when she went out at the back-door about eight
o'clock that evening, wearing Louisa's shawl and hat, the parson who was
standing at his study-window thinking over his sermon, said to himself
wonderingly: "What on earth is Regina doing with Louisa's hat and shawl?
And there's Bräsig coming out of the arbor. He must want to speak to me
about something--but it's a very odd thing altogether!"
Mrs. Behrens went down the garden path with Bräsig feeling ready for
anything that might befall. She opened the garden-gate and went out
alone, leaving Bräsig squatted under the hedge like a great toad, but no
sooner was she by herself than her courage oozed away, and she said:
"Come to the ditch with me, Bräsig, you're too far away there, and must
be close at hand to help me when I've caught him." "All right!" said
Bräsig, and he accompanied her to the ditch.
Canal-like ditches such as this are no longer to be found in all the
country-side, for the thorough system of drainage to which the land has
been subjected has done away with their use; but every farmer will
remember them in the old time. They were from fifteen to twenty feet
wide at the top, but tapered away till quite narrow at the bottom, and
were fringed with thorns and other bushwood. They were generally dry
except in spring and autumn, when there was a foot or a foot and half of
water in them, or in summer for a day or two after a thunder-storm. That
was the case now. "Bräsig hide yourself behind that thorn so that you
may come to the rescue at once." "Very well," said Bräsig. "But, Mrs.
Behrens," he continued after a pause, "you must think of a signal to
call me to your help." "Yes," she said. "Of course! But what shall it
be? Wait! when I say: _'The Philistines be upon thee,'_ spring upon
him." "I understand, Mrs. Behrens!"
"Goodness gracious me!" thought the clergyman's wife.
[Illustration: BETWEEN DANCES BENJAMIN VAUTIER]
"I feel as if I were quite a Delilah. Going to a _rendezvous_ at half
past eight in the evening! At my age too! Ah me, in my old age I'm going
to do what I should have been ashamed of when I was a girl." Then aloud.
"Bräsig don't puff so loud any one could hear you a mile off." Resuming
her soliloquy: "And all for the sake of a boy, a mischievous wretch of a
boy. Good gracious! If my pastor knew what I was about!" Aloud. "What
are you laughing at, Bräsig? I forbid you to laugh, it's very silly of
you." "I didn't laugh, Mrs. Behrens." "Yes, you _did,_ I heard you
distinctly." "I only yawned, Mrs. Behrens, it's such frightfully slow
work lying here." "You oughtn't to yawn at such a time. I'm trembling
all over. Oh, you little wretch, what misery you have caused me! I can't
tell any one what you've made me suffer, and must just bear it in
silence. It was God who sent Bräsig to my help." Suddenly Bräsig
whispered in great excitement, his voice sounding like the distant cry
of a corn-crake: "Mrs. Behrens, draw yourself out till you're as long as
Lewerenz's child;[9] make yourself as thin as you possibly can, and put
on a pretty air of confusion, for I see him coming over the crest of the
hill. His figure stands out clearly against the sky." Little Mrs.
Behrens felt as if her heart had stopped beating and her anger waxed
hotter against the boy who had brought her into such a false position.
She was so much ashamed of herself for being where she was, that she
would most assuredly have run away if Bräsig had not laughed again, but
as soon as she heard that laugh, she determined to stay and show him
that he was engaged in a much more serious undertaking than he seemed to
imagine.
It was quite true that Bräsig had laughed this time, for he saw a second
and then a third black figure following the first down the hill. "Ha,
ha, ha!" he chuckled in his hiding-place in the thorn-bush, "there's
Charles Hawermann too! I declare the whole overseeing force of
Pümpelhagen is coming down here to see how the peas are growing in the
dusk of evening. It's as good as a play!" Mrs. Behrens did not see the
others, she only saw her sister's son who was coming rapidly toward her.
He hastened over the bridge, ran along the bank, sprang to her side, and
threw his arms round her neck, exclaiming: "Sweet angel!" "Oh you wicked
little wretch!" cried his aunt trying to seize him in the way Bräsig had
desired her, but instead of that she only caught hold of the collar of
his coat. Then she called out as loudly as she could: "The Philistines
be upon thee!" and immediately Bräsig the Philistine started to his
feet. Confound it! His foot had gone to sleep! But never mind! He hopped
down the bank as quickly as he could, taking into consideration that one
leg felt as if it had a hundred-and-eighty pound weight attached to the
end of it, but just as he was close upon his prey he tripped over a low
thorn-bush and tumbled right into the foot and a half of water. And
there he sat as immovably as if he had gone back to the hydropathic
establishment, and were in the enjoyment of a sitz-bath! Fred stood as
if he had been turned to stone, and felt as though he were suffering
from a douche-bath, for his dear aunt was clutching him tightly and
scolding him to her heart's content: "The dragon has caught you now my
boy! Yes, the dragon has caught you!" "And here comes the ass," shouted
Bräsig picking himself out of the water and running toward him. But Fred
had now recovered from his astonishment. He shook himself free from his
aunt, and darting up the bank would have escaped had he not at the same
moment encountered a new enemy--Frank. In another second Hawermann had
joined them, and Mrs. Behrens had scarcely recovered from the shock of
seeing him, when her pastor came up, and said: "What's the matter,
Regina? What does all this mean?" The poor little lady's consternation
was indescribable, but Bräsig, from whose clothes the water was running
in streams, was too angry to hold his tongue, and exclaimed: "You
confounded rascal! You gray-hound!" giving Fred a hearty dig in the ribs
as he spoke. "It's all your fault that I shall have another attack of
gout. But now, I'll tell you what, every one shall know what a d----d
Jesuit you are. Hawermann, he * * *" "For God's sake," cried Mrs.
Behrens, "don't attend to a single word that Bräsig says. Hawermann, Mr.
von Rambow, the whole thing is ended and done with. It's all over now,
and what has still to be done or said can quite well be managed by my
pastor alone; it's a family matter and concerns no one but ourselves.
Isn't that the case, my dear Fred? It's merely a family matter I assure
you, and no one has anything to do with it but we two. But now, come
away, my boy, we'll tell my pastor all about it. Good-night, Mr. von
Rambow. Good-night, Hawermann, Fred will soon follow you. Come away,
Bräsig, you must go to bed at once."
And so she managed to disperse the assembly. The two who were left in
ignorance of what had happened, went home separately, shaking their
heads over the affair. Hawermann was indignant with his two young
people, and put out because he was to have no explanation of their
conduct. Frank was mistrustful of everyone; he had recognized Louisa's
hat and shawl in spite of the darkness, and thought that the mystery
must have something to do with her, though how he was unable to
conjecture.
Fred was much cast down in spirit. The clergyman and his wife went on in
front of him, and the latter told her husband the whole story from
beginning to end, scolding her hopeful nephew roundly the whole time.
The procession moved on toward the parsonage, and as the evil-doer
guessed that a bad half-hour awaited him there, he had serious thoughts
of making his escape while it was possible, but Bräsig came as close up
to him as if he had known what he was thinking of, and that only made
him rage and chafe the more inwardly. When Bräsig asked Mrs. Behrens who
it was that had come up in the nick of time, and she had answered that
it was Frank, Triddelfitz stood still and shaking his fist in the
direction of Pümpelhagen, said fiercely "I am betrayed, and _she_ will
be sold, sold to that man because of his rank and position!" "Boy!"
cried Mrs. Behrens, "will you hold your tongue!" "Hush, Regina," said
her husband, who had now a pretty good idea of what had taken place,
"now please go in and see that Bräsig's room is prepared, and get him
sent to bed as quickly as you can. I will remain here and speak to
Fred."
This was done. The parson appealed to Fred's common sense, but his sense
of injury far exceeded that other, and his spirit seethed and boiled
like wine in the process of fermentation. He put aside all the
clergyman's gentle arguments, and declared passionately that his own
aunt had determined to destroy the whole happiness of his life, and that
she cared more for the rich aristocrat than for her sister's son.
Within the house matters were going on in the same unsatisfactory
manner; uncle Bräsig refused to go to bed in spite of all Mrs. Behren's
entreaties. "I can't," he said, "that is to say, I can, but I musn't do
it; for I must go to Rexow. I had a letter from Mrs. Nüssler saying that
she wanted my help." The same yeast which had caused Fred to seethe and
boil over was working in him, but more quietly, because it had been a
part of his being for a longer time. At last, however, he was persuaded
to go to bed as a favor to Mrs. Behrens, and from fear of bringing on an
attack of gout by remaining in his wet things, but his thoughts were as
full of anxious affection for Mrs. Nüssler as Fred's were of love for
Louisa when on leaving the parsonage he exclaimed passionately: "Give
her up, does he say! Give her up! The devil take that young sprig of the
nobility!"
Next day--it was Sunday morning--when Bräsig awoke, he gave himself a
comfortable stretch in the soft bed. "A luxury," he said to himself,
"that I've never before enjoyed, but I suppose one would soon get
accustomed to it." Just as he was about to get up the house-maid came
in, and taking possession of his clothes, placed a black coat, waistcoat
and pair of trousers over the back of a chair in their stead.
"Ho, ho!" he said with a laugh as he examined the black suit, "it's
Sunday, and this is a parsonage; but surely they never think that I'm
going to preach today!" He lifted one article of clothing after the
other curiously, and then said: "Ah! I see now, it's because mine were
wet through in the ditch last night, so they've given me a suit
belonging to his Reverence. All right then!--here goes." But it did not
go so easily after all! And as for comfort, that was totally out of the
question. The trousers were a very good length, but were frightfully
tight. The lower buttons of the waistcoat could neither be coaxed nor
forced into the button-holes, and when he put on the coat, there was an
ominous cracking somewhere between the shoulders. As for his arms, they
stood out from his body as if he were prepared to press the whole world
to his faithful heart on this particular Sunday.
After he was dressed he went down stairs, and joined Mrs. Behrens in the
parlor. As to his legs, he looked and walked very much as he had done
ever since he had received his pension; but as to the upper part of his
body! Mrs. Behrens burst out laughing when she saw him, and immediately
took refuge behind the breakfast table, for he advanced with his arms
outstretched as if he wished to make her the first recipient of his
world-embrace. "Keep away from me, Bräsig!" she laughed. "If I had ever
imagined that my pastor's good clothes would have looked so ridiculous
on you I'd have let you remain in bed till dinner-time, for your own
things won't be washed and dried before that." "Oh, ho!" laughed Bräsig,
"that was the reason you sent me these things, was it? I thought perhaps
you wanted to dress me up for another _randyvoo_ today." "Now, just
listen to me, Bräsig!" said little Mrs. Behrens, blushing furiously. "I
forbid you to make such jokes. And when you're going about in the
neighborhood--you have nothing to do now except to carry gossip from one
house to another--if you ever tell any one about that wretched
_rendezvous_ of last night--I'll never speak to you again." "Mrs.
Behrens, you may trust me not to do that," here he went nearer the
clergyman's wife with both arms outstretched, and she once more
retreated behind the table. "Indeed, you've nothing to fear. I'm not a
Jesuit." "No, Bräsig, you're an old heathen, but you arn't a Jesuit. But
if you say anything about it * * * Oh me! Hawermann must be told, my
pastor says so. But if he asks about it, don't mention my name, please.
Oh, dear! If the Pomuchelskopps were ever to hear of it, I should be the
most miserable of women. God knows, Bräsig, that what I did, I did for
the best, and for the sake of that innocent child. I've sacrificed
myself for her." "That's quite true," answered Bräsig with conviction,
"and so don't let fretting over it give you any gray hairs. Look here.
If Charles Hawermann asks me how you came to be there, I'll say--I'll
say--h'm!--I'll say that you had arranged a _randyvoo_ with me." "_You!_
Fie, for shame!" "Nay, Mrs. Behrens, I don't see that. Am I not as good
as the young gray-hound any day? And don't our ages suit better?" And as
he spoke he looked as innocently surprised at her displeasure as if he
had proposed the best possible way out of the difficulty. Mrs. Behrens
looked at him dubiously, and then said, folding her hands on her lap:
"Bräsig, I'll trust to you to say nothing you ought not to say. But
Bräsig--dear Bräsig, do nothing absurd. And * * * and * * * come and sit
down, and drink a cup of coffee." She took hold of his stiff arm and
drew him to the table, much as a miller draws the sails of a windmill
when he wants to set it going.
"Thank you," said Bräsig. He managed to get hold of the handle of the
cup after a struggle, and lifted it as if he were a juggler and the cup
were at least a hundred pounds in weight, and as if he wanted to make
sure that all the audience saw it properly. Then he tried to sit down,
but the moment he bent his knees a horrible cracking noise was heard,
and he drew himself up again hastily--whether it was the chair or the
trousers that cracked he did not know. He therefore drank his coffee
standing, and said: it didn't matter, for he hadn't time to sit down, he
must go to Mrs. Nüssler at once because of her letter. Mrs. Behrens
implored him to wait until his clothes were dry, but in vain; Mrs.
Nüssler's slightest wish was regarded by him as a command, and was
inscribed as such in the order-book of his conscience. So he set out for
Rexow along the Pümpelhagen road, the long tails of his clerical garment
floating behind him. His progress was as slow and difficult as that of a
young rook learning to fly.
As he passed Pümpelhagen, Hawermann saw him, and called him to stop,
adding: "Bless me, Zachariah, why are you dressed so oddly?" "An
accident, nothing but an accident. You remember that I fell into the
muddy water in the ditch last night. But I hav'n't time to stop now, I
must go to your sister." "My sister's business can wait better than
mine, Bräsig. I've noticed lately that a great many things are going on
behind my back that I'm not wanted to know. It wouldn't have mattered so
much, but that I saw last night that both the parson and his wife are
better informed than I am, and that these good people want to hide the
true state of the case from me out of the kindness of their hearts."
"You're right, Charles. It is out of kindness." "Certainly, Bräsig, and
I am not mistrustful of them, but I can't help thinking that it's
something that concerns me very nearly, and that I ought to know. What
were you doing yesterday evening?" "I, Charles? I was just having a
_randyvoo_ with Mrs. Behrens in the ditch." "And the parson?" "We knew
nothing of what brought him, Charles. He took us by surprise when he
came." "What had Mr. von Rambow to do with it?" "He caught your
gray-hound by the scruff of the neck, and perhaps threw me into the
water by accident." "_What_ _had Fred Triddelfitz to do with it?_"
asked Hawermann impressively, "and what had Louisa's hat and shawl got
to do with it?" "Nothing more than that they didn't fit Mrs. Behrens at
all, for she's far too stout to wear them." "Zachariah," said Hawermann,
stretching his hand toward his friend over the low hedge, "you are
trying to put me off. _Won't_ you tell me what is the matter, we are
such old friends--or is it that you must not tell me?" "The devil take
the _randyvoo_ and Mrs. Behrens' anxiety," cried Bräsig, seizing
Hawermann's hand and shaking it vehemently over the hedge and amongst
the tall nettles that grew there, till the smart of the stings made them
both draw back. "I'll tell you, Charles. The parson's going to tell you
himself, so why shouldn't I? Fred Triddelfitz fell in love with you
sometime ago, most likely because of the good fatherly advice you have
often given him, and now it seems his love for you has passed on to your
daughter. Love always passes on, for example with me from your sister to
Mina." "Do be serious, Bräsig!" "Am I not always in earnest, Charles,
when I speak of your sister and Mina?" "I am sure you are," cried
Hawermann, seizing his friend's hand again in spite of the nettles,
"but, tell me, what had Frank to do with it?" "I think that he must have
fallen in love with you too, and that his love has also passed on from
you to your daughter." "That would be a great pity," cried Hawermann, "a
very great pity. God only knows how it's to be stopped." "I'm not so
sure, Charles, that you're right in thinking it a misfortune, for he has
two estates * * *" "Don't talk about that, Bräsig, but come in and tell
me all that you know."
As soon as Bräsig had told as much as he knew of the affair, he set off
down the footpath that led to Rexow. Hawermann stood and watched him
till he was out of sight, and then said to himself: "He's a good man,
his heart's in the right place, and if I find that it is so, I will * *
* but * * * but * * *!" He was not thinking of Bräsig when he said this,
but of Frank.
[When uncle Bräsig had reached Rexow, he was consulted on a matter of
great consequence. Two young nephews of Joseph Nüssler, Godfrey Baldrian
and Rudolph Kurz, had asked permission to spend the weeks before their
examinations--both were students of theology--at Rexow. Should they be
invited to come? Godfrey was all right, a serious-minded youth, but
Rudolph, although a good sort of a fellow, was frivolous, he had even
fought a duel in Rostock for the sake of a merchant's pretty daughter.
Was there any danger of Lina and Mina falling in love? "Bräsig," Joseph
said, "you see it might quite well happen, and what are we as their
parents to do?" "Let them alone, Joseph!" he replied. "Why does God send
young folks into the world, if he does not intend them to love each
other? But the little round-heads!" His advice was finally taken, and
the two young men were soon settled at the Nüssler home. At first
everything went well, but after a while difficulties arose, and uncle
Bräsig was again called upon for advice.]
Bräsig went to Rexow that morning to see Mrs. Nüssler as he had
intended. The crown-prince was in the doorway when he arrived, and came
forward to meet him with such a hearty wag of the tail that any one
would have thought him a most christian-minded dog, and would have
imagined that he had quite forgiven Bräsig the fright he had given him
the last time he was at Rexow. There was a look of such quiet
satisfaction in his yellow brown eyes that one would have thought that
everything was going on well in the house; that Mrs. Nüssler was busy in
the kitchen, and that Joseph was comfortably seated in his own
particular arm-chair. But it was not so. When Bräsig went into the
parlor he certainly found Joseph in his old place, but Mrs. Nüssler was
standing in front of him, and was giving him a lecture about caring for
nothing, and never interfering when things were going wrong, although it
was his duty to do so. As soon as she saw Bräsig, she went up to him
and said angrily: "And _you_ keep out of the way, Bräsig. Every one may
be standing on their heads here for anything _you_ care, and it's all
your fault that we ever took those two lads into the house." "Gently,"
said Bräsig. "Gently! Don't excite yourself, Mrs. Nüssler! Well what's
all this about the divinity students?" "A very great deal! But I should
never have said a word about it, for they're Joseph's relations, and
'it's an ill bird that soils its own nest!' There has been no peace or
comfort in the house since the two young men have been here, and if it
goes on like this much longer, I'm afraid that I shall have a quarrel
with Joseph himself." "Mother," said young Joseph, "what can I do?"
"Hold your tongue, young Joseph," cried Bräsig, "it's all your fault.
Why didn't you teach them better manners?" "Come, come, Bräsig," said
Mrs. Nüssler, "just leave Joseph to me if you please, and remember it's
your fault this time. You promised to keep an eye on the young men, and
see that they didn't get into mischief, and instead of that, you let one
of them do what he likes and never trouble your head to see what he's
after, while you encourage the other to spend all his time in fishing
and such like nonsense, instead of minding his books, so that he's
always out in the fields, and comes home in the evening with a lot of
perch about the length of my finger, and when I think the day's work is
over, I'm expected to go back to the kitchen and cook that trash!"
"What!" cried Bräsig. "Does he only bring you in such tiny little fish?
That's queer now, for I've shown him all the best pools for catching
large perch. Then you must * * *! Just wait!" "I'll tell you,"
interrupted Mrs. Nüssler, "you must forbid him to fish, for he didn't
come here to do that. His father sent him here to learn something, and
he's coming to see him this very afternoon." "Well, Mrs. Nüssler," said
Bräsig, "I can't help admiring the persistency with which he has
followed my advice about fishing. Hasn't he done anything else though?"
"A great deal, both of them have done a great deal. I've never spoken
about it because they're Joseph's relations, and at first everything
went on _pretty_ well. It was an idle, merry life at first; my two
little girls were very much brightened up by the change and all went on
smoothly. Mina here, and Rudolph there, Lina here, and Godfrey there.
They talked sense with Godfrey and nonsense with Rudolph. The two lads
worked away properly at their books in the morning; Godfrey indeed
sometimes read so long that it gave him a headache, and Rudolph did
quite a fair amount of study. But that did not last long. They soon
began to quarrel and wrangle about theological questions, and Godfrey,
who knows more than the other, said that Rudolph did not speak from a
Christian standpoint." "Did he say 'standpoint'?" put in Bräsig. "Yes,
that was his very word," answered Mrs. Nüssler. "Oho!" said Bräsig. "I
think I hear him. While other people end with standpoint, Methodists
always begin with it. And then I suppose he wanted to convert him?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Nüssler. "That's just what he wanted to do. But you see
the other lad is much cleverer than Godfrey, and made so many jokes
about all that he said, that at last Godfrey quite lost his temper, and
so the discomfort in the house grew worse and worse. I don't know how it
was, but my two girls mixed themselves up in the quarrel. Lina who is
the gravest and most sensible took Godfrey's side of the argument, and
Mina laughed and giggled over Rudolph's jokes." "Yes," interrupted
Joseph, "it's all according to circumstances!" "You ought to be ashamed
of yourself, young Joseph," said Bräsig, "for allowing such a Hophnei to
remain in the house." "Nay, Bräsig," said Mrs. Nüssler, "let Joseph
alone, he did his best to make matters comfortable again. When Godfrey
talked about the devil till we all felt quite eerie, Joseph believed in
his existence; and when Rudolph laughed at, and ridiculed all belief in
him, Joseph laughed as heartily as anyone. When the dispute ran highest,
my little Mina took all Godfrey's books to Rudolph's room, and all
Rudolph's to Godfrey's, and when the young men looked rather cross, she
said quickly, that they'd better both study the subject thoroughly, and
then perhaps they might agree better about it than at present." "Mina's
a clever little woman," cried Bräsig. "Well," continued Mrs. Nüssler,"
they didn't like it at all at first; but whatever Godfrey's faults may
be, he's a good-natured lad, so he began to study Rudolph's books. And
the other at last set to work at Godfrey's, for you see it was wintry
weather and it gave him something to do. You should have seen them a
short time afterward! They had changed as much as their books. Godfrey
made poor jokes about the devil, and Rudolph sighed and groaned, and
spoke of the devil as if he knew him intimately, and as if he were
accustomed to sit down to dinner with us every day and to eat his
potatoes like any other honest man. Then my little girls turned right
round. Mina took Godfrey's part; and Lina took Rudolph's, for Rudolph
said that Godfrey didn't speak from a Christian standpoint." "Ugh!" said
Bräsig, "he oughtn't to have said that. But wait a bit! Is he really
that sort of fellow, and can't he ever catch a good-sized perch?" "And
then," cried Mrs. Nüssler indignantly, "they were all at sixes and
sevens again, because of that horrible perch fishing, for as soon as
spring returned and the perch began to bite, Rudolph cared no more about
the Christian standpoint. He took his fishing-rod, and went out after
you all day long. The other went back to his old opinion about the
existence of the devil, you see he was preparing for his examination and
couldn't get through it properly without that. My two girls didn't know
which of their cousins to trust to." "They're a couple of rascals,"
cried Bräsig, "but it's all the Methodist's fault, what business had he
to bother the other about the devil and the Christian standpoint?" "No,
no, Bräsig, I've nothing to say against him for that. He has learnt
something, has passed his examination, and may be ordained any day. But
Rudolph does nothing at all, he only makes mischief in the house." "Why,
what has he been after now? Has he been fishing for whitings?" asked
Bräsig raising his eyebrows. "Whitings!" said Mrs. Nüssler scornfully.
"He has been fishing for a sermon. You must know that Mrs. Baldrian
wanted to hear her son preach, so she asked the clergyman at Rahnstädt
to let him preach in his church, and he said he might do so. She then
went and told her sister what she had done, and Mrs. Kurz was very much
put out that her son wasn't as far on as his cousin, so she went to the
old parson too and asked him to allow Rudolph to preach for him some day
soon. Well the clergyman was so far left to himself as to arrange that
Rudolph should preach on the same day as Godfrey. The two young men had
a great argument as to which was to have the forenoon and which the
afternoon, but at last it was settled that Rudolph should preach in the
morning. Well, Godfrey set to work as hard as he could, and spent the
whole day from morning till evening in the arbor. As he has a bad memory
he learnt his sermon by repeating it aloud. Rudolph did nothing but
amuse himself as usual, till the two last days, when he seated himself
on the grass bank behind the arbor, and seemed to be thinking over his
sermon. On the Sunday morning, Joseph drove the two young clergymen and
us to Rahnstädt. We went into the parsonage pew, and I can assure you I
was in a great fright about Rudolph, but the rogue stood there as calmly
as if he were quite sure of himself, and when the time came for him to
preach, he went up into the pulpit and began his sermon. He got on so
well that every one listened attentively, and I was so pleased with the
boy that I turned to whisper to Godfrey, who sat next to me, how
relieved and overjoyed I was, when I saw that he was moving about
restlessly in his seat, and looking as if he would like to jump up and
pull Rudolph out of the pulpit: 'Aunt,' he said, 'that is my sermon.'
And so it was, Bräsig. The little wretch had got it by heart from
hearing his cousin learning it aloud in the arbor." "Ha, ha, ha!"
laughed Bräsig. "What a joke! What a capital joke!" "Do you call it a
_joke_?" said Mrs. Nüssler angrily. "Do you call playing a trick like
that in God's house a joke?" "Ha, ha, ha!" roared Bräsig. "I know that
it's wicked to laugh, and I know that only the devil could have prompted
the lad to play such a trick, but I can't help it, I must laugh at it
all the same." "Oh, of course," said Mrs. Nüssler crossly, "of course
_you_ do nothing but laugh while we are like to break our hearts with
grief and anger." "Never mind me," said Bräsig soothingly, "tell me,
what did the Methodist do? Ha, ha, ha! I'd have given a good deal for a
sight of his face!" "You would, would you? Of course he couldn't preach
the same sermon in the afternoon, so the parson had to give his people
one of his old sermons over again; but he was very angry, and said that
if he chose to make the circumstance public, Rudolph might go and hang
himself on the first willow he came across." "But the Methodist?" "The
poor fellow was miserable, but he didn't say a word. However his mother
said enough for two, and she spoke so harshly to her sister Mrs. Kurz
about what had happened, that they're no longer on speaking terms. There
was a frightful quarrel. I was both ashamed and angry at the way they
went on, for both Baldrian and Kurz joined in the squabble, and even
Joseph began to mix himself up in it, but fortunately our carriage drove
up, and I got him away as quickly as I could." "What did the duelist
say?" "Oh, the wretch was wise enough to run away here as soon as he had
concluded his stolen sermon." "And you gave him a regular good scolding,
I suppose," said Bräsig. "Not I indeed," said Mrs. Nüssler decidedly. "I
wasn't going to put my finger in that pie. His father is coming today
and he is 'the nearest' to him, as Mrs. Behrens would say; and I've told
Joseph that he's not to mix himself up in the affair or to talk about it
at all. He's quite changed latterly. He has got into the habit of
putting up his back and meddling with things with which he has nothing
to do. Now just keep quiet, Joseph." "Yes, Joseph, hold your tongue,"
said Bräsig. "And my two girls," continued Mrs. Nüssler, "are quite
different from what they used to be. Since that unlucky sermon their
eyes have always been red with crying, and they've gone about the house
as quietly as mice. They hardly ever say a word to each other now,
though they used never to be separate, and when one of them was happy or
unhappy the other had to know all about it immediately. My household is
all at odds." "Mother," said young Joseph rising from his chair with a
look of determination, "that's just what I say, and I _will_ speak;
you'll see that the boys have put it into their heads." "What have they
put into their heads, Joseph?" asked Mrs. Nüssler crossly. "Love
affairs," said Joseph, sinking back into his corner. "My dear mother
always used to say that when a divinity student and a governess were in
the same house * * * And you'll see the truth of it with Godfrey and
Mina." "Law, Joseph! How you do talk to be sure! May God preserve you in
your right mind! That's all nonsense, but if it were the case, the
divinity student should leave the house at once and Rudolph too. Come
away, Bräsig, I've got something to say to you."
As soon as they had left the house, Mrs. Nüssler signed to Bräsig to
follow her into the garden, and when they were seated in the arbor, she
said: "I can't stand Joseph's eternal chatter any longer, Bräsig. It was
Rudolph who taught him to speak so much by continually encouraging him
to talk last winter, and he has got into the habit now and won't give it
up. But, tell me honestly--remember you promised to watch--have you seen
anything of the kind going on?" "Bless me! No. Not the faintest approach
to anything of the sort." "I can't think it either," said Mrs. Nüssler
thoughtfully. "At first Lina and Godfrey, and Mina and Rudolph used to
go about together. Afterward Mina took to Godfrey, and Lina to Rudolph,
but ever since the examination Lina and Godfrey have been on their old
terms with each other once more, while Mina and Rudolph have never made
friends again; indeed I may say that she has never so much as looked at
him since the day he preached in Rahnstädt." "Ah, Mrs. Nüssler," said
Bräsig, "love shows itself in most unexpected ways. Sometimes the giving
of a bunch of flowers is a sign of it, or even a mere 'good-morning'
accompanied by a shake of the hand. Sometimes it is shown by two people
stooping at the same moment to pick up a ball of cotton that one of them
has dropped, when all that the looker-on sees is that they knocked their
heads together in trying which could pick it up first. But gradually the
signs become more apparent. The girl blushes now and then, and the man
watches whatever she does; or the girl takes the man into the larder,
and gives him sausages, or cold tongue, or pig's cheek, and the man
begins to wear a blue or a red necktie; but the surest sign of all is
when they go out on a summer-evening for a walk in the moonlight, and
you hear them sigh without any cause. Now, has anything of that kind
been going on with the little round-heads?" "No, I can't say that I've
noticed them doing that, Bräsig. They used to go to the cold meat-larder
sometimes it's true, but I soon put an end to that; I wasn't going to
stand that sort of thing; and as for blushing, I didn't notice them
doing that either, though of course I've seen that their eyes are often
red with crying." "Well," said Bräsig, "there must have been a reason
for that--I'll tell you what, Mrs. Nüssler, you just leave the whole
management of the affair in my hands, for I know how to arrange such
matters. I soon put an end to that sort of nonsense in Fred Triddelfitz.
I'm an old hunter, and I'll ferret the matter out for you, but you must
tell me where they generally meet." "Here, Bräsig, here in this arbor.
My girls sit here in the afternoon with their work, and then the other
two join them. I never thought any harm of it." "All right!" said
Bräsig, going out of the arbor, and looking about him. He examined a
large cherry-tree carefully which was growing close by, and seeing that
it was thickly covered with leaves he looked quite satisfied. "That'll
do," he said, "what can be done, shall be done." "Goodness, gracious
me!" said Mrs. Nüssler, "I wonder what will happen this afternoon! It's
very disagreeable. Kurz is coming at coffee-time, and he is desperately
angry with his son for playing such a trick on his cousin. You'll see
that there will be a terrible scene." "That's always the way with these
little people," said Bräsig, "when the head and the lower part of the
constitution are too near each other, the nature is always fiery." "Ah!"
sighed Mrs. Nüssler as she entered the parlor, "it'll be a miserable
afternoon."
She little knew that misery had long ago taken up its abode in her
house.
Whilst these arrangements were being made down-stairs the twins were
busy sewing in their garret-room. Lina was seated at one window, and
Mina at the other; they never looked up from their work, and never spoke
to each other as in the old days at Mrs. Behrens' sewing-class. They
worked away as busily as if the world had been torn in two, and they had
to sew up the rent with their needles and thread, while their serious
faces and deep sighs showed that they were fully aware of the gravity of
their employment. It was strange that their mother had not told Bräsig
how sadly pale they had grown. The change must have been very gradual
for her not to have noticed it. But so it was. The two apple-cheeked
maidens looked as if they had been growing on the north-side of the tree
of life, where no sunbeams could ever come to brighten their existence,
and tinge their cheeks with healthful color. They could no longer be
likened to two apples growing on one stalk. At last Lina's work fell on
her lap, she could go on sewing no more, her eyes were so full of tears,
and then large drops began to roll slowly down her pale cheeks; Mina
took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes, for her tears were falling
upon her work, and so the two little sisters sat weeping each in her own
window, as if all her happiness were gone past recall.
Suddenly Mina jumped up, and ran out of the room as if she must go out
into the fresh air, but she stopped short on the landing, for she
remembered that her mother might see her and ask her what was the
matter, so she remained outside the door crying silently. And then Lina
started up to go and comfort Mina; but she suddenly remembered that she
did not know what to say to her, so she remained standing within the
room beside the door, crying also. It often happens that a thin wall of
separation rises between two loving hearts, and while each would give
anything to get back to the other, neither will be the first to turn the
handle--for in every such partition wall there is a door with a handle
on each side of it--and so they remain apart in spite of their longing
to be reconciled.
But fortunately the twins were not so selfishly proud as to allow this
state of matters to go on for ever. Mina opened the door, and said: "Why
are you crying, Lina?" and Lina immediately stretched out both hands to
her sister, and said: "Oh, Mina, why are you crying?" Then they fell
upon each other's necks and cried again, and the color returned to their
cheeks as if a sunbeam had kissed them, and they clung to each other as
if they were once more growing on the same stalk. "Mina, I will let you
have him. You must be happy," said Lina. "No, Lina," said Mina, "he
likes you most, and you are much better than I am." "No, Mina. I've
quite made up my mind. Uncle Kurz is coming this afternoon, and I'll ask
father and mother to let me go home with him, for I couldn't remain here
and see it all just yet." "Do so, Lina, for then you'll be with his
parents, and when you both come back, I'll ask Godfrey to get his father
to look out for a situation for me as governess in some town far, far
from home, for I couldn't stay here either." "Mina!" cried Lina, holding
her sister from her at arm's length, and looking at her in amazement,
"with _his_ parents? With whose parents?" "Why--Rudolph's." "You meant
Rudolph?" "Yes, why who did you mean?" "I? Oh, I meant Godfrey." "No,
did you really?" exclaimed Mina, throwing her arms round Lina's neck,
"but is it possible? How is it possible? We don't mean the same after
all then!" "Ah!" said Lina who was the most sensible of the two, "what a
great deal of unnecessary pain we have given each other!" "Oh, how happy
I am," cried Mina, who was the least sensible, as she danced about the
room. "All will be well now." "Yes, Mina," said Lina the sensible,
joining in the dance. "Everything will go on happily now." Then silly
little Mina threw herself into her sister's arms again--she was so
happy.
If people would only turn the handle of the door that divides them from
their friends while there is yet time, all would go well with them, even
though it might not bring such intense joy as it did to the two girls in
the little garret-room.
The sisters cried one moment and laughed the next; then they danced
round the room, and after that they sat on each other's knees, and told
how it all happened, and sorrowed over their own stupidity, which had
prevented them seeing the true state of the case. They wondered how it
was that they had not had an explanation sooner, and then they confessed
to each other exactly how matters stood between them and their cousins,
and ended by being more than half angry with the two young men, whom
they accused of being the real cause of the misunderstanding. Lina said
that she had been in great doubt before, but that ever since last Sunday
she had been quite certain that Mina cared for Godfrey because of her
constant tears; and Mina said that she had been miserable because of the
wicked trick Rudolph had played in church about the sermon, and that she
had been puzzled to account for Lina's tears. Lina then explained that
she had been so very sorry for poor Godfrey's disappointment. All was
made up now between the sisters, and when the dinner-bell rang they ran
down-stairs together arm in arm, looking as sweet and fresh as two
roses. Bräsig, who had seated himself with his back to the light that he
might see them better, was very much astonished when he caught sight of
their happy faces. "What," he said to himself, "these two girls changed
and shy, and suffering from some secret grief? In love? Not a bit of it!
They're as merry as crickets."
The sound of the dinner-bell brought Godfrey Baldrian, or the Methodist,
as Bräsig called him. Lina blushed and turned away from him, not in
anger, but because she remembered the confession she had just made in
the garret. And Bräsig said to himself: "That's very odd now! Lina seems
to have taken the infection, but how can she care for a scare-crow of a
Methodist?" Bräsig expressed himself too strongly, but still it must be
acknowledged that Godfrey was no beauty. Nature had not given him many
personal advantages, and he did not use those that he had in the wisest
possible way. For example his hair. He had a thick head of yellow hair
that would have provoked no criticism, and indeed would have looked
quite nice if it had only been cut properly, but unfortunately he had
taken the pictures of the beloved disciple John as his model, and had
parted his hair down the middle, and brushed it into ringlets at the
ends, though the upper part of his head showed that the real nature of
his hair was to be straight. I have nothing to say against little boys
of ten or even twelve going about with curls, and the mothers of these
same little boys would have still less objection to it than I should,
for they delight in stroking the curls lovingly out of their children's
faces, and in combing them out smooth when visitors come to the house.
Some mothers have even gone so far, when their children's hair did not
curl naturally, as to screw it up in paper or use tongs, but that was a
mistake on their part. If it were the fashion, I should have nothing to
say against even old people wearing curls, for it looks very nice in
some ancient pictures, but there are two remarks I should like to make
while on this subject, and these are: a man with thin legs ought never
to wear tight trousers, and he whose hair does not curl naturally should
cut it short. Our poor Godfrey's hair, which hung down his back, was
burnt to a sort of dun color by the sun, and as he liked it to look
smooth and tidy, he put a good deal of pomade on it, which greased
his coat-collar considerably.
[Illustration: THE BRIDAL PAIR AT THE CIVIL MARRIAGE OFFICE _From the
Painting by Benjamin Vautier_]
Beneath this wealth of hair was a small pale face with an expression of
suffering on it, which always made Bräsig ask sympathizingly what
shoemaker he employed, and whether he was troubled with corns. The rest
of his figure was in keeping with his face. He was tall, narrow-chested,
and angular, and that part of the human body which shows whether a man
enjoys the good things of life, was altogether wanting in him. Indeed he
was so hollowed out where the useful and necessary digesting apparatus
is wont to show its existence by a gentle roundness of form, that he
might be said to be shaped like the inside of Mrs. Nüssler's
baking-trough. For this reason Bräsig regarded him as a sort of wonder
in natural history, for he ate as much as a ploughman without producing
any visible effect. Let no one imagine that the Methodist did not do his
full duty in the way of eating and drinking; I have known divinity
students, and know some now, with whom I should have no chance in that
respect. But the fact is that young men whose minds are employed in
theological studies are generally somewhat thin, as will be seen in any
of the numerous divinity students to be met with in Mecklenburg; when
they have been settled in a good living for a few years, they begin to
fill out like ordinary mortals. Bräsig remembered this, and did not
despair of seeing Godfrey a portly parson one of these days, though how
it was to come about was rather a puzzle to him. Such was Godfrey
Baldrian in appearance; but his portrait would not be complete if I did
not add that he had the faintest possible tinge of Phariseeism in his
expression. It was only a tinge, but with Phariseeism as with rennet, a
very small quantity is enough to curdle a large pan of milk.
They sat down to dinner, and Joseph asked: "Where is Rudolph?" "Goodness
gracious me, Joseph, what are you talking about!" said Mrs. Nüssler
crossly. "I'm sure you might know by this time that Rudolph is always
late. I dare say he's out fishing; but whatever he's about I can assure
him that if he doesn't come in time for dinner, he may just go without."
The meal was a very silent one, for Bräsig was too much occupied
watching what was going on to be able to talk, and Mrs. Nüssler had
enough to do wondering over the cause of the remarkable change in her
daughters' appearance. The twins sat side by side, and looked as happy
as if they had just awakened from a disagreeable dream, and were
rejoicing that it was only a dream, and that the warm sunbeams were once
more shining upon them.
When dinner was over, Mina whose turn it was to help her mother to clear
away the dishes, tidy the room, and prepare the coffee, asked her
sister: "Where are you going, Lina?" "I'll get my sewing and go to the
arbor," answered Lina. "Very well," said Mina, "I'll join you there as
soon as I'm ready." "And I'll go too," said Godfrey, "for I've got a
book I want to finish." "That's right," said Bräsig; "it'll be a deuced
good entertainment for Lina." Godfrey felt inclined to take the old man
to task for using such a word as "deuced," but on second thoughts
refrained from doing so, for he knew that it was hopeless to try to
bring Bräsig round to his opinion, so he followed the girls from the
room. "Bless me!" cried Mrs. Nüssler.
"What can have happened to my girls? They were as quiet as mice and
never said a word to each other till this afternoon, and now they are
once more one heart and one soul." "Hush, Mrs. Nüssler," said Bräsig,
"I'll find out all about it for you today. Joseph, come with me; but
mind you're not to talk." Joseph followed him to the garden, and when
they got there Bräsig took his arm: "Now hold your tongue, Joseph," he
said, "don't look round, you must appear to be taking a walk after
dinner." Joseph did as he was told with much success. When they reached
the cherry-tree beside the arbor, Bräsig stood still and said: "Now
then, Joseph, give me a back--but put your head close to the stem of the
tree." Joseph was about to speak, but Bräsig pressed down his head,
saying: "Hold your tongue, Joseph--put your head nearer the tree." He
then stepped on his back, and when standing there firmly, said: "Now
straighten yourself--It does exactly!" Then seizing the lower branch
with both hands, Bräsig pulled himself up into the tree. Joseph had
never spoken all this time but now he ventured to remark: "But, Bräsig,
they're not nearly ripe yet." "What a duffer you are, Joseph," said
Bräsig, thrusting his red face through the green leaves which surrounded
him. "Do you really think that I expect to eat Rhenish cherries at
midsummer. But go away now as quickly as you can and don't stand there
looking like a dog when a cat has taken refuge in a tree." "Ah well,
what shall I do?" said Joseph, going away and leaving Bräsig to his
fate.
Bräsig had not been long in his hiding-place, when he heard a light step
on the gravel walk, and, peering down, saw Lina going into the arbor
with such a large bundle of work in her arms that if she had finished it
in one day it would have been difficult to keep her in sewing. She laid
her work on the table and, resting her head on her hand, sat gazing
thoughtfully at the blue sky beyond Bräsig's cherry-tree. "Ah, how happy
I am," she said to herself in the fulness of her grateful heart. "How
happy I am. Mina is so kind to me; and so is Godfrey, or why did he
press my foot under the table at dinner. What made Bräsig stare at us so
sharply, I wonder? I think I must have blushed. What a good man Godfrey
is. How seriously and learnedly he can talk. How decided he is, and I
think he has the marks of his spiritual calling written in his face. He
isn't the least bit handsome it is true; Rudolph is much better looking,
but then Godfrey has an air with him that seems to say, 'don't disturb
me by telling me of any of your foolish worldly little vanities, for I
have high thoughts and aspirations, I am going to be a clergyman.' I'll
cut his hair short though as soon as I have the power." It is a great
blessing that every girl does not set her heart on having a handsome
husband, for otherwise we ugly men would all have to remain bachelors;
and pleasant looking objects we should be in that case, as I know of
nothing uglier than an ugly old bachelor. Lina's last thought, that of
cutting Godfrey's hair, had shown so much certainty of what was going to
happen, that she blushed deeply, and as at the same moment she heard a
slow dignified step approaching, she snatched up her work and began to
sew busily.
Godfrey seated himself at a little distance from his cousin, opened his
book and began to read, but every now and then he peeped over the edge
of it, either because he had read it before, or because he was thinking
of something else. That is always the way with Methodistical divinity
students even when they firmly believe what they teach. _Before_ the
examination they think of nothing but their spiritual calling, but
_after_ the examination is well over human nature regains its sway, and
they look out for a fitting wife, before they begin to think of a
parsonage. Godfrey was like all the rest of his kind, and as no other
girls except Mina and Lina had come in his way, and as Lina attended to
his admonitions far more docilely than her sister, he determined to make
her his helpmate. He was ignorant as to how such matters ought to be
conducted, and felt a little shy and awkward. He had got no further in
his wooing than pressing his lady-love's foot under the table, and
whenever he had done so he was always much more confused than Lina,
whose foot had received the pressure.
However he had determined that the whole matter should be settled that
day, so he began: "I brought this book out entirely for your sake, Lina.
Will you listen to a bit of it just now?" "Yes," said Lina. "What a slow
affair it's going to be," thought Bräsig, who could hardly be said to be
lying on a bed of roses, his position in the cherry-tree was so cramped
and uncomfortable. Godfrey proceeded to read a sermon on Christian
marriage, describing how it should be entered into, and what was the
proper way of looking upon it. When he had finished he drew a little
nearer his cousin and asked: "What do you think of it, Lina?" "It's
very nice," said Lina. "Do you mean marriage?" asked Godfrey. "O-oh,
Godfrey," said Lina, her head drooping lower over her work. "No, Lina,"
Godfrey went on drawing a little closer to her, "it isn't at all nice. I
am thankful to see that you don't regard the gravest step possible in
human life with unbecoming levity. Marriage is a very hard thing, that
is to say, in the Christian sense of the word." He then described the
duties, cares and troubles of married life as if he wished to prepare
Lina for taking up her abode in some penal settlement, and Bräsig, as he
listened, congratulated himself on having escaped such a terrible fate.
"Yes," Godfrey continued, "marriage is part of the curse that was laid
on our first parents when they were thrust out of paradise." So saying
he opened his Bible and read the third chapter of Genesis aloud. Poor
Lina did not know what to do, or where to look, and Bräsig muttered:
"The infamous Jesuit, to read all that to the child." He nearly jumped
down from the tree in his rage, and as for Lina, she would have run away
if it had not been the Bible her cousin was reading to her, so she hid
her face in her hands and wept bitterly. Godfrey was now quite carried
away by zeal for his holy calling; he put his arm round her waist, and
said: "I could not spare you this at a time when I purpose making a
solemn appeal to you. Caroline Nüssler, will you, knowing the gravity of
the step you take, enter the holy estate of matrimony with me, and
become my Christian helpmeet?" Lina was so frightened and distressed at
his whole conduct that she could neither speak nor think; she could only
cry.
At the same moment a merry song was heard at a little distance:
"One bright afternoon I stood to look
Into the depths of a silver brook,
And there I saw little fishes swim,
One of them was gray, I look'd at him.
He was swimming, swimming and swimming
And with delight seemed overbrimming;
I never saw such a thing in my life
As the little gray fish seeking a wife."
Lina struggled hard to regain her composure, and then, in spite of the
Bible and the Christian requirements demanded of her, she started up and
rushed out of the arbor. On her way to the house she passed Mina who was
coming out to join her with her sewing. Godfrey followed Lina with long
slow steps, and looked as much put out as the clergyman who was
interrupted in a very long sermon by the beadle placing the church key
on the reading desk and saying that he might lock up the church himself
when he had done, for he, the beadle, must go home to dinner. Indeed he
was in much the same position as that clergyman. Like him he had wished
to preach a very fine sermon, and now he was left alone in his empty
church.
Mina was an inexperienced little thing, for she was the youngest of the
family, but still she was quick-witted enough to guess something of what
had taken place. She asked herself whether she would cry if the same
thing were to happen to her, and what it would be advisable for her to
do under the circumstances. She seated herself quietly in the arbor, and
began to unroll her work, sighing a little as she did so at the thought
of the uncertainty of her own fate, and the impossibility of doing
anything but wait patiently. "Bless me!" said Bräsig to himself as he
lay hidden in the tree. "This little round-head has come now, and I've
lost all feeling in my body. It's a horribly slow affair!" But the
situation was soon to become more interesting, for shortly after Mina
had taken her seat a handsome young man came round the corner of the
arbor with a fishing rod over his shoulder and a fish basket on his
back. "I'm so glad to find you here, Mina," he exclaimed, "of course
you've all finished dinner." "You need hardly ask, Rudolph. It has just
struck two." "Ah well," he said, "I suppose that my aunt is very angry
with me again."
"You may be certain of that, and she was displeased with you already,
you know, even without your being late for dinner. I'm afraid, however,
that your own stomach will punish you more severely than my mother's
anger could do, you've neglected it so much today." "All the better for
you tonight. I really couldn't come sooner, the fish were biting so
splendidly. I went to the black pool today, though Bräsig always advised
me not to go there, and now I know why. It's his larder. When he can't
catch anything else--where he's sure of a bite in the black pool. It's
cram full of tench. Just look, did you ever see such beauties?" and he
opened the lid of his basket as he spoke, and showed his spoil, adding:
"I've done old Bräsig this time at any rate!" "The young rascal!"
groaned Bräsig as he poked his nose through the cherry-leaves, making it
appear like a huge pickled capsicum such as Mrs. Nüssler was in the
habit of preserving in cherry-leaves for winter use. "The young rascal
to go and catch my tench! Bless me! what monsters the rogue has caught!"
"Give them to me, Rudolph," said Mina. "I will take them into the house,
and will bring you something to eat out here." "Oh no, never mind" "But
you musn't starve," she said. "Very well then--anything will do. A bit
of bread and butter will be quite enough, Mina." The girl went away, and
Rudolph seated himself in the arbor. "The devil take it!" muttered
Bräsig, stretching his legs softly, and twisting and turning in the vain
endeavor to find a part of his body which was not aching from his
cramped position. "The wretch is sitting there now! I never saw such
goings on!"
Rudolph sat buried in thought, a very unusual circumstance with him. He
was easy-going by nature, and never troubled himself beforehand about
vexations that might come to him. He was not in the habit of brooding
over his worries, but on the contrary always tried to forget them. He
was tall and strongly made, and his mischievous brown eyes had sometimes
a look of imperious audacity which was in perfect keeping with the scar
on his sunburnt cheek that bore witness that he had not devoted his
whole time and energy to the study of dogmatic theology. "Yes," he said
to himself as he sat there waiting for his cousin, "I must get myself
out of this difficulty! I could bear it as long as it was far off, for
there was always plenty of time to come to a decision, but two things
must be settled today beyond recall. My father is coming this afternoon.
I only hope that my mother won't take it into her head to come too, or I
should never have courage to do it. I'm as well suited to be a clergyman
as a donkey is to play the guitar, or as Godfrey is to be colonel of a
cavalry regiment. If Bräsig were only here, he'd stand by me I know. And
then Mina--I wish it were all settled with her." At this moment Mina
appeared carrying a plate of bread and butter--Rudolph sprang up,
exclaiming: "What a dear good little girl you are, Mina!" and he threw
his arm round her waist as he spoke. Mina freed herself from him,
saying: "Don't do that. Ah, how could you have been so wicked? My mother
is very angry with you." "You mean about the sermon," he answered;
"well, yes, it was a stupid trick." "No," said Mina quickly, "it was a
wicked trick. You made game of holy things." "Not a bit of it," he
replied. "These trial sermons are not holy things, even when they are
preached by our pious cousin Godfrey." "But, Rudolph, it was in
_church!_" "Ah, Mina, I confess that it was a silly joke. I didn't think
sufficiently of what I was doing. I only thought of the sheepish look of
amazement Godfrey's face would wear, and that tickled me so much that I
was mad enough to play the trick. Now don't let us talk any more about
it, Mina," he said coaxingly, as he slipped his arm round her waist
again. "No, I won't allow that," said Mina. "And," she went on, "the
parson said that if he were to make the story known, you'd never get a
living all your life." "Then I hope that he'll tell every one what I did
and it'll end all the bother." "What do you mean?" asked Mina, pushing
him from her and staring at him in perplexity. "Are you in earnest?"
"Never more so in my life. I've entered the pulpit for the first and
last time." "Rudolph!" cried Mina in astonishment. "What's the use of
trying to make me a clergy man," said Rudolph quickly. "Look at Godfrey
and then look at me. Do you think I should make a good parson? And then,
there's another thing, even if I were so well up in theology that I
could puzzle the learned professors themselves, they would never pass me
in the examination. All that they care about is having men who can adopt
all their cant phrases. If I were the apostle Paul himself they'd refuse
to pass me, if they caught sight of this little scar upon my cheek."
"What are you going to do then?" asked Mina anxiously, and laying her
hand upon his arm, she added: "Oh, _don't_ be a soldier!" "I should
think not! No, I want to be a farmer." "The confounded young rascal!"
muttered Bräsig. "Yes, my own dear little Mina," continued Rudolph,
drawing her to his side on the bench, "I intend to be a farmer; a real
good, hard-working farmer, and you, dear Mina, must help me to become
one." "What!" said Bräsig to himself, "is she to teach him to plough and
harrow?" "I, Rudolph?" asked Mina. "Yes, my sweet child," he answered,
stroking her smooth hair and soft cheeks; then taking her chin in his
hand, he raised her face toward him, and looking into her blue eyes,
went on: "If I could only be certain that you'd consent to be my little
wife as soon as I'd a home to offer you, it would make everything easy
to me, and I should be sure of learning to be a good farmer. Will you,
Mina, will you?" Mina began to cry softly, and Rudolph kissed away the
tears as they rolled down her cheeks, and then she laid her little
round-head on his shoulder. Rudolph gave her time to recover her
composure, and after a few minutes she told him in a low whisper that
she would do as he asked, so he kissed her again and again. Bräsig
seeing this exclaimed half aloud: "The devil take him! Stop that!"
Rudolph found time to tell her in the midst of his kissing that he
intended to speak to his father that afternoon, and said amongst other
things that it was a pity Bräsig was not there, as he was sure he would
have helped him to make his explanation to his father, who, he knew,
thought a great deal of Bräsig's advice. "The young rascal to catch my
fish!" muttered Bräsig. Then Mina said: "Bräsig was here this morning
and dined with us. I daresay he is enjoying an after-dinner sleep now."
"Just listen to little round-head," said Bräsig to himself. "An
after-dinner sleep indeed! But everything is settled now, and I needn't
cramp my bones up here any longer." And while Rudolph was saying that he
would like to see the old man before he went into the house, Bräsig
slipped out of his hiding-place in the cherry-tree, and clinging with
both hands to the lowest branch, let his legs dangle in the air, and
shouted: "Here he is!" Bump! He came down on the ground, and stood
before the lovers with an expression on his red face which seemed to say
that he considered himself a competent judge on even the most delicate
points of feeling.
The two young people were not a little startled. Mina hid her face in
her hands as Lina had done, but she did not cry; and she would have run
away like Lina if she and uncle Bräsig had not always been on the most
confidential terms with each other. She threw herself into uncle
Bräsig's arms, and in her desire to hide her blushing face, she tried to
burrow her little round-head into his waistcoat-pocket, exclaiming:
"Uncle Bräsig, uncle Bräsig, you're a very naughty old man!" "Oh!" said
Bräsig, "you think so, do you?" "Yes," answered Rudolph, who had mounted
his high horse, "you ought to be ashamed of listening to what you were
not intended to hear." "Moshoo Rudolph," said the old bailiff stiffly,
"I may as well tell you once for all, that shame is a thing that must
never be mentioned in connection with me, and if you think that your
grand airs will have any effect upon me, you're very much, mistaken."
Rudolph saw clearly that such was the case, and as he did not want to
quarrel with the old man for Mina's sake, he relented a little, and
said more gently that he would think nothing more of what had occurred,
if Bräsig could assure him that he had got into the tree by accident,
but still he considered that Bräsig ought to have coughed, or done
something to make his presence known, instead of sitting still and
listening to the whole story from A to Z. "Oh," said Bräsig, "I ought to
have _coughed,_ you say, but I _groaned_ loud enough, I can tell you,
and you couldn't have helped hearing me if you hadn't been so much taken
up with what you yourself were about. But _you_ ought to be ashamed of
yourself for having fallen in love with Mina without Mrs. Nüssler's
leave." Rudolph replied that that was his own affair, that no one had a
right to meddle, and that Bräsig understood nothing about such things.
"What!" said Bräsig. "Have you ever been engaged to three girls at once.
I have, Sir, and quite openly too, and yet you say that I know nothing
about such things! But sneaks are all alike. First of all you catch my
fish secretly in the black pool, and then you catch little Mina in the
arbor before my very eyes. No, no, let him be, Mina. He shall not hurt
you." "Ah, uncle Bräsig!" entreated Mina, "do help us, we love each
other so dearly." "Yes, let him be, Mina, you're my little godchild;
you'll soon get over it." "No, Mr. Bräsig," cried Rudolph, laying his
hand on the old man's shoulder, "no, dear good uncle Bräsig, we'll never
get over it; it'll last as long as we live. I want to be a farmer, and
if I have the hope before me of gaining Mina for my wife some day, and
if," he added slyly, "you will help me with your advice, I can't help
becoming a good one." "What a young rascal!" said Bräsig to himself,
then aloud: "Ah yes, I know you! You'd be a latin farmer like Pistorius,
and Prætorius, and Trebonius. You'd sit on the edge of a ditch and read
the book written by the fellow with the long string of titles of honor,
I mean the book about oxygen, nitrogen, and organisms, whilst the
farm-boys spread the manure over your rye-field in lumps as big as your
hat. Oh, I know you!
"I've only known one man who took to farming after going through all the
classes at the high-school, who turned out well. I mean young Mr. von
Rambow, Hawermann's pupil." "Oh, uncle Bräsig," said Mina, raising her
head slowly and stroking the old man's cheek, "Rudolph can do as well as
Frank." "No, Mina, he _can't_. And shall I tell you why? Because he's
only a gray-hound, while the other is a man." "Uncle Bräsig," said
Rudolph, "I suppose you are referring to that silly trick that I played
about the sermon, but you don't know how Godfrey plagued me in his zeal
for converting me. I really couldn't resist playing him a trick." "Ha,
ha, ha!" laughed Bräsig. "No, I didn't mean that, I was very much amused
at that. So he wanted to convert you, and perhaps induce you to give up
fishing? He tried his hand at converting again this afternoon, but Lina
ran away from him; however that doesn't matter, it's all right." "With
Lina and Godfrey?" asked Mina anxiously. "And did you hear all that
passed on that occasion too?" "Of course I did. It was for her sake
entirely that I hid myself in that confounded cherry-tree. But now come
here, Moshoo Rudolph. Do you promise never to enter a pulpit again, or
to preach another sermon?" "Never again." "Do you promise to get up at
three o'clock in the morning in summer, and give out the feeds for the
horses?" "Punctually." "Do you promise to learn how to plough, harrow,
mow and bind properly? I mean to bind with a wisp, there's no art in
doing it with a rope." "Yes," said Rudolph. "Do you promise when coming
home from market never to sit in an inn over a punch-bowl while your
carts go on before, so that you are obliged to reel after them?" "I
promise never to do so," said Rudolph. "Do you promise--Mina, do you see
that pretty flower over there, the blue one I mean, will you bring it to
me, I want to smell it--do you promise," he repeated as soon as Mina was
out of hearing, "never to flirt with any of those confounded
farm-girls?" "Oh, Mr. Bräsig, do you take me for a scoundrel?" asked
Rudolph, turning away angrily. "No, no," answered Bräsig, "but I want
you to understand clearly from the very beginning that I will strangle
you if ever you cause my little godchild to shed a tear." And as he
spoke he looked so determined, that one might have thought he was going
to begin the operation at once. "Thank you, Mina," he said, taking the
flower from her, and after smelling it putting it in his button-hole.
"And now come here, Mina, and I will give you my blessing. Nay, you
needn't go down on your knees, for I'm not one of your parents, I'm only
your godfather. And, Moshoo Rudolph, I promise to take your part this
afternoon when your father comes, and to help you to free yourself from
being bound to a profession you don't like. Come away both of you, we
must go in now. But, Rudolph, remember you musn't sit on the grass and
read, but must see to the proper manuring of your fields yourself. Look,
this is the way the farm-lads ought to hold their pitch-forks, not like
that. Bang! and tumble off all that is on it; no, they must shake the
fork gently three or four times, breaking and spreading the manure as
they do so. When a bit of ground is properly spread it ought to look as
smooth and clean as a velvet table-cover." He then went into the house
accompanied by the two young people.
[The love affairs of both young couples ran smoothly, since uncle Bräsig
was on their side. Godfrey and Lina were married first and, when pastor
Behrens died, moved into the parsonage of Gürlitz, for Godfrey was
elected the dear old man's successor. Rudolph studied agriculture and,
when he had mastered his subject, returned to Rexow, where he was
intrusted with the management of the farm, and married Mina. No finer
wedding had ever been celebrated in the neighborhood. All the rich
relatives of Joseph Nüssler were present, in addition to the more
intimate friends. There was also a horde of young people whom uncle
Bräsig had been permitted to invite from Rahnstaedt, where he had been
living since his retirement on a pension.
Mina looked for all the world like a rosy apple lying on a silver plate
surrounded by its green leaves as she stood there in her white satin
gown and myrtle wreaths. Uncle Bräsig was groomsman, and blew his nose
energetically as he said: "My little Mina! My little godchild! How happy
she looks!" and every time one of the fat old Nüssler's gave Mina a
kiss, he bent down and kissed Mrs. Behrens, as much as to imply that he
thought this would prevent any contamination of his goddaughter by the
foolish old Nüsslers with their wretched worldly notions. But finally,
when Bräsig was about to salute her again, she said: "You ought to be
ashamed of yourself, Bräsig." Then Bräsig drew back rather crestfallen
and said: "Don't take it ill of me, Mrs. Behrens, my feelings ran away
with me."
Those kindly feelings often ran away with him and enabled him to bring
happiness to his friends where more cautious people would have been
helpless. It was he who unraveled the mystery which had cast a shadow
over the good name of Hawermann, and who at the proper moment called
Frank von Rambow home from Paris. When Hawermann had received the news
that he was cleared, and Mrs. Behrens wished to go to him at once, uncle
Bräsig drew her gently back to the sofa and said: "Not quite yet, Mrs.
Behrens. You see, I think that Hawermann wants to have a little quiet
time to tell God all about it, and that Louisa is helping him. It's
enough for her to be there, for as you know our God is a jealous God,
and doesn't suffer people to meddle, when he is speaking to a soul that
is filled with gratitude to Him." Little Mrs. Behrens gazed at him in
speechless amazement. At last she murmured: "Oh, Bräsig, I've always
looked upon you as a heathen, and now I see that you're a Christian." "I
know nothing about that, Mrs. Behrens. I'm sure of this, however, that
what little I've been able to do in this matter has been done as an
assessor and not as a Christian." Uncle Bräsig, you must know, had
recently been appointed an assessor to the Rahnstaedt court, and he was
as proud of his new title as he had been of that of "farm-bailiff"
before.
As the years advanced, his friends prospered, while Pomuchelskopp, whom
the Gürlitz laborers had badly treated in the revolution of 1848, sold
his estates and moved away. Uncle Bräsig went about visiting his friends,
and on one such visit had an attack of gout that would have been of
little consequence, but which seized both legs and then mounted into his
stomach, because of a chill he got on his journey home. And that caused
his death. Mrs. Behrens, Mrs. Nüssler, and his old friend Charles
Hawermann came round his bed. He held Mrs. Nüssler's hand tight all the
while. Suddenly he raised himself and said: "Mrs. Nüssler, please put
your hand on my head; I have always loved you. Charles Hawermann, will
you rub my legs, they're so cold." Hawermann did as he was asked, and
Bräsig said, very slowly with one of his old smiles: "In style I was
always better than you." That was all.]
_ADALBERT STIFTER_
* * * * *
ROCK CRYSTAL[10] (1846)
TRANSLATED BY LEE M. HOLLANDER, PH.D.
Among the high mountains of our fatherland there lies a little village
with a small but very pointed church-tower which emerges with red
shingles from the green of many fruit-trees, and by reason of its red
color is to be seen far and away amid the misty bluish distances of the
mountains. The village lies right in the centre of a rather broad valley
which has about the shape of a longish circle. Besides the church it
contains a school, a townhall, and several other houses of no mean
appearance, which form a square on which stand four linden-trees
surrounding a stone cross. These buildings are not mere farms but house
within them those handicrafts which are indispensable to the human race
and furnish the mountaineers with all the products of industry which
they require. In the valley and along the mountain-sides many other huts
and cots are scattered, as is very often the case in mountain regions.
These habitations belong to the parish and school-district and pay
tribute to the artisans we mentioned by purchasing their wares. Still
other more distant huts belong to the village, but are so deeply
ensconced in the recesses of the mountains that one cannot see them at
all from the valley. Those who live in them rarely come down to their
fellow-parishioners and in winter frequently must keep their dead until
after the snows have melted away in order to give them a burial. The
greatest personage whom the villagers get to see in the course of the
year is the priest.
[Illustration: ADALBERT STIFTER DAFFINGER]
They greatly honor him, and usually he himself through a longer
sojourn becomes so accustomed to the solitude of the valley that he not
unwillingly stays and simply lives on there. At least, it has not
happened in the memory of man that the priest of the village had been a
man hankering to get away or unworthy of his vocation.
No roads lead through the valley. People use their double-track
cart-paths upon which they bring in the products of their fields in
carts drawn by one horse. Hence, few people come into the valley, among
them sometimes a solitary pedestrian who is a lover of nature and dwells
for some little time in the upper room of the inn and admires the
mountains; or perhaps a painter who sketches the small, pointed spire of
the church and the beautiful summits of the rocky peaks. For this reason
the villagers form a world by themselves. They all know each other by
name and their several histories down from the time of grandfather and
great-grandfather; they all mourn when one of them dies; know what name
the new-born will receive; they have a language differing from that of
the plains; they have their quarrels, which they settle among
themselves; they assist one another and flock together when something
extraordinary has happened.
They are conservative and things are left to remain as they were.
Whenever a stone drops out of a wall, the same stone is put back again,
the new houses are built like the old ones, the dilapidated roofs are
repaired with the same kind of shingles, and if there happen to be
brindled cows on a farm, calves of the same color are raised always, so
that the color stays on the farm.
To the south of the village one sees a snow-mountain which seems to lift
up its shining peaks right above the roofs of the houses. Yet it is not
quite so near. Summer and winter it dominates the valley with its
beetling crags and snowy sides. Being the most remarkable object in the
landscape, this mountain is of main interest to the inhabitants and has
become the central feature of many a story.
There is not a young man or graybeard in the village but can tell of the
crags and crests of the mountain, of its crevasses and caves, of its
torrents and screes, whether now he knows it from his own experience or
from hearsay. The mountain is the boast of the villagers as if it were a
work of theirs and one is not so sure, however high one may esteem the
plain-spokenness and reputation for truth-telling of the natives,
whether they do not fib, now and then, to the honor and glory of their
mountain. Besides being the wonder of the valley, the mountain affords
actual profit; for whenever a company of tourists arrives to ascend the
mountain the natives serve as guides; and to have been a guide, to have
experienced this or that, to know this or that spot, is a distinction
every one likes to gain for himself. The mountain often is the object of
their conversation at the inn, when they sit together and tell of their
feats and wonderful experiences; nor do they omit to relate what this or
that traveler had said and what reward they had received from him for
their labor. Furthermore, the snowy sides of the mountain feed a lake
among its heavily forested recesses, from which a merry brook runs
through the valley, drives the saw-mill and the flour-mill, cleanses the
village and waters the cattle. The forests of the mountain furnish
timber and form a bulwark against the avalanches.
The annual history of the mountain is as follows: In winter, the two
pinnacles of its summit, which they call horns, are snow-white and, when
visible on bright days, tower up into the blackish blue of the sky in
dazzling splendor, and all its shoulders are white, too, and all slopes.
Even the perpendicular precipices, called walls by the natives, are
covered with white frost delicately laid on, or with thin ice adhering
to them like varnish, so that the whole mass looms up like an enchanted
castle from out of the hoary gray of the forests which lie spread out
heavily about its base. In summer, when the sun and warm winds melt the
snow from their steep sides, the peaks soar up black into the sky and
have only beautiful veins and specks of white on their flanks--as the
natives say. But the fact is, the peaks are of a delicate, distant blue,
and what they call veins and specks is not white, but has the lovely
milk-blue color of distant snow against the darker blue of the rocks.
When the weather is hot, the more elevated slopes about the peaks do not
lose their covering of eternal snow. On the contrary it then gleams with
double resplendence down upon the green of the trees in the valley; but
the winter's snow is melted off their lower parts. Then becomes visible
the bluish or greenish iridescence of the glaciers which are bared and
gleam down upon the valley below. At the edge of this iridescence, there
where it seems from the distance like a fringe of gems, a nearer view
reveals confused masses of wild and monstrous boulders, slabs, and
fragments piled up in chaotic fashion. In very hot and long summers, the
ice-fields are denuded even in the higher regions, and then a much
greater amount of blue-green glacier-ice glances down into the valley,
many knobs and depressions are laid bare which one otherwise sees only
covered with white, the muddy edge of the ice comes to view with its
deposit of rocks, silt, and slime, and far greater volumes of water than
usual rush into the valley. This continues until it gradually becomes
autumn again, the waters grow less, and one day a gray continuous gentle
rain spreads over all the valley. Then, after the mists have dispersed
about the summits, the mountain is seen to have draped itself again in
its soft robe of snow, and all crags, cones, and pinnacles are vested in
white. Thus it goes on, year after year, with but slight divergences,
and thus it will go on so long as nature remains the same, and there is
snow upon the heights and people live in the valleys. But to the natives
these changes seem great, they pay much attention to them and calculate
the progress of the seasons by them.
The ascent of the mountain is made from our valley. One follows a fine
road which leads south to another valley over a so-called "neck." Neck
they call a moderately high mountain-ridge which connects two
mountain-ranges of considerable magnitude and over which one can pass
from one valley to another between the mountains. The neck which
connects our snow-mountain with another great mountain-mass is
altogether covered with pine-forests. At its greatest elevation, where
the road begins gradually to descend into the valley beyond, there
stands a post erected to commemorate a calamity. Once upon a time a
baker carrying bread in a basket slung around his neck was found dead on
that spot. They painted a picture of the dead baker with his basket and
the pine-trees round about, and beneath it an explanation with a request
for prayer from the passer-by, and this picture they fastened to a
wooden post painted red, and erected it at the spot where the accident
occurred. At this post, then, one leaves the road and continues along
the ridge of the "neck" instead of crossing it and descending into the
valley beyond. There is an opening among the pine-trees at that spot, as
if there were a road between them. In fact, a path is sometimes made in
that direction which then serves to bring down timber from the higher
regions, but which is afterward overgrown again with grass. Proceeding
along this way, which gently ascends, one arrives at last at a bare,
treeless region. It is barren heath where grows nothing but heather,
mosses, and lichens. It grows ever steeper, the further one ascends; but
one always follows a gully resembling a rounded out ditch which is
convenient, as one cannot then miss one's way in this extensive,
treeless, monotonous region. After a while, rocks as large as churches
rise out of the grassy soil, between whose walls one climbs up still
farther. Then there are again bleak ridges, with hardly any vegetation,
which reach up into the thinner air of higher altitudes and lead
straight to the ice. At both sides of this path, steep ledges plunge
down, and by this natural causeway the snow-mountain is joined to the
"neck." In order to surmount the ice one skirts it for some distance
where it is surrounded by rock-walls, until one comes to the old
hard snow which bridges the crevasses and at most seasons of the year
bears the weight of the climber.
[Illustration: A MOUNTAIN SCENE _From the Painting by H. Reifferscheid_]
From the highest point of this snowfield, two peaks tower up, of which
the one is higher and, therefore, the summit of the mountain. These
pinnacles are very hard to climb. As they are surrounded by a chasm of
varying width--the bergschrund--which one must leap over, and as their
precipitous escarpments afford but small footholds, most of the tourists
climbing the mountain content themselves with reaching the bergschrund
and from there enjoy the panorama. Those who mean to climb to the top
must use climbing-irons, ropes, and, iron spikes.
Besides this mountain there are still others south of the valley, but
none as high. Even if the snow begins to lie on them early in fall and
stays till late in spring, midsummer always removes it, and then the
rocks gleam pleasantly in the sunlight, and the forests at their base
have their soft green intersected by the broad blue shadows of these
peaks which are so beautiful that one never tires of looking at them.
On the opposite, northern, eastern, and western sides of the valley the
mountains rise in long ridges and are of lower elevation: scattered
fields and meadows climb up along their sides till rather high up, and
above them one sees clearings, chalets, and the like, until at their
edge they are silhouetted against the sky with their delicately serrated
forest--which is indicative of their inconsiderable height--whereas the
mountains toward the south, though also magnificently wooded, cut off
the shining horizon with entirely smooth lines.
When one stands about in the centre of the valley it would seem as if
there were no way out or into the basin; but people who have often been
in the mountains are familiar with this illusion: the fact is, diverse
roads lead through the folds of the mountains to the plains to the
north, some of them with hardly a rise; and to the south where the
valley seems shut in by precipitous mountain-walls, a road leads over
the "neck" mentioned above.
The village is called Gschaid and the snow-mountain looking down upon
it, Gars.
On the other side of the "neck" there lies a valley by far more
beautiful and fertile than that of Gschaid. At its entrance there lies a
country-town of considerable size named Millsdorf which has several
industrial enterprizes and carries on almost urban trade and business.
Its inhabitants are much more well-to-do than those of Gschaid and,
although only three hours away, which for these labor-loving
mountaineers used to great distances is only a bagatelle, yet manners
and customs are so different in the two valleys and even their external
appearance is so unlike that one might suppose a great number of miles
lay between. This is of common occurrence in the mountains and due not
only to the more or less favored position of the valleys but also to the
spirit of the natives who by reason of their differing occupations are
inclined this way or that. But in this they all agree, that they adhere
to established customs and the usages of their forefathers, lightly bear
the absence of great traffic, cling to their native valley with an
extraordinary love; in fact, can hardly live out of it.
Months, ay a whole year may pass without a native of Gschaid setting
foot into the valley beyond and visiting the town of Millsdorf. The same
is true of the people of Millsdorf, although they have more intercourse
with the country beyond and hence live in less seclusion than the
villagers of Gschaid. A road which might be called a high-road leads
through the length of their valley and many a traveler passes through it
without suspecting in the least that to the north of him, on the other
side of the snow-mountain towering high above him, there is another
valley with many scattered houses and the village with its pointed
church-tower.
Among the trades of the village which supply the necessities of the
valley is that of the shoemaker, indispensible indeed to man excepting
in his most primitive condition.
But the natives are so high raised above that condition that they stand
in need of very good and durable footgear for the mountains. The
shoemaker is the only one of his trade in the valley--with one
inconsiderable exception. His house stands on the public square of
Gschaid where most of the larger dwellings are situated and its gray
walls, white window-frames, and green shutters face the four
linden-trees. On the ground-floor are the workshop, the workmen's room,
a larger and a smaller sitting-room, the shop, and then the kitchen and
pantry; the first story or, more properly, the attic-space, contains the
"upper-room" which is also the "best room." In it there stand two beds
of state, beautifully polished clothes-presses; there is a china-closet
with dishes, a table with inlaid work, upholstered easy-chairs, a
strong-box for the savings. Furthermore there hang on the walls pictures
of saints, two handsome watches, being prizes won in shooting-matches,
and finally there are some rifles both for target-firing and hunting,
with all the necessary paraphernalia, carefully hung up in a special
case with a glass-door.
Added to the shoemaker's house there is a smaller house, built exactly
like it and, though separated from it by an arched gateway, belonging to
it like part of a whole. It has only one large room with some closets.
Its purpose is to serve the owner of the larger house as habitation for
the remainder of his days, after having left the property to his son or
successor; there to dwell with his wife until both are dead and the
little house stands empty again and is ready for another occupant. To
the rear of the shoemaker's house are stable and barn; for every dweller
in the valley carries on farming along with his regular occupation and
makes a good living from it. Behind these buildings, finally, is the
garden which is lacking to none of the better houses of Gschaid, and
from which the villagers obtain their vegetables, their fruit, and the
flowers necessary for festive occasions. And, as quite commonly in the
mountains, apiculture is pursued also in the gardens of Gschaid.
The small exception alluded to, and the only competitor of the shoemaker
is a man of the same trade, old Tobias, who is not a real rival, though,
because he only cobbles and is kept quite busy with that. Nor would he
ever think of competing with the gentleman shoemaker of the township,
especially as the latter frequently provides him gratuitously with
leather-cuttings, sole strips, and the like. In summertime, old Tobias
sits under a clump of elder-bushes at the end of the village and works
away. All about him are shoes and lace-boots, all of them, however,
gray, muddy, and torn. There are no high boots because these are not
worn in the village and its surroundings; only two personages own such
boots, the priest and the schoolteacher, both of whom have their new
work and repairing done by the shoemaker. In winter, old Tobias sits in
his cot behind the elder-bushes and has it comfortably warm, because
wood is not dear in Gschaid.
Before entering into possession of his house, the shoemaker had been a
chamois-poacher--in fact, had not exactly been a model in youth, so the
people of Gschaid said. In school, he had always been one of the
brightest scholars. Afterwards, he had learned his father's trade and
had gone on his journeyman wanderings, finally returning to the village.
Instead of wearing a black hat, as befits a tradesman, and as his father
had done all his life, he put on a green one, decorated it with all the
feathers obtainable and strutted around in the very shortest homespun
coat to be found in all the valley; whereas his father always had worn a
coat of dark, even black cloth with very long tails to indicate his
station as tradesman. The young shoemaker was to be seen on all dancing
floors and bowling alleys. Whenever any one gave him a piece of good
advice he merely whistled. He attended all shooting-matches in the
neighborhood with his target-rifle and often brought back a prize, which
he considered a great victory. The prize generally consisted of coins
artistically set. To win them, he frequently had to spend more coins of
the same value than the prize was worth--especially as he was very
generous with his money. He also participated in all the chases of the
surrounding country and won a name as a marksman. Sometimes, however, he
issued alone with his double-barreled gun and climbing irons, and once,
it is said, returned with an ugly wound in his head.
In Millsdorf there lived a dyer who carried on a very notable industry.
His works lay right at the entrance of the town at the side toward
Gschaid. He employed many people and even worked with machines, which
was an unheard of thing in the valley. Besides, he did extensive
farming. The shoemaker frequently crossed the mountain to win the
daughter of this wealthy dyer. Because of her beauty, but also because
of her modesty and domesticity she was praised far and near.
Nevertheless the shoemaker, it is said, attracted her attention. The
dyer did not permit him to enter his house; and whereas his beautiful
daughter had, even before that, never attended public places and
merry-makings, and was rarely to be seen outside the house of her
parents, now she became even more retiring in her habits and was to be
seen only in church, in her garden, or at home.
Some time after the death of his parents, by which the paternal house
which he inhabited all alone became his, the shoemaker became an
altogether different man. Boisterous as he had been before, he now sat
in his shop and hammered away day and night. Boastingly, he set a prize
on it that there was no one who could make better shoes and footgear. He
took none but the best workmen and kept after them when they worked in
order that they should do as he told them. And really, he accomplished
his desire, so that not only the whole village of Gschaid, which for the
most part had got its shoes from neighboring valleys, had their work
done by him, but the whole valley also. And finally he had some
customers even from Millsdorf and other valleys. Even down into the
plains his fame spread so that a good many who intended to climb in the
mountains had their shoes made by him for that purpose.
He ordered his house very neatly and in his shop the shoes, lace-boots,
and high boots shone upon their several shelves; and when, on Sundays,
the whole population of the valley came into the village, gathering
under the four linden trees of the square, people liked to go over to
the shoemaker's shop and look through the panes to watch the customers.
On account of the love he bore to the mountains, even now he devoted his
best endeavor to the making of mountain lace-shoes. In the inn he used
to say that there was no one who could show him any one else's mountain
boots that could compare with his own. "They don't know," he was
accustomed to add, "and they have never learned it in all their life,
how such a shoe is to be made so that the firmament of the nails shall
fit well on the soles and contain the proper amount of iron, so as to
render the shoe hard on the outside, so that no flint, however sharp,
can be felt through, and so that it on its inside fits the foot as snug
and soft as a glove."
The shoemaker had a large ledger made for himself in which he entered
all goods he had manufactured, adding the names of those who had
furnished the materials and of those who had bought the finished goods,
together with a brief remark about the quality of the product. Footgear
of the same kind bore their continuous numbers, and the book lay in the
large drawer of his shop.
Even if the beautiful daughter of the Millsdorf dyer did not take a step
outside her parents' home, and even though she visited neither friends
nor relatives, yet the shoemaker of Gschaid knew how to arrange it so
that she saw him from afar when she walked to church, when she was in
her garden, and when she looked out upon the meadows from the windows of
her room. On account of this unceasing spying the dyer's wife by dint of
her long and persevering prayers had brought it about that her obstinate
husband yielded and that the shoemaker--as he had, in fact, become a
better man--led the beautiful and wealthy Millsdorf girl home to
Gschaid as his wife. However, the dyer was a man who meant to have his
own way. The right sort of man, he said, ought to ply his trade in a
manner to prosper and ought, therefore, to be able to maintain his wife,
children, himself, and his servants, to keep house and home in good
condition, and yet save a goodly amount--which savings were, after all,
the main aids to honor and dignity in the world. Therefore, he said, his
daughter would receive nothing from home but an excellent outfit; all
else it was and remained the duty of the husband to provide. The dyeing
works in Millsdorf and the farming he carried on were a dignified and
honorable business by themselves which had to exist for their own sake.
All property belonging to them had to serve as capital, for which reason
he would not give away any part of them. But when he, the dyer, and his
wife, were deceased, then both the dye-works and the farm in Millsdorf
would fall to their only daughter, the shoemaker's wife in Gschaid, and
she and her husband could do with the property what they pleased: they
would inherit it, however, only if worthy of inheriting it; if unworthy,
it would go to their children, and if there were none, to other
relatives, with the exception of the lawful portion. Neither did the
shoemaker demand anything, but proudly gave the dyer to understand that
he had cared but for his beautiful daughter and that he was able to
maintain her as she had been maintained at home. And when she was his
wife, he gave her clothes not only finer than those the women of Gschaid
and the Gschaid valley owned, but also than she had ever worn at home.
And as to food and drink, he insisted on having it better, and her
treatment more considerate than she had enjoyed in her own father's
house. Moreover, in order to show his independence of his father-in-law,
he bought more and more ground with his savings so that he came to own a
goodly property.
Now, the natives of Gschaid rarely leave their valley, as has been
remarked--hardly even traveling to Millsdorf from which they are
separated by customs as well as by mountain-ridges; besides, it never
happens that a man leaves his valley to settle in a neighboring
one--though settlements at greater distances do take place; neither does
a woman or a girl like to emigrate from one valley into another, except
in the rather rare cases when she follows her love and as wife joins her
husband in another valley. So it happened that the dyer's daughter from
Millsdorf was ever considered a stranger by all the people of Gschaid,
even after she had become the shoemaker's wife; and although they never
did her any ill, ay, even loved her on account of her beautiful ways,
yet they always seemed to keep their distance, or, if you will, showed
marked consideration for her, and never became intimate or treated her
as their equal, as men and women of Gschaid did men and women of their
own valley. Thus matters stood and remained, and were not mended by the
better dress and the lighter domestic duties of the shoemaker's wife.
At the end of the first year, she had born to her husband a son, and
several years afterward, a daughter. She believed, however, that he did
not love his children as she thought he ought to, and as she knew she
loved them herself; for his face was mostly serious and he was chiefly
concerned with his work. He rarely fondled or played with the children
and always spoke seriously to them as one does to adults. With regard to
food and clothes, and other material things, his care for them was above
reproach.
At first, the dyer's wife frequently came over to Gschaid, and the young
couple in their turn visited Millsdorf on occasion of country-fairs and
other festivities. But when the children came, circumstances were
altered. If mothers love their children and long for them, this is
frequently, and to a much higher degree, the case with grandmothers;
they occasionally long for their grandchildren with an intensity that
borders on morbidness. The dyer's wife very frequently came over to
Gschaid now, in order to see the children and to bring them presents.
Then she would depart again after giving them kindly advice. But when
her age and health did not any longer permit of these frequent journeys
and the dyer for this reason objected to them, they bethought themselves
of another plan; they changed about, and now the children visited their
grandmother. Frequently, the mother herself took them over in their
carriage; at other times, they were bundled up warmly and driven over
the "neck" under the care of a servant girl. But when they were a little
older, they went to Millsdorf on foot, either in the company of their
mother or of some servant; indeed, when the boy had become strong,
clever, and self-reliant, they let him travel the well-known road over
the "neck" by himself; and, when the weather was specially beautiful and
he begged them, they permitted his little sister to accompany him. This
is customary in Gschaid as the people are hardy pedestrians, and because
parents--especially a man like the shoemaker--like to see their children
able to take care of themselves.
Thus it happened that the two children made the way over the pass more
frequently than all the other villagers together; and inasmuch as their
mother had always been treated as half a stranger in Gschaid, the
children, by this circumstance, grew up to be strangers' children to the
village folks; they hardly were Gschaid children, but belonged half to
Millsdorf.
The boy, Conrad, had already something of the earnest ways of his
father, and the girl, Susanna, named so after her mother, or Sanna for
brevity, had great faith in his knowledge, understanding, and strength,
and unquestioningly followed where he led, just as her mother absolutely
trusted her husband whom she credited with all possible insight and
ability.
On beautiful mornings, one could see the children walk southward through
the valley, and traverse the meadows toward the point where the forest
of the "neck" looks down on them. They would enter the forest, gain the
height on the road, and before noon come to the open meadows on the
side toward Millsdorf. Conrad then showed Sanna the pastures that
belonged to grandfather, then they walked through his fields in which he
explained to her the various kinds of grain, then they saw the long
cloths wave in the wind and blow into antic shapes as they hung to dry
on poles under the eaves; then they heard the noises of the fullery and
of the tannery which the dyer had built by the brook, then they rounded
a corner of the fields, and very soon entered the garden of the dyer's
establishment by the back gate, where they were received by grandmother.
She always had a presentiment when the children were coming, looked out
of the windows, and recognized them from afar, whenever Sanna's red
kerchief shone brightly in the sun.
She led the children through the laundry and the press into the
living-room and had them sit down, not letting them take off their
neckcloths or coats lest they should catch cold, and then kept them for
dinner. After the meal they were allowed to go into the open and play,
and to walk about in the house of their grandparents, or do whatever
else they cared to, provided it was not improper or forbidden. The dyer,
who always ate with them, questioned them about school and impressed
upon them what they ought to learn. In the afternoon, they were urged by
their grandmother to depart even before it was time, so that they should
in no case reach home too late. Although the dyer had given his daughter
no dowry and had vowed not to give away anything of his fortune before
his death, his wife did not hold herself so strictly bound. She not only
frequently made the children presents of pieces of money, sometimes of
considerable value, but also invariably tied two bundles for them to
carry in which there were things she believed were necessary or would
give the children pleasure. And even if the same things were to be found
in the shoemaker's house and as good as one might wish, yet grandmother
made presents of them in her joy of giving, and the children carried
them home as something especially fine. Thus it happened that the
children on the day before Christmas unwittingly carried home the
presents--well sealed and packed in paste-board boxes--which were
intended for them as their Christmas presents the very same night.
Grandmother's pressing the children to go before it was time, so that
they should not get home late, had only the effect that they tarried on
the way, now here, now there. They liked to sit by the hazelwoods on the
"neck" and open nuts with stones; or, if there were no nuts, they played
with leaves or pegs or the soft brown cones that drop from the branches
of fir-trees in the beginning of spring. Sometimes, Conrad told his
little sister stories or, when arrived at the red memorial post, would
lead her a short distance up the side-road and tell her that here one
could get on the Snow-Mountain, that up there were great rocks and
stones, that the chamois gamboled and great birds circled about up
there. He often led her out beyond the forest, when they would look at
the dry grass and the small bushes of the heather; but then he returned
with her, invariably bringing her home before twilight, which always
earned him praise.