I was obliged to halt. I felt as if trying to drag a heavily laden
wagon up the hill.
But let me proceed. I have many a steep path yet to climb.
I stood with the girl on the highway. I extended my hand and uttered a
few words of welcome, but they did not come from the heart. Our wayward
son had imposed a great burden on us. The young maiden appeared to pay
no attention to what I was saying, but looked about in every direction.
As it was dusk, I could not see her distinctly. I could perceive,
however, that she was a powerful creature. She did not regulate her
step by mine, but I was forced to keep step with her unless I wished to
be left behind.
"What dog is this running after us?" said I.
"It is my dog. Isn't it so, Pincher? Aren't you my dog?"
The dog answered with a bark, and kept running back and forth, now up
the road and now down. When she whistled to him, in huntsman's style,
he obeyed.
"Master," asked she, without resting a moment while speaking, "and does
all as far as the eye can reach belong to you?"
"Why do you inquire?"
"Why? because I want to know. It must be jolly here in the daytime."
"Indeed it is."
"Is that the graveyard where I see the crosses and the white stones?"
"Yes."
"Can it be seen from your house?"
"It can."
"Too bad! that will never do. I can't bear to look out of the window. I
can't stay there, I won't stay; you must take away that graveyard; how
can one laugh or sing with that constantly before one's eyes? Or how
could I eat or drink? I once found a dead man in the forest. He had
been lying there ever so long, and was quite eaten away. I can't bear
to have Death always staring me in the face. I won't stay here."
I was obliged to stop. I felt so oppressed that I could not move from
the spot.
The oxen that I had sold the day before were just being led down the
hill. When Martella saw them she cried out, "Oh what splendid beasts!
are they yours?"
"They are no longer mine. I sold them yesterday, and they are to be led
to France."
"A pleasant meal to you, France!" said Martella, laughing boisterously.
I could not help noticing her hearty laughter, for I felt quite shocked
by it. What can this child be, thought I? What will become of our
tranquil household?
We arrived at the house. The room seemed lighted up more brilliantly
than usual. We ascended the steps, Martella preceding me. My wife was
waiting for us on the threshold, and taking both of Martella's hands in
hers, said, "Now, child, thou art at last at home."
"I am at home everywhere. And so is my dog. Isn't it so, Pincher?" said
Martella in a bold tone.
We entered the room. There were three lights on the table. My wife's
eloquent glance told me to have patience, and when I saw her lay her
hand on her heart I felt that she was confident that she could direct
everything for the best.
I now, for the first time, had a good look at Martella. In carriage and
feature she seemed as wild and defiant as a gypsy. Her face was full of
an expression of boldness. But she was indeed beautiful and fascinating
when she spoke, and even more so when she laughed.
"Why do you have three lamps on the table?" said she.
"That is the custom," answered my wife, "when a bride comes to the
house."
"How lovely!" exclaimed Martella. "The one light stands for us who are
as one. The other two lights represent the parents." And she laughed
most heartily. Her next question was, "Why do you have two clocks in
your room?"
"You ask a great many questions," I could not avoid answering. But my
wife said, "That is right. Always ask questions, and you will soon
learn all that you need know."
Martella may have imagined that she had been too precipitate, for she
soon said:
"To-morrow is yet another day. I am so tired. I would like to go to
sleep now. But I must have my dog with me, or else I cannot rest."
Indeed, her gentle good-night and her curtsey seemed strangely at
variance with her usually bold and defiant manner.
When she had left us, my wife said to me, "Do not take this affair to
heart. It is indeed no trifle. But remember that Ernst might have made
a much more serious mistake. He loves the wild creature, and our duty
is to help him as best we can. Let Rothfuss and me take charge of the
girl. For the present, you had better treat her with an air of reserve.
We two will attend to all. You may be glad that we have so faithful a
servant as Rothfuss. They are friends already, and he says, 'By the
time the potatoes are brought home, she will lay aside her red
stockings.' I was wishing for that on our way here. But she refused so
positively, that I desisted from my endeavors to persuade her."
After a little while, she continued:
"A voice in the forest helped me to bring all things about as they
should be. I heard the cuckoo's cry, and was reminded by that, that he
would leave his young in a strange nest, and that other birds would
patiently and affectionately nurture the strange birdling. We are
something like these cuckoo parents. What they do without thought, we
do consciously."
When at early dawn on the following day, I looked out of my window, I
saw Martella and her dog at the fountain in front of the house. Seen by
day, and in her light attire, she seemed wondrously beautiful and
fascinating.
She washed her face and plaited her thick brown hair. Her every
movement seemed free and noble, and almost graceful enough to please an
artist's eye.
She sang in a low voice, and would from time to time exclaim, "Cuckoo!"
Rothfuss, who saw that she was washing herself, called out to her that
she must not do that again. "The cows drink there, and if you wash
yourself in that basin, they will never go there again."
"I have already noticed," she replied, "that the cattle have the first
place in this house."
When she saw me, she called out in a clear, ringing voice:
"Good-morning, master. Ernst was certainly right when he told me that
it is lovely here. One can see so far in every direction. I shall yet
climb every one of those hills. How good the water is! Do you, too,
hear the cuckoo? He is already awake, and has bid me good-morning. Old
Jaegerlies[2] has often told me that I was the cuckoo's child. And do
you know that the cow got a calf during the night? A spotted cow-calf?
We have already given the cow something warm to drink. The calf drank
milk when it was hardly two minutes old. Rothfuss said it would be a
pity to kill the calf. I am going to drive out into the fields with
Rothfuss to get some clover. Yes, a cow has a good time of it in your
house. But look! the cuckoo is flying over your house! That is an
omen!"
She went to the stable, and I followed her a short time afterwards. She
looked on dreamily while the cow was licking the new-born calf, and
said at last,
"That is what you folks call kissing."
Rothfuss asked her:
"Are you fond of cows?"
"I don't know; I never had one."
He showed her our best cow and said,
"Three years ago, when she was a calf, she got the first prize at the
agricultural exhibition. She puts food to the best use. Everything that
she eats turns either to meat or to milk."
Rothfuss told Martella to put on a little jacket. They soon drove out
to the fields, and when she held up the scythe, she exclaimed,
"Cuckoo!" It seemed to me as if I were dreaming, and yet I remembered
quite distinctly that my wife had spoken to me on the previous night of
the cuckoo's young ones.
What a strange coincidence it seemed!
Martella returned from the fields in good spirits, and during the
morning lunch was quite cheerful. She was constantly talking of the
daughter-in-law, and the cow-calf that had come into the family during
the night before.
I then said to her, "I will give you the cow-calf. It is yours."
She made no answer, but looked at me with an air of surprise.
Rothfuss told me that when in the stable, she had said to the calf:
"You belong to me. But of course, you know nothing of it. You really
belong to your mother. But your mother belongs to the master, the
master belongs to Ernst, and Ernst belongs to me; and that is how it
is."
When evening came, Rothfuss expressed his opinion in the following
words:
"If her inside is like her outside, she need not be made any better
than she already is."
Our oldest maid-servant, Balbina, seemed quite kindly disposed to the
new arrival, and Martella said that Balbina had told her something with
the air of imparting a secret of which she was the only possessor. And
what was it? "Why, nothing more than that it is sinful to lie and
steal."
I have given the story of this first day in its smallest details. It is
only for the first green leaves of spring that we have an attentive
eye. They go on, silently increasing, until they become so numerous
that they excite no comment.