THE FARM IN UPPER AUSTRIA
THE following morning the Müller family and Teresa Runkel boarded the
boat in the Canal which should take them up current to Linz. It was
most exciting for Ferdinand, who had never been on the Danube before,
but to Teresa it was quite usual, for she always made the journey to
and from her home by way of the river.
There was a great deal of excitement upon the quay--the fish boats had
come in with their supply for the day, and fishermen were shouting
themselves hoarse in their endeavors to over-shout their competitors.
The children seated themselves in the bow of the boat that they might
miss nothing of the scenery which is so delightful near Vienna, with
its green banks, its thick forests and its distant mountains.
"Do you know what that grim castle is, over there on the left?" asked
Herr Müller.
"Oh, yes," replied Teresa quickly. "That is the Castle of Griefenstein."
"Then you know its history?" asked Herr Müller.
"Yes, indeed," answered the child. "Sometimes the Sister who takes me
home tells me, and sometimes father; but doesn't Ferdinand know it?"
"No," answered the boy. "I haven't been on the river before." As if it
required some explanation for his seeming ignorance.
"Then tell it to him, please," said Teresa, "for it is a splendid tale."
"Long ages ago, this castle belonged to a lord who was, like all
noblemen of that time, very fond of adventure. Whenever the least
opportunity offered to follow his king, he would take up his sword and
his shield and his coat-of-mail, and hie him off to the wars.
"Now, the lord of the castle had a young and beautiful wife whose
wonderful golden locks were a never-ending delight to him. Having a
great deal of time upon her hands, and neighbors being few and far
between, the lady of the castle passed her time in arranging her
magnificent hair in all sorts of fashions, some very simple, while
others were most intricate and effective.
"It chanced that one day, after an absence of several months, the lord
of the castle returned. Hastening to his wife's boudoir, he found her
before her mirror dressing her hair in most bewitching fashion.
"After greeting her, he remarked about her elaborate head-dress, and
laughingly the young wife asked her husband how he liked it.
"'It is much too handsome,' he replied, 'for a young woman whose
husband is away to the wars. It is not well for a woman to be so
handsome.'
"And without further word, he seized the sword which hung at his side,
removed it from its scabbard, and with one stroke cut off the beautiful
golden locks of his young wife. But no sooner had he done so than he
was angry with himself, for his display of temper. He rushed from the
room to cool his anger, when, whom did he run into, in the corridor,
but the castle chaplain. The poor young lord was so ashamed of himself
for his ungovernable temper, that, with even less reason than before,
he seized the frightened and astonished chaplain by the two shoulders,
dragged him down the castle steps and threw him into the dungeon.
"'Now,' said he, after bolting the door securely, 'pray, my good man,
that the day may be hastened when the balustrade of my castle steps may
become so worn by the hands of visitors that it may hold the hair of
my wife, which I have cut off in my folly.'
"There is nothing so unreasonable as a man in anger; I presume
had the cook of the castle chanced to come in the way of milord's
anger, he, too, would have been thrown into the dungeon, and all
would have starved, just to appease the temper of the impossible
lord. Fortunately, the cook, or the hostler or any of the knights or
attendants of the castle did not appear, and thus was averted a great
calamity.
"When the lord had had time to calm down a bit, he realized how unjust
had been his actions. It was impossible to restore his wife's hair, but
at least he might release the chaplain. A castle without a priest is
indeed a sorry place; in his haste to descend the steps to the dungeon
the lord caught his foot; perhaps his own sword, which had been the
means of his folly, tripped him; in any event, he fell down the entire
flight and was picked up quite dead."
"It served him quite right," interrupted Ferdinand.
"Oh, but that wasn't the end of the lord, by any means," continued Herr
Müller, smiling. "He is doomed to wander about his castle until the
balustrade has been worn so deep that it will hold two heads of hair
like those he cut from his wife. The penitent lord has roamed about the
castle for many a year crying out to all who pass, 'Grief den Stein!
Grief den Stein!' (Grasp the stone). Long ago he realized how foolish
had been his actions, but although he has heartily repented, yet may
he never know the rest of his grave until the balustrade has been worn
hollow."
"And does he yet wander there?" asked Ferdinand.
"So they say; but one cannot see him except at night. There are many
who claim to have heard him calling out, 'Grief den Stein,' but
although I have been up and down the river many times, sometimes in
the daytime and sometimes at night, I, myself, have never heard the
ghostly voice."
"I've always felt sorrier for the poor lady without her beautiful
golden hair," observed Teresa, after a moment's silence, "and I always
felt glad to think the lord had to be punished for his wickedness; but,
somehow, hearing you tell the story, Herr Müller, I wish his punishment
might not last much longer. For he was truly sorry, wasn't he?"
Herr Müller looked quizzically at his wife, and they both turned their
heads from the earnest faces of the children.
"Do you find the old legends of the Danube interesting, Teresa?" asked
Herr Müller, as the boat sped along, and the children maintained
silence.
"Oh, I love all sorts of tales," the child replied. "Father tells us
some occasionally, but I am home so little of the time now I do not
hear as many as I used to. In the summer-days we are always so busy
at the farm we do not have the time for story-telling as we do in the
winter-days."
"Austria is full of tales about lords and ladies, ghosts and towers,
but the Danube legends are not as well known as those of the Rhine.
Have you ever heard that story concerning the Knight of Rauheneck near
Baaden?"
"No, Herr Müller," replied Teresa.
"Well, it isn't much of a tale when you compare it with the Habsburg
legends and the Griefenstein, and Stock im Eisen, but then it is worth
telling."
"Begin," commanded the young son, in playful mood.
"Well, near Baaden there stands a formidable fortress called Rauheneck
where lived a knight in former years. As he was about to go to war, and
might return after many years and perhaps never, he decided to hide
the treasures of the castle and place a spell upon them so that none
might touch them but those for whom they were intended. So, in secrecy,
he mounted to the summit of the great tower of the castle and on the
battlement he planted a cherry stone, saying, as he did so:
"'From this stone shall spring forth a tree; a mighty cherry-tree;
from the trunk of the tree shall be fashioned a cradle; and in that
cradle shall be rocked a young baby, who, in later years, shall become
a priest. To this priest shall my treasure belong. But even he may not
be able to find the treasure until another cherry-tree shall have grown
upon the tower, from a stone dropped by a bird of passage. When all
these conditions have been complied with, then shall the priest find
the treasure at the foot of my tree, and not until then.'
"Then the careful knight, fearing for the safety of his treasure, even
after such precautions, called upon a ghost to come and watch over the
castle tower, that peradventure, daring robbers who might presume to
thrust aside the spells which bound the treasure, would fear to cope
with a ghost."
"And did the priest ever come?" queried Teresa.
"Not yet, child; the cherry-tree at the top of the tower is but yet a
sapling; there are long years yet to wait."
"But we don't believe in ghosts, father," interrupted Ferdinand. "Why
could not some one go and dig at the root of the tree and see if the
treasure were really there?"
"One could if he chose, no doubt," answered Herr Müller, "but no one
has."
"Would you, Ferdinand?" asked Teresa.
"Oh, I might, if I were a grown man and had a lot of soldiers with me."
"Do you know another legend, Herr Müller?" asked Teresa, shortly.
"Well, there is the legend of Endersdorf in Moravia.
"A shepherd once lived in the neighborhood, and although he had always
been exceedingly poor, often almost to the verge of starvation,
yet, one morning, his neighbors found that he had suddenly become
exceedingly rich. Every one made conjectures concerning the source of
his wealth, but none of them became the confidante of the shepherd,
so that none were ever the wiser. The erstwhile poor shepherd left
his humble cot and built himself a magnificent estate and palace upon
the spot; he surrounded himself with retainers and sportsmen and gave
himself up quite naturally to a life of ease and indolence. Most of his
time was spent in following the hounds; but with all his newly-acquired
wealth, and notwithstanding the memory of days when a few pence meant
a fortune to him, the shepherd lost all sense of pity, and none about
the country-side were quite so penurious and selfish as he. To such
poor wayfarers as accosted him, in mercy's name, to befriend them, he
turned a deaf ear, until his name was the synonym for all that was
miserable and hard-hearted.
"Now, it happened, that one day a poor beggar came to the gate of the
rich shepherd, asking for alms. The shepherd was about to leave the
gate in company with a noisy crowd of hunters and followers, on his way
to the chase. Taking no pity on the poor man's condition, he suddenly
conceived the idea of making the beggar his prey.
"'Here is sport for us, good men,' he cried. 'Let us drive the beggar
before us with our whips, and see him scamper lively.'
"Whereupon, following the action of their host, the entire company
raised their whips, set spurs to their horses, and drove the
trembling, frightened, outraged man from before them.
"'Now has your hour come,' cried out the old man, as he turned and
defied his assailants. 'May all the curses of Heaven fall upon your
heads, ye hard-hearted lot of roysterers!'
"At the word, the sky, which had before been cloudless, grew suddenly
black; the lightning flashed; the thunder rolled; the very ground
under their feet, shook, cracked and opened, swallowing the shepherd,
his followers, their horses, dogs, and every vestige of the estate
vanished. In its place arose a lake whose dark waters tossed and moaned
in strange fashion.
"On stormy days, even to this present day, when the waters of the lake
are lashing themselves in fury, the shepherd of the hard heart can be
seen passing across the waves, his whip raised to strike some unseen
object, a black hunting dog behind him. How long his punishment may
last, no one knows, but he can always be seen just as he was when the
earthquake swallowed him up."
"Isn't it strange," observed Teresa, "but every one of the tales end in
the punishment of the wicked knight."
"Of course," remarked Ferdinand. "They wouldn't be tales at all if the
wrong-doer was allowed to go free. Would they, father?"
"Indeed not; but now it's time for breakfast. Would you like to eat on
deck? It is so perfect a day, it is a pity to go indoors."
This suggestion appealed wonderfully to the children, and Herr Müller
left them to order the meal served upon the deck.
As night fell, the boat docked at Linz. Herr Runkel was waiting on the
quay with a heavy wagon and a team of horses to drive them to the farm.
It was a beautiful drive in the bright moonlight, and the lights of
Linz twinkled below them, while the Danube sparkled in the distance,
just like a fairy world.
It was very late when they reached the farm-house; Frau Runkel greeted
them cordially, and immediately after helping them off with their
wraps, poured out steaming hot coffee to warm them up, the night air
having been a trifle chilly.
Ferdinand went directly to his room after coffee was served. It was on
the opposite side of the house, on the ground floor; the farm-house
was but one story high, with a lofty attic above. In one corner of the
large bedroom stood a canopied bed of dark wood, elaborately painted
in bright colors, on head and foot board, with designs of flowers and
birds. There were two small, stiff-backed wooden chairs, a night-table,
upon which stood a brass candlestick, and an enormous wardrobe or chest
for his clothes. All the furnishings of the room, even to the rug by
the bed, were the handiwork of the occupants of the farm-house, for
no true Austrian peasant would condescend to purchase these household
necessities from a shop. Between two voluminous feather beds Ferdinand
slept soundly, nor did he stir until he heard voices in the garden.
Hastily dressing, he made his way into the living-room, where breakfast
had already been partaken of by the others.
"I'm so sorry to be late," he apologized, shamefacedly. "Why didn't you
call me, mother?" he asked, as he turned to the one who must naturally
share the responsibility of her children's shortcomings.
"We thought to let you have your rest," answered Frau Müller. "Your day
will be very full. You evidently enjoyed your downy bed."
"Oh, it was great; let _us_ get one, mother."
"I used to sleep under one when I was a girl," replied Frau Müller,
"but no one in the city uses them any more; the woolly blankets have
quite superceded them."
"You may take yours home with you, if you like," said Frau Runkel, "we
have geese enough to make more."
"Now," said Herr Runkel, "if you are all ready, we'll go over and pay
our respects to father and mother."
"Then your parents do not live with you?" asked Herr Müller, a little
astonished.
"No, that is not the custom among us. You see, when I got married,
father made over the farm and all its appurtenances to me, being the
eldest son; then he built himself another home, just over in the field,
there," and Herr Runkel pointed to a tiny, cosy cottage some few
hundred paces away.
"What a splendid thing to be the eldest son," remarked Herr Müller.
"Perhaps it is," replied his host, "but it entails a great
responsibility, as well. You see, after the ceremony of deeding the
farm away to me, _I_ am called upon to settle an allowance upon my
parents during their lifetime."
"That's but right," assented Herr Müller, "seeing that they have given
you everything they possess, and which they have acquired with such
toil and privation."
"Yes, but father received the farm from his father, in just the same
manner; although he has enlarged it, so that it is bigger and better.
But, in addition to father and mother," continued the farmer, "I have
all my brothers and sisters to look after. There is Teresa at the
convent in Vienna; there is Frederick at the Gymnasium in Linz; and
there is Max an apprentice in Zara; these must all be cared for; and,
I can tell you, Müller, it's a responsible position, that of being the
eldest son."
"But you weren't called upon, Franz," replied his friend, "to provide
so bountifully for each."
"No, but what would you have?" he replied. "I have tried to be a
dutiful son; and," he added, his eyes twinkling as he glanced at his
wife, "I've been sort of lenient towards father and the children,
because father let me off so lightly when he boxed my ears for the last
time."
"Boxed your ears?" exclaimed Herr Müller, in astonishment. "What _had_
you done to deserve such disgrace?"
"Well, that was part of the ceremony. When the farm was made over to
me, it's the custom, before signing the deed, for the owner to make
the rounds of his estate with his family; when he comes to each of the
four corner-posts, he boxes the ears of the new owner. Now, father
might have boxed mine roundly, had he chosen, for I was somewhat of a
rollicker in my youth," and the genial farmer chuckled softly, "but
father was sparing of my feelings. Don't you believe he deserved a
recompense?"
"He certainly did," answered his friend, and they all laughed heartily
over the matter.
Meanwhile they had gained the entrance to the dower-house, as the
home of the aged couple was called. As Herr Müller had not seen
the parents of his friend since childhood there were many years of
acquaintanceship to bridge over; and Ferdinand, fascinated, listened to
the conversation, for this old couple were most interesting persons to
talk with.
After returning from church the family gathered on the wide verandah
under the eaves, the women with their knitting, which is not considered
improper even on Sundays among Austrian women.
This verandah in the peasant home in Upper Austria is a most important
part of the house. It is protected from the elements by the enormous
overhanging eaves above, running the entire side of the house; heavy
timbers support it, green with growing vines which climb from the
porch boxes filled with gayly blossoming flowers. It is a tiny garden
brought to one's sitting-room; the birds twitter in the sunlight,
as they fly in and out of their nests under the eaves; and here the
neighbors gossip and drink coffee and munch delicious cakes. In fact,
it is the sole sitting-room of the family during warm days, for no
peasant woman would think of shutting herself in a room to do her work.
One can always work to better advantage in the sunlight and open air.
The children rambled about the farm and outbuildings. The farm-house
was very long and deep and low, with a long, slanting roof. The front
door was of heavy timbers upon which was a design of St. Martin
outlined in nails, the work of the farmer, while small crosses at
either side of the door were considered sufficient protection from the
evil spirits who might wish to attack the family within.
The interior of the farm-house was very simple; a large vestibule
called the Laube or bower served as a means of communication between
the different parts of the house; the sleeping-rooms were ranged on one
side, while the dining and living-room occupied the other, with the
kitchen just beyond.
The Gesindestube, or living-room, was very plain, with its bare floors
and darkened walls; a tile stove in one corner, benches about the walls
and chests, some plain, some elaborately decorated and carved, occupied
whatever space was left. Here were kept the household linens and the
wardrobes for the family, as no Austrian peasant home is built with
closets as we have in America.
That evening, Herr Runkel said to Ferdinand:
"To-morrow, my boy, we work. Would you like to help?"
"Oh, it would be jolly," replied the lad. After a moment's hesitation,
he added: "What kind of work? Hoeing potatoes or weeding the garden?"
These two tasks were the only ones the lad was familiar with upon his
uncle's farm in Tyrol.
The farmer laughed. "No, we won't do that," he said. "We'll leave that
to the servants; but we'll make shoes."
"Make shoes!" exclaimed the child, incredulously. "Really make them
yourself? I've never made shoes," he added, doubting whether he might
be allowed now to assist.
"Why not?" answered Herr Runkel. "You know we are very old-fashioned
here; and, as we have so far to go to the shops, why we don't go; we
let the workmen come to us. This is an off-time of the season; so we
have the tailors and the shoemakers and all sorts of folk come and help
us with such things as we can't do ourselves, for, you know, we make
everything we use on the farm, and everything we wear."
"Oh, how fine," said Ferdinand.
"Yes, and we have jolly times, too," continued the farmer, "for when
work is over we play. Isn't that right?"
Ferdinand went to bed that night with visions of tailors and shoemakers
and harnessmakers and whatnot, in his head, until he fell asleep.