TYROLESE COURTSHIP.
A young man is busily examining the water-worn rocks along the edge
of a Tyrolese stream. Now and then he strikes them with a large
sledge-hammer, eagerly snatches up something alive, and pops it into a
basket. A wild _jödel_ from a mountain-side, half a mile off, makes him
look up, and discovers the face of our old, but not very respectable,
acquaintance, Franz.
The wild cry was uttered by a girl, who, in course of time, drew near
him, knitting as she came along; for a Tyrolese woman never is idle.
"What are you about there, Franz?"
"Can't you see, Theresa? Look at that nice basket of fish."
"How can you be about such nonsense, when every man deserving the name
of a man is up in arms? I am quite ashamed of you!"
"Well, Theresa, you are not over-polite; but don't you know that some
must plough, and some must sow, and some must handle the mattock and
hoe?"
"Well, all I can say is, I think it very contemptible of you!"
"Why, now, Theresa, I call that very unkind! Do you know I was catching
these smelts on purpose for you?"
"I would not give a pin for them; I am not dainty in my eating, and if
I were, we have plenty of good trout in the Passeyr, to be caught at
our own door."
"These would fetch a good price in Innsbruck market, I can tell you!"
"Then you had better carry them to Innsbruck market. Only, take care
none of our Passeyrers ask you where you have been these three days."
"Why, Theresa, how bitter you are! You've never had a civil word to say
to me since I beat Rudolf at bowls."
"_You?_ Ha, ha, ha!"
"I _did_, though!"
"Very likely you might; but I have forgotten all about it. People that
attend to nothing but hammering stones for smelts, and playing bowls
and ninepins, are likely to excel in such things."
"I do attend to a precious lot of things besides--"
"What? Oh, looking after the cows, and smuggling brandy, and selling
bad horses for good ones--well, you do all that, I allow."
Franz did not answer her for a few minutes, but leapt actively from
rock to rock along the stream; darting here and there on a smelt, and
coming back with his hands full.
"There!" said he, throwing them into the basket; "perhaps your mother
will accept them of me, if you won't; so I'll carry them to her, and we
can walk along together. I've a word or two to say to you."
"What is it?" said Theresa, pursuing her knitting, and stepping out at
a good pace.
"All that you said just now," rejoined he, after a short silence,
"about my getting brandy, and selling horses, and looking after
cows,--to which you might have added doctoring them when ill,--is true
enough, Theresa; and what is more, it has put a goodish bit of money
into my pocket."
"Very likely," said Theresa; "but what of that? Money is not the thing
of most consequence in the world."
"Well, _I_ almost think it is."
"It is of much consequence, certainly, Franz, in _this_ way, I grant
you,--the way it is employed,--whether good or evil. If it enables (and
inclines) you to be generous and helpful to your poor old blind mother,
and your hard-working sister, it is an instrument of good; but if you
only hide it in a hole, it is of no good at all; and if you spend it
in betting and drinking, it is worse than no good, for it is downright
evil."
"All that is very well to say,"--began Franz.
"Nothing is very well to say, unless it be true," interrupted Theresa.
"But it's quite certain," continued Franz, "that money is a real good,
whether or no: and for this plain reason--that it gives you _power_."
"Power of some sort," said Theresa.
"Almost endless power," returned Franz, warming with his subject. "Why,
now, how could Buonaparte carry on this war without money?"
"Without wit, rather," said Theresa. "I never heard that he was very
rich to start with, but quite the reverse; the thing was, _he had
a clever head, and made use of it_. He was very pains-taking, very
resolute; and that has made him so powerful; not money."
"It has put him in possession of money, without which he could not pay
his troops," argued Franz; "and if they were not paid, they would not
fight for him."
"Not they! I believe you there," said Theresa. "They have not the
motives for fighting that we poor Tyrolese have; and that is why we so
often beat them."
"Well, but, Theresa, when I began to speak about money, I did not
mean to get into this long argument. What I was going to tell
you,--(in confidence, you know,)--is that I've a goodish bit of money
underground, in a pot--"
"Then, there it will rot!"
"No, it won't! It will increase!"
"What! like a grain of corn? Franz, I wonder how you can tell such
stories!"
"I didn't say like corn. It will increase, because I shall put more to
it."
"Oh! that's one way--"
"Yes, and that one way will suffice. Why should we try a dozen roads,
when one leads to the mill? Now, Theresa, listen to me. I've had a
dream--"
"Humph!"
"And I dreamed that I was in a certain spot, which I shall not now
disclose; and that I saw a cloud of golden dollars floating in the air
before me, just out of my reach--"
"I should think so!"
"Why, that's the beauty of it!" cried Franz, highly excited.
"Is it?" said Theresa, looking mystified.
"Yes; because it's a known thing among the wise ones, that when gold
pieces glitter before you in that way in the air, the spot they hover
over is where hidden treasure is to be found."
"Who are the 'wise ones?'"
"Oh, there are many old people that can tell about dreams."
"A good many," said Theresa, dryly. "Well, Franz, I hope you won't go
wasting your time digging for this hid treasure. You had much better
hoe potatoes."
"I don't think so," said Franz; "and I hope you won't think so, if I
tell you my motive."
"What motive?" said Theresa.
"That I may be rich enough to marry you."
Theresa turned very red, and then burst out laughing.
"Franz," said she, "don't deceive yourself about that, for _I'll_ not
deceive you! I would not marry you if you were made of money. I must
have a husband of quite another sort--"
"Rudolf, in short," cried Franz, angrily.
"We are not talking of Rudolf," returned Theresa, turning yet redder.
"There are some people that never can believe you don't like them,
without it's being the fault of somebody else, instead of their own. If
I had never seen any other young man in the world, Franz, I should not
choose to marry you."
"Oh, come, now, Theresa!--"
"It's the truth! You have not those qualities which I love."
"What are those qualities?" said Franz, very crustily.
"Spirit; self-denial; temperance; a modest opinion of yourself;
generosity; truth; charitable feelings towards others."
"I don't believe there's a fellow with all you want under the sun,"
said Franz, aiming a stone at that luminary. "If you'd mentioned one
thing, I might have tried to acquire it for your sake; but such a lot
of them,--no, thank you! the reward wouldn't be worth the trouble: and
besides, I know I could not accomplish it; so there's no use in trying."
"But, Franz, what a bad case you make out for yourself, if you own you
are deficient in all these things."
"I'm not! I've as many of them as anybody else; but what you want is
perfection, and that's what's not to be found. You may _fancy_ you
find it, if a fellow pleases you in something else,--white teeth, or
black eyes, or a smart jacket, or nobody knows what; but he won't
_be_ perfection any the more for all that. And I'm just as honest and
fair-dealing as other people, and just as much liked, and not at all
intemperate; and as for spirit,--ho! if Rudolf stood here between me
and the edge of the cliff this minute, wouldn't I tip him over it,
that's all!"
"Franz, you think to intimidate me, but you only fill me with disgust.
What good could you hope to reap by such a dreadful piece of cruelty?
On the contrary, nothing would ever prosper in your hands afterwards.
Do you remember those two young men, both in love with the same girl,
who went out together one day to take an eagle's nest? One returned,
the other did not: the fact was, one had let down his companion from
the top of the cliff to the nest, and then drawn up the rope, and left
him to starve, or be torn to pieces by the parent-birds. Think what a
miserable end he himself came to afterwards!"
"Ah, there's no knowing what a fellow may be driven to, when he's
jealous," said Franz, after a pause--"It's best not to make him
desperate."
"He had better not allow himself to become desperate."
"Well, Theresa, here we come to two paths,--one leads to the Wirthhaus,
the other does not; which shall I take?"
"Whichever you like; it is quite indifferent to me. The path is yours
as much as mine."
"If I take the path to the Wirthhaus, I shall still try and hope to
make myself agreeable to you. If I take the path to the left, I shall
renounce you for ever!"
"You had better, then, take the path to the left."
"Fish and all?" holding the basket a little towards her, but as if his
elbow were tied to his side.
"Fish and all," said Theresa, without intermitting her knitting.
"Then farewell, Theresa, for ever!" cried Franz, in a tone intended
to be fiercely tragic. "You have had your last chance of me!" And
shouldering his smelts, he strode off.
He was in a very tempestuous state of mind; and many things Theresa had
said had cut him more deeply than she thought; but to no good purpose.
When a stone came tumbling upon him from the mountain-top, he shook his
fist savagely, and muttered, "Even the little people" (_i. e._ fairies)
"are against me!"--and then, considering that if he provoked them, they
might lead him a weary dance after the hidden treasure, he muttered a
spell supposed to have a propitiating effect.
As the pass widened, he beheld from the height on which he stood,
Innsbruck, white and nest-like, basking in the valley afar off, and
turned in his mind whether it were worth his while to carry thither the
fish we have called smelts for want of an English name for them.
"But no," thought he, "the Sandwirth is again in the town, and I don't
care to see him just now, Theresa thinks his luck uppermost, I fancy,
and believes he will be made a great general or governor, and that
he will marry her to Rudolf, and make him a great man too. She has
her own dreams, though she laughs at mine. No, I'll not go; some of
my speaking-acquaintance might put the saucy question she spitefully
suggested; and even if I got a zwanziger or more for my smelts, it
would be very great trouble for very little money. My time will be much
better and more pleasantly employed in digging for the pot of gold; for
when I've got that, I may pay zwanzigers for smelts myself, if I like;
and meantime, I'll sup on those I've caught myself, and eat them with
plenty of brown bread and butter--thin brown bread and thick yellow
butter--as yellow as a cowslip! aye, that's it!"
Rejoicing that Theresa had not accepted the smelts, since she had not
accepted himself, this worthy son of Tyrol wended his way home. How he
would have licked his lips if he had been told the story related by
Bridel, of that golden age when cows were so large and yielded such
abundance of milk, that they were milked into reservoirs or ponds,
from which the cream was afterwards skimmed by a man in a boat, (a
butter-boat, of course!) which boat, once upsetting, the man could not
be found for a long time afterwards, till, at length, his body was
discovered sticking in the immense mass of cream, like a smothered fly!
Before Franz reached home, he encountered Lenora in the cow-pastures.
She was knitting with all her might, which did not hinder her eyes
from roving over hill and valley, and noting the smallest movement
within their range. Consequently, she soon espied her brother, whom
she saluted with a shrill _jödel_ that let him know he was recognised;
otherwise he would gladly have gone a little out of his way to escape
the interview, as she was one of those who not only do their own duties
vigorously, but insist on other people doing theirs.
"Come here, Franz," cried she, as soon as he drew near. "You have not
done a stroke of work to-day. To-morrow you must look after the stock."
"Well, the day after to-morrow, I will."
"Why not to-morrow? I want to take my mother to the shrine of St.
Kummernitz, to try if it will do her eyes any good, and I can't look
after her and the cows too."
"But there's going to be a peasant-play, to-morrow,--Joseph and his
Brethren, and I'm wanted to play one of the brethren."
"Truly, I think there might be a better time of year than this for a
peasant-play, when we are short of hands at every kind of work. Who has
proposed such nonsense?"
"Leopold Strauss is going to marry Bianca Gessner--the play is only
going to be got up by her bridesmaids and a few of the bridegroom's
friends--"
"But you are not one of them, and we are not related to the bride."
"No, but all his friends are gone to fight, and they can't make up the
party without me--"
"Well,--I should think it no great honour to go, under those
circumstances; but you will do as you like. The day after to-morrow,
then, I may rely upon you--"
"You may rely upon me--"
"You promise me faithfully--"
"I promise you faithfully. And, Lenora, I have bought a new ribbon for
my hat: do tie it round for me, there's a good girl--you can tie a bow
so much better than I can--and let me have a nice nosegay."
"Nonsense; you can gather your own nosegay. I shall soon have all your
things to look up for the châlet--the cows' bells must be rubbed up,
and their straps embroidered; you might and ought to have cleaned the
bells and trappings yourself, if it were not for this wedding, which no
way concerns you."
"Who knows, Lenora? I may pick up a rich wife at it--Bianca has six
sisters, who are going to play the six youngest brethren, and I shall
have plenty of opportunities of making myself agreeable!"
"You? Why, you have always talked of meaning to marry Theresa Hofer!"
"She won't suit me," said Franz contemptuously; "I may do better for
myself than that, I fancy."
"I doubt it very much. More likely, you don't suit _her_."
"That just shows how much you know about it. You girls think you may
have anybody you like!--Well, don't let us talk any more of this
nonsense; but come and cook these smelts for supper; and then I'll give
you my hat to trim."
"That's just like one of your givings: here--give me your hat, and do
you drive in the cows."
Franz would have liked her to do _both_, but he knew that was too much
to expect; so he gave her the hat and the basket of fish, and prepared
to collect the herd.
When Lenora reached the cottage, she found rather a pleasant-looking
man talking to her mother.
"Here comes Lenora, I can tell, though I can't see," said he. "Lenora,
I am telling your mother she is better off than I am, for she is only
almost blind, but I am quite; and yet I contrive to find my way by
myself from Meran to Innsbruck every summer, to tune the pianos."
"Ah, there must be a special providence over you, Karl," said Lenora
compassionately, "or you would come to some hurt."
"I know there must be," said he devoutly. "However, now and then, some
good Christian soul meets me and leads me by the hand along some
difficult pass; but they are sent by God."
"You should marry, Karl," said the old woman, "and then your wife would
lead you."
"Who would marry a poor blind fellow like me?" said Karl, rather sadly.
"No, no; I must be content with chance kindnesses."
"Well, you are sure to be welcome, wherever you go," said Lenora
cheerfully. "And you shall have a dainty supper to-night, for Franz has
caught some delicate fish."
"Your mother tells me she's going to St. Kummernitz's shrine, for the
benefit of her eyes," said Karl. "I never heard St. Kummernitz was
particularly famous for that."
"Oh, she's famous for everything," cried the old woman, in a sort of
ecstasy; "dear blessed Saint! she cured me once of the toothache!"
"You're a bit of a heretic, I fear," said Lenora gravely. "You have
been too long at Geneva."
"Well, certainly, this saint of yours seems to have rather an
incredible legend. Your mother tells me, she was a famous opera-dancer
some thousand years or so ago, and was so persecuted by the admiration
her personal charms called forth, that she prayed she might be made
less attractive. On which, rather to her dismay, a beard began to
sprout from her chin, accompanied by a very bushy moustache over her
upper lip, which effectually extinguished the ardour of her lovers; and
though she has been dead so many years, the beard continues to grow to
this day!"
"Well, and what of that?" cried the old woman.
Karl smiled; but the entrance of Franz caused a change in the subject
of conversation.
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