FAIR WENDLAND.
Around the town of Luechow, in Hanover, lies the fertile and peculiar
country, called, without regard to official subdivisions, by the
general name of "Wendland." It is one of the portions of Germany where
the old Wend race have preserved themselves tenaciously from any
admixture of blood, and where their own especial manners and customs
still survive.
This Wendland is a beautiful, rich, and luxuriant country, not
beautiful from picturesque views, where hills and valleys unexpectedly
arrest the eye, but delightful from the peaceful abundance which
clothes its broad plains. Groups of tall and beautiful trees alone vary
the even surface of the fields and pastures, but the trees here are
remarkable for their grand and stately growth, and from amongst them,
gilded by the golden sunlight, here peeps the church of some quiet
village, there the old roof of some nobleman's seat; in the distance
the outline of a little town appears; and the traveller feels how
peaceful it must be to live there, far from the noisy world, the faint
echo of whose turbulent waves can scarcely reach the quiet dwellings of
the peace-loving inhabitants. Sometimes large sandy plains stretch out
with their enormous pine woods; monotonous in colour, and solitary,
they have somewhat of the beauty of the sea; a broad sandy road leads
through them; the wild animals approach with little shyness, an
inquisitive daw accompanies the carriage; the strong horses go on
slowly, but easily; nothing is to be seen but the sky, fir trees, and
sand, unless another carriage appears going in the opposite direction;
it is seen a long way off, the travellers greet one another, exchange a
few words, and are glad of the incident. When the end of the pine
forest is reached, and the shadow of the luxuriant deciduous trees
falls on the head of the traveller wearied with the sun; when the rich
abundance of the cultivated land greets his eye, and he breathes the
mild but invigorating air, he feels the refreshing influences, the
horses shake their heads and begin to trot of their own accord, and the
coachman with the skilful cracks of his whip, brings out all the dogs
from the village inns.
In short, it is a country where travelling still has its troubles and
difficulties, and where its old poetry still exists; in the small towns
the old manners and curious customs survive, and the door of the
nobleman's house is still hospitably opened to the traveller, who seems
to bring with him a breath from the great world, the doings, of which,
with all its pursuits, sound only like sagas to the inhabitants of
these quiet homes.
Such is old Wendland, simple, beautiful, and true. The inhabitants are
like the country--healthy and strong as the nature around them, simple
as the land in which they live; rich, because they have what they want,
and make no wants they cannot satisfy; strong in their affections,
clear in their simple faith, full of natural unexpressed poetry, with
hearts full of warm pure blood.
Through one of these large solitary pine woods, as the sun was setting
on one of the first evenings in April, 1866, there rode along the sandy
way a young officer in the uniform of the Hanoverian Cambridge
dragoons. He left his beautiful thorough-bred horse to find its own
way, which it appeared to know perfectly, whilst he sat carelessly and
dreamily in the saddle. A fair moustache covered the young man's upper
lip, his blue eyes gazed thoughtfully into the distance, as if he
sought in the golden evening clouds surrounding the setting sun, the
pictures which filled and occupied his mind. His light hair, though cut
very short, contrived to curl coquettishly beneath the small military
cap, and his face was rather pale, and though perfectly healthy, showed
the peculiar delicacy which young people who have grown very fast
frequently retain for a few years after they have reached manhood.
For a quarter of an hour the young officer rode on slowly and dreamily
through the pine wood, the shadow of his horse, as it fell behind him,
growing longer and longer, and the voices of the birds telling they
were fluttering to their nests.
Then the road turned, the wood suddenly opened and a venerable castle
appeared at some little distance, surrounded by tall old trees, the
last rays of the sun making its large windows appear to stream with
light.
At the end of the wood the village began; it was built sideways from
the castle, in the form of a semicircle, as is usual in Wendland
villages.
The dogs barked. The young officer awoke from his reverie, and
straightened himself in the saddle. The horse felt the movement and
wanted no other urging; he quitted his walk, and trotted with pointed
ears through the village on the road to the castle.
The houses stood open on the warm beautiful spring evening. On their
gables were seen the characteristic horses' heads, which in all Low
Saxon countries play so important a part; their worship was formerly
accepted by the Wends here, and the figures are still carefully
retained.
Peasant women, both old and young, sat before their doors, occupied
with their needles; inside the open houses the women were seen
finishing their work at the loom, and as they worked, they sang the
strange, melancholy, monotonous songs which are peculiar to the Wend
race.
At every house the young officer was greeted, and he returned the
salutations in a friendly way, speaking to most of the peasants by
name, in a manner that showed he was well known, and near home.
On one side of the semicircular village, not far from the road leading
to the castle, stood a plain old church, and near to it, in a pretty,
well-kept garden, the quiet, cheerful-looking vicarage.
There was a foot-path from the garden to the broad road leading to the
castle, and on this path two persons walked towards the highway.
One was an old gentleman of nearly sixty years of age; his black coat
buttoned up to his throat, his dazzlingly white cravat of fine folded
cambric, as also that remarkable tall square biretta of black velvet,
made on the exact pattern of those handed down to us in portraits of
Luther and Melanchthon, and still preferred by the Hanoverian clergy,
showed at a glance that he was the village pastor.
His full, strongly-marked face, with its healthy colour, expressed,
besides benevolent cheerfulness, a great deal of energetic character,
and a decided, cultivated mind, which, separated from the great stream
of life, had developed wonderfully in seclusion, framing a world of its
own, where it found both peace and happiness.
It was Pastor Berger, who for more than twenty years had lived here
amongst his flock.
Beside him walked his only daughter; for the last ten years, ever since
her mother's death, she alone had shared her father's quiet life, and
he had bestowed upon her education great and loving care; avoiding the
common taste for amusements only to be found in the great world so far
off, and teaching her to enjoy the quiet happiness which so completely
satisfied himself.
The young girl's dark dress had a certain elegance, notwithstanding its
country simplicity. She was not tall, but slender and graceful; her
glossy chestnut hair appeared beneath the black velvet hat which shaded
her delicate oval face, the slightly parted fresh lips smiled as if
they breathed in happiness, whilst the brilliant though soft and
thoughtful eyes, showed depths of intense poetic feeling.
The young officer perceived them, reined in his horse, and raising his
hand to his cap for a military salute, exclaimed, "Good evening, Herr
Pastor; good evening, Miss Helena!"
The clergyman called out "Good evening" loudly and cheerfully, and he
too saluted with his hand; his daughter only slightly bowed her head
without uttering a word, but the smile trembling on her lips, the
joyful look beaming in her eyes, proved her greeting to be as hearty as
her father's.
They both hastened on, and in a few moments they overtook the young man
who awaited them on the high road; he sprang from his horse as the
pastor and his daughter approached, and held out his hand.
"You were expected yesterday, Herr von Wendenstein," said the pastor;
"your brother arrived the day before, and your father began to fear
your leave had been refused."
"I could not come sooner--I was on duty yesterday," replied the young
officer; "but that will enable me to stay two days longer. I can have
some more lessons in natural history from my little mistress," he
added, turning to the girl with a smile; she meanwhile was patting and
caressing the horse's neck and head.
"If you are not more attentive and diligent than you were last time,
you will make very little progress," said the pastor's daughter; "but
give me Roland's bridle, he likes me to lead him best, and make haste
to the castle; we were going there, and we shall be much more welcome
if we bring you with us."
She took the horse's bridle, stepped aside, and followed the two
gentlemen to the castle, leading the horse and speaking a coaxing word
to him from time to time.
The approach to the castle was through a massive gateway leading into a
paved court-yard, surrounded by low walls, which evidently had replaced
the ancient bulwarks.
In the midst of this large enclosure stood a single linden-tree of
great age; to the right and left were stables and domestic offices,
apparently modern, in two large low buildings. On the further side of
the court-yard was the dwelling-house itself, the remains of an edifice
evidently once of immense extent. Without any architectural beauty,
without even belonging to any particular period, the castle made the
impression which a large and ancient mass of stone-work of vast
dimensions, placed in the open country and surrounded with trees,
always produces.
The enormous oaken door of the house stood open; it led into a large
stone hall lighted by two great windows on the right and left of the
doorway. Against the walls of this hall stood many of those immense oak
chests, black with age, in which our forefathers from generation to
generation stored their household treasures of linen, silver plate,
their family papers, and whatever else they considered valuable and
worthy of preservation.
These old coffers tell us almost as much as a family chronicle, or as
some old Saga; they disappear in these modern times--there is no room
for them in our modern tiny drawing-rooms, or in the boudoirs crowded
with knick-knacks of the housewives of the present day. They are no
longer needed; who would now dream of beginning a collection of fine
linen for a daughter's trousseau as soon as she was born? it can be
bought good, cheap, and above all, in the newest style at the shops.
What need is there now for such deep, broad shrines to contain the
silver plate of the house, when electro-plate is so beautiful, and can
be changed with the fashion? However, these venerable old coffers still
stood in the place of honour, and cared nothing about the generation of
console-tables and tiny brackets which had taken the world by storm;
above them hung dark old oil-paintings, hunting pieces with wonderfully
stiff gentlemen riding equally stiff steeds, then came shepherdesses
leading their flocks through very flowery meadows to the shade of
woods, with long straight alleys strongly resembling Versailles; there
were family portraits of old gentlemen in enormous wigs and velvet
coats, in long-forgotten uniforms, and in black robes; there were
smiling ladies with ruffs, fontanges, or sacks. And the old times
seemed to live and breathe here quite naturally, as if it would always
be the same to-day as it was yesterday, and the same to-morrow as it
was to-day.
Right and left of this lofty and spacious hall, old oaken doors led to
the principal sitting-rooms; opposite to the entrance was a large
apartment, which in a modern house would be called the drawing-room,
but here its simple and massive furniture corresponded with the rest of
the castle. The only modern thing in the room was a beautiful piano; it
stood open, and the music lying about it showed it was constantly used.
A large high-backed sofa stood against the wall, behind an enormous
table of dark mahogany supported on column-like legs; a lamp with a
large ground-glass globe and a tall, slender green lacquered stand, was
already lighted, and struggled against the mild twilight which entered
the room through two large windows and an open glass door. Beyond the
glass door was a broad terrace, which extended along the whole length
of the house on the garden side, and ended at the right corner in a
round platform resting on stone foundations, evidently the spot on
which in former times a large round tower must have stood.
High trees enclosed the terrace, but there were well-arranged vistas
allowing the light to enter the windows freely, and opening out distant
glimpses of the rich country extending on every side. Flower-beds edged
with box adorned the well-kept lawn, already gay with variegated
crocuses and snowdrops.
Such was the old castle of Blechow, where for the last eighteen years
the worthy President von Wendenstein had administered the law after the
patriarchal fashion of Hanover, where formerly the large landowners
were also the chief magistrates, and the golden fruit of the tree was
more highly prized than the grey theory of administrative form.
Herr von Wendenstein was not the autocrat his forefathers had been; a
more severe standard had been raised, and the government of the country
was different--more unbending, more bureaucratic; but the old office
had devolved upon him with the castle of Blechow, and a considerable
fortune permitted him to live in the style of former Hanoverian _high
sheriffs_[2] and chief magistrates; his clear understanding and
knowledge of the law enabled him to satisfy the new authorities, while
he maintained the old order of things as much as possible, the personal
respect and esteem he inspired greatly strengthening his authority.
In the large family sitting-room, on the big sofa, before the table,
now brightly lighted by the lamp as the twilight decreased, sat the
mistress of the house, Madame von Wendenstein, the worthy mistress of
this great old echoing castle, with its enormous doors, bewitching
coffers, and venerable portraits. A snow-white tulle cap, with
carefully-plaited frills and silver grey ribbons, surrounded the old
lady's delicate-featured, somewhat pale face, which, although she was
only a few years younger than her husband, still bore traces of great
beauty in the well-formed mouth and the large almond-shaped blue eyes.
The hair, still abundant, though almost white, was smoothly parted, and
hung in carefully-curled locks on either side her face; these the old
lady frequently stroked back with her slender white fingers, and
arranged beneath the borders of her cap. Her features expressed unusual
mildness and gentleness, and at the same time such extreme repose
and unassuming dignity, that no stranger could have seen her, as she
sat in her simple black silk dress, made in no French fashion, either
old or modern, with its exquisitely white collar and cuffs, her hands
resting in her lap with the white embroidery on which they had been
occupied, her eyes fixed upon the evening sky with a look of thankful
happiness,--no stranger could have seen her without feeling that a
spirit of order, gentleness, and hospitality would greet all who
entered the house. No speck of dust, no ill-cooked dish, no deviation
from the regular times and hours would be permitted; but no trouble
could assail a member of the family, no body or heart could suffer
without the quick, true eyes of the mother and wife perceiving it,
without a kind, good word from her mouth endeavouring to alleviate and
console.
Such was the mistress of the old castle of Blechow. Her daughters, two
young girls, sat beside her, pretty, blooming creatures of fifteen and
eighteen, the latter possessing the beauty of the grown-up maiden, the
former the charm of childhood. Their toilettes were very simple, but
their beautifully-embroidered _lingerie_ and tastefully arranged hair,
gave them an appearance of great refinement.
With the ladies sat the auditor von Bergfeld, the assistant granted to
the president, who, according to old-fashioned custom, was received as
a guest in the family.
President von Wendenstein walked up and down the terrace with his
eldest son, who was employed by the Ministry of the Interior in Hanover
as a government assessor and reporter. He had come to Blechow to keep
his father's birthday, which had for some years past always been
observed by the family.
President von Wendenstein had a pleasing and dignified appearance. His
thick close-cut grey hair surrounded a broad forehead, with thick,
arched eyebrows, beneath which were dark grey eyes, so clear, sharp and
severe, yet with such an expression of jovial cheerfulness, such sparks
of fiery animation, it was impossible not to imagine him twenty years
younger than he really was. His long, well-shaped nose, his broad
mouth, with full red lips and excellent teeth, his fresh complexion,
formed altogether a picture of mental power and physical enjoyment of
life commanding sympathy and respect.
He had, according to the old fashion, no beard, and he wore clothes of
a light grey woolens material, with a light cap. His strong right hand
grasped an ivory-handled stick, with which he supported his steps, for
he suffered from gout, the only weakness that appeared in the healthy,
energetic old gentleman.
His eldest son walked by him, in features unmistakeably resembling his
father, in every other respect totally unlike him.
His dress, even to his hat, was that of a dweller in cities--glossy,
simple, and faultless; his face, paler than his father's, expressed
both polite civility and official reserve. His hair was smooth and
carefully parted, his whiskers cut after the newest fashion, and his
movements were quiet, gentle, and studied.
Such had his father never been in his youth--that could be seen at a
glance, but he had grown up in very different times: the father was a
character, the son a type.
"And you may say what you like," cried Herr von Wendenstein with
animation, as he stood still and planted his stick firmly on the
ground, "this new method of administration which is continually
progressing, will not answer, and will lead to nothing good. These
everlasting inquiries compel us to make reports, which take up an
endless time, and seldom give a clear account of the matter; these
orders on every possible subject (they often just miss knocking the
nail on the head) take from the immediate governors of the country all
self-reliance, all responsibility, and turn organization into
machinery. The people and the country, however, continue living flesh
and blood, and will not fit into the machine, hence the government is
estranged from those governed, the magistrates become mere scribes, and
stand helplessly by when an occasion arises requiring decision and
judgment. Ever since the most humble reports to every inquiry and the
most exact compliance with every order emanating from the boards of
green cloth have become essential, human beings, who cannot be shut up
and put away with law acts, have got on as they could, and," he added
with a jovial laugh, "that is the least evil, for folks often get on
best alone. The good old times--well, they had their faults, but in
this they were better. The magistrates knew the people, and lived
amongst them; they acted according to the law and their own
consciences, and the government supported them. The minister travelled
through the country once a year, and knew much better what went on, and
on whom he could depend, than they will ever discover now from the most
lengthy reports. But," he said laughingly, after a moment's pause, "I
have no right to complain. If they require reports they give me an
auditor to write them, and the orders I receive with due respect, but I
give judgment after the old laws, and my subjects are quite contented.
I think they will find everything in my jurisdiction in perfect order,
more so than in many others where the modern method is more fully
established."
His son listened with the respect always shown to his father in this
family, but he could not prevent a half impatient, half compassionate
smile from curling his lip. As his father ceased, he replied in the
measured, half pathetic, half monotonous voice peculiar to the
eloquence of the green board, and known throughout the world wherever
tables covered with green cloth, reports, and acts of parliament exist.
"It is only natural, my dear father, that you should love and defend
old times; but you will agree with me, when I say the developments of
time require alterations in government. The power of the landowners,
the basis of the national economy of former generations, made them
despotic, and divided the country and the people into isolated groups;
individuals and acquaintances composed these almost domestic societies;
they lived their own separate lives, and it was then right and suitable
that the government should be equally individual. Now the national
economy struggles for concentration; the great means of locomotion in
our day, always rapidly increasing, destroys the boundaries of time and
space, those powers which separated different societies. The individual
group now forms part of the comprehensive whole, and it is needful for
the government to follow out this development of life in the people and
the country, by quick changes and rapid concentration; a strong
principle, a pervading system, is required throughout the
administration, or the machine will stand still. Believe me, dear
father, the government does not force a new element into our life, it
is life itself in its irresistible development which obliges the
government to adopt a quicker and more precise form, of administration.
Besides," he added, "I do not believe our views are so very different;
with all your love for the past, you are quite equal to the present.
The minister told me lately the punctuality, order, and quickness in
your jurisdiction were admirable, and always remarked by the
authorities."
The old gentleman smiled, visibly flattered by his son's compliment,
and said good-humouredly:
"Well, I manage to keep pace with the present, but I love the past
best; and notwithstanding all you have said, I think matters might have
been managed with less system, paper, and ink. But we will not argue
about it any more," he said, as he patted his son's shoulder; "I am a
child of my own generation, you live in yours;--men always bear the
stamp of the times in which they live, whether they will or no. It is a
pity the Present takes it so easily, and that all her children are
stamped after the same pattern: they are made at a manufactory, and no
longer bear signs of good home-made work. But let us go in, your mother
is at the door calling us, and my old enemy," pointing to his foot with
his stick, "conspires with the evening air a new attack upon my old
bones."
He turned slowly to the glass door of the drawing-room where his wife
stood looking as if framed, as she gazed after him anxiously.
He had reached her side followed by his son, when the barking of the
dogs in the courtyard was heard, and soon afterwards voices sounded in
the hall.
An old servant in a neat green livery opened the door, and the pastor
Berger with his daughter Helena entered. The president, who had the
greatest esteem for the clergyman, welcomed him warmly, and shook hands
with him most heartily before he had time even to greet the lady of the
house: and his daughters seized on Helena.
"We come," said the pastor, "according to our custom at the close of
another year of your life, to return thanks to you for all the kindness
you have shown us during that period, and we bring the lieutenant with
us; we fell in with him on the road, and like a true cavalry soldier he
has gone first to the stable to look after his horse."
"He has come," said Madame von Wendenstein with joy. "I feared he might
not get leave."
The door opened hastily, and with quick steps and jingling spurs
Lieutenant von Wendenstein hastened to his mother, who embraced him
warmly, whilst he kissed her hand. He then went to his father, who
kissed him on the cheeks and gazed with pride on the handsome young man
as he stood before him with his upright military bearing.
"I am late," said the lieutenant, "because we have so much to do. My
comrades desire me to say they will all come to congratulate you
to-morrow, dear father, if possible, but we have an immense amount of
work of all kinds. The yearly exercises are to take place earlier, the
order has come quite suddenly, and you can imagine how much extra work
this has given us."
After the lieutenant had shaken hands affectionately with his brother,
he turned to his sisters and the pastor's daughter, and began a lively
conversation with the three young girls and the auditor von Bergfeld,
which was frequently interrupted by merry laughter, while the pastor
with the president and his eldest son, joined Madame von Wendenstein at
the large table before the sofa.
"It is very unusual," said the president, "this hastening of the
exercises, of which my son spoke, and which I had before seen in the
newspapers. Foreign affairs are not my province, and I generally
trouble myself little about them, but how this measure can assist in
the present grave crisis I do not understand."
"It is an exceptional means," replied his son, with the air of one of
the initiated, "used to meet a complicated embarrassment. The quarrel
between Prussia and Austria grows sharper every day, and the German
governments desire a mobilization of the confederacy's contingencies.
Prussia on the other hand requires strict neutrality, and the
man[oe]uvres have been hastened to avoid the mobilization, and yet to
have the troops in readiness should war break out."
"With all respect for your ministerial wisdom," replied his father,
jokingly, "I cannot see what good it will do. If Prussia requires
neutrality she will be as much hurt and disquieted by this irregularity
as by mobilization itself, though the military preparations for actual
war are much less complete, and Austria and her allies will see in this
a withdrawal from their common interests. My opinion is, a decision
should be made one way or the other. If war does not break out--as I
still hope--nothing is lost, and if it comes, we have at least on one
side a support and a strong position. What troubles me," he added
thoughtfully and gravely, "I do not love the Prussians; we Hanoverians,
from old wounds, feel little sympathy with Prussia. I regret that our
army has been taken out of the old Hanoverian uniform, and put into a
Prussian-like one; I regret still more that Herr von Beningsen and his
national unionists have so completely brought us under Prussian ideas;
but still I should prefer that we remained on a good footing with our
great and dangerous neighbour, and that we joined in no hare-brained
enterprise with Austria, in whom I have no confidence, and who has
never done us or Germany any good; above all things, I would not that
we, in our dangerously-exposed position, should sit upon two stools,
and yet," he said, pausing, "that is what our rulers are doing. Our
foreign minister, Count Platen, I do not know; I met him once in
Hanover, and he appeared to be an affable and agreeable man, but
Bacmeister I do know, and I know his character and his intellect,--what
does he say to this measure?"
The government assessor cleared his throat and replied, "These things
belong entirely to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and the War Office.
I do not know whether the measure has been discussed in a general
council, certainly I have not heard my chief express his opinion, but
he is always careful not to commit himself on any subject. In Hanover
they quite believe hostilities will not really take place."
"God grant they may be right," cried the pastor with a sigh, "a German
war! what a frightful misfortune, and I know not on which side my
sympathy would lie; however the war ended, one of the two great German
rivals would preponderate. I cannot wish for papist Austria with her
Croatians, Pandurs and Sclaves; my own personal feeling draws me to our
northern brothers, with whom we have so much in common, but that
Prussian influence should be all-powerful in Germany without any
counterpoise, I cannot certainly desire; from Berlin came the
Rationalism now threatening the whole Protestant Church with its
dangerous indifference. May God direct and enlighten our king that he
may choose aright, and preserve the pure Lutheran church in our beloved
Hanover."
"Yes, God grant us peace! for this I pray daily," said Madame von
Wendenstein, looking anxiously at her youngest son, whose merry laugh
had just been heard from the group of young people established in the
window. "What sorrow, what misery war brings to every family, and what
end is to be gained? Greater weight in the political scale for one or
another power: I think if everyone would strive to make his own
household and his own immediate circle better and happier the world
would be more improved than by struggling after things which can give
no true happiness to a single human being."
"There we have my true housewife," laughed the president; "what does
not concern her house, her cellar, and her kitchen, is useless and
pernicious, and according to her views statesmen should turn into a
large family circle, and politics be thrown into the lumber room."
"And is not my honoured friend right?" said the pastor, smiling at
Madame von Wendenstein; "is it not woman's duty to work for peace, and
to cherish the seed we sow in the Lord's temple, that it may flower and
bring forth fruit in the house? God gives to the mighty ones of the
earth the right to draw the sword he has placed in their hand, they
must do their duty and answer for it afterwards; but I believe the
Eternal Father has more joy in the peaceful happiness of a united home
than in the most talented combinations of policy, or the bloody laurels
of the battle-field."
"Well," said the president, "we cannot alter the course of events, so
let us think of nourishing our own bodies; that will, I am sure, do us
all good."
The old servant had thrown open two large folding-doors on one side of
the drawing-room, and the spacious dining-room, with a table ready laid
and lighted with massive silver branches, appeared, whilst a most
appetizing odour of cookery invited everyone to enter and partake.
The president rose. The pastor gave his arm to the lady of the house,
and led her to the dining-room, followed by the rest of the party, who
were soon seated around the table in the plainly-furnished room
ornamented with stags' antlers and deer's heads, enjoying the excellent
dinner provided by the house steward, and the choice specimens of the
treasures in the cellars. There was plenty of cheerful conversation,
but nothing was said about politics.
In the meantime there was great excitement in one of the principal
houses of the semi-circular village, usually so quiet. The large hall,
the door of which was wide open, was brightly lighted and filled with
different groups of young peasant men and maidens in their best Sunday
costumes; the strongly-built young fellows wore jackets and hats
trimmed with fur, the maidens short, close-fitting dresses and white
handkerchiefs, with bright-coloured ribbons in their thick plaits of
hair.
Fresh guests continually arrived and joined the young people already
assembled, while the other inhabitants of the village, the older
peasants and children, walked up and down, and looked in at their young
friends.
Old farmer Deyke, one of the principal farmers of the Blechow estate,
a widower for some years, inhabited the large farm-house with his
only son Fritz. He went from group to group, and his old rigid,
sharply-marked countenance, with its cunning, piercing dark eyes,
beneath bushy eyebrows, showed itself capable of very different
expressions. Now it assumed jocular good nature, as he pressed the hand
of a rich farmer's son and whispered in his ear some tale of his own
youth; now his face expressed benevolent condescension, as he said an
encouraging word to a poorer neighbour; now cold reserve as he returned
the salutation of some young man not quite in good repute in the
neighbourhood, but whom he was too hospitable not to entertain on such
an occasion.
His son Fritz went about amongst his friends with much less dignity. He
was a slight but strong young man, with kind, true blue eyes, and
flaxen hair cut short in the military fashion. He joked with the girls,
and must have said very merry things, for they put their heads
together, and laughed and tittered, until they got red in the face,
long after the old farmer's merry son had left them and gone on to
another group; and then he went up to the young men, and seizing two of
them under the arms, led them to the table at one end of the hall
covered with a white cloth, and crowded with beer-jugs, hams, bread,
and cold beef. It was evident that Fritz was immensely popular.
He was very good-looking, beloved by young and old, and as the only son
and heir of the rich Deyke, the holder of the largest farm in the
neighbourhood, all the pretty girls belonging to the best peasant
families looked after him with beating hearts and unspoken hopes, and
there was no father or mother in the village but would have received
him as a son-in-law with the greatest joy.
But he was unscathed amongst all these pretty peasant girls; he joked
and laughed with them all, danced with them all at country festivities,
gave first one and then another a bouquet from his father's well-kept
garden, or a ribbon or a picture from the store of some travelling
dealer, and these gifts raised the hopes of the pretty Blechow girls;
but he never went any further, or seemed to see the kind looks of the
daughters, or to notice the encouraging hints of the fathers and
mothers. None of the young men felt jealous of him, he was never a
rival, he took every opportunity of treating his young friends, and
spent the thalers, with which his father plentifully supplied him,
quite as much on their pleasures as on his own.
The young people all made way, and left the centre of the hall free as
the village schoolmaster entered, a simple-looking old man, in a black
coat and a black cocked hat.
The elder Deyke greeted him in a manner that showed he respected the
position and character of his guest, but felt himself a person of much
greater importance, but his son hastily seized his old master's hand,
and cried: "We are all ready, Herr Niemeyer, and it is time to go to
the castle; the president sat down to dinner half an hour ago, and it
will be another half hour before we are all there and prepared, so
forwards! forwards!"
He quickly arranged all the young people in couples, first the young
men, then the girls, and to each young man he gave a pine-wood torch
from a large heap which lay ready on one side of the hall, and some
matches for lighting them. He then seized the arm of the schoolmaster,
and with his father they headed the procession, which silently moved
towards the castle, whilst the older villagers looked on with interest,
and then followed, whispering together.
The president's cheerful dinner had come to an end. The old butler
removed the cover of an enormous Saxony china bowl standing on a side
table, from which came the delightful aroma of Scharzhofberger Moselle,
mingled with the perfume of the pine-apple slices floating in the wine.
He uncorked some bottles of Champagne, poured the contents into the
bowl, put in the large silver ladle, and placed it on the table before
the president, who, after tasting and approving the mixture, filled
large glasses for all his guests.
The pastor raised his glass, inhaled the delicious fragrance for a
moment with visible respect, admired the light bright yellow colour,
and then spoke in a way happily combining the clergyman with the old
friend of the family:
"My dear friends! our worthy president, around whose hospitable board
we are now assembled, enters to-morrow upon a new year of his active
and useful life. To-morrow we shall greet the new year; to-day let us
take leave of the past. The cares and troubles it brought our friend
are over, and have only led to good; the happiness he has bestowed on
so many, the cheerful hours he has caused, should be remembered to
strengthen and refresh him in the evil moments the future will bring
even to him, as to all the dwellers on the earth, as long as darkness
and light wrestle together. May the remembrance of the past year urge
us all to continue true to one another in love and friendship. Let us
dedicate this quiet glass to the memory of the past year of our dear
president's life." And putting his glass to his lips, he emptied it to
the dregs.
They all followed his example, the ladies not excepted, for from the
simple, healthy life they led, they did not fear a glass of generous
wine as the more delicate specimens of the fair sex usually do in large
cities.
"God grant, my friends, that at the close of the next year, which looks
so threatening, we may all be sitting here as happy and as cheerful as
we are now," said the president, with emotion in his face and voice;
"and now," he added cheerfully, as he felt general conversation could
not be again resumed, "let us rise and smoke the pipe of peace. John,
bring the bowl, we will have another word with that."
The whole party rose and returned to the drawing-room. They found the
doors leading into the hall set open; the enormous house-door was also
thrown wide open, so that they saw right into the courtyard, with the
old linden-tree in the midst. It was lighted up with dark red flames,
and amidst the masses of smoke which here and there interrupted the
fiery waves, groups of men appeared, their movements looking strangely
fantastic in the reflections of the flames, and from them came the
sound of whispering voices.
The president was amazed and even alarmed, for his first idea was that
a fire had broken out in his stables; but the old servant stepped up to
him and whispered: "The young people from the village wish to serenade
you, sir, the evening before your birthday."
The president, who had been about to hasten into the courtyard, paused,
a look of happy emotion shining in his eyes. The pastor, who was
prepared for the surprise, exchanged a smile with the lady of the
house, and the young people gazed inquisitively into the courtyard.
After the president appeared, there was a moment of deep silence; then
strong, clear voices raised the simple touching chorale, "Oh! God, our
help in ages past."
"Wer nun den lieben Gott laeszt walten."
The full ringing sounds, and the dark red light of the torches streamed
through the large hall and entered the room where the family stood,
while from the large window on the garden side the full moon shone
brightly in from the dark evening sky, and shed long streams of light
upon the floor.
The president stood still, surrounded by those he loved in his quiet
home, the calm light of the moon falling upon him, as if it were the
farewell greeting of the past year. Was the uncertain, blood-red light
filling the courtyard the picture of the coming year? Yet from the
fiery light came the old pious hymn which has so often strengthened and
comforted men's hearts. Let the Future come; if she brings strife and
sorrow, she will also bring strength and consolation.
Such thoughts as these passed through the mind of the president. His
wife, who had placed herself beside him, had folded her hands together
and slightly bowed her head.
"O God, our help in ages past,
Our hope in years to come,
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
And our eternal home,"[3]
resounded. The old lady gazed at her soldier-son, whose eyes shone with
pleasure at the picturesque effect produced by the torchlight on the
groups of peasants, and on the buildings around the court. Her hands
were more tightly clasped, her lips moved in silent prayer, and a tear
ran slowly down her cheek; then she bent her head lower, and listened
without moving to the end of the chorale.
When the sounds had quite died away, a general movement commenced. Old
Deyke and the schoolmaster entered; and the former said, in his most
important and dignified manner, the schoolmaster standing meekly behind
him: "Herr President, the young people have had the honour of welcoming
your approaching birthday by a serenade; the schoolmaster has
instructed them"--(he looked round, and the poor man bowed shyly,
trying not to feel as if all eyes were upon him). "They came and
consulted me, and I saw no objection; for, Herr President, you are well
aware the whole village feels interested in your family festival; yes,
and we know you rejoice that we should show how much we have your
happiness and that of your worthy family at heart. My only anxiety was
lest the sudden commotion before the house might"--and he turned to
Madame von Wendenstein--"alarm your honoured lady; but the schoolmaster
said it must be a surprise, or the whole point would be lost."
"Thank you--thank you all from my whole heart. My good old Deyke!"
exclaimed the president, warmly shaking his hand, "you have given me
the greatest pleasure, and such an alarm as this will never injure my
wife."
"Certainly not," said Madame von Wendenstein, whose face had recovered
all its quiet cheerfulness. She offered the old peasant her small white
hand, which he took with a certain amount of care, and added: "I thank
you heartily for your affection to my husband."
"But where is Fritz?" cried the lieutenant. "I have been surprised not
to see him; eh! old Deyke, where is my old playmate?"
"Here, Herr Lieutenant," cried young Deyke's cheerful voice, as the
handsome young peasant stepped from a dark corner of the hall and
entered the sitting-room. "I am very glad you are here, sir, and that
you remember me."
Whilst the lieutenant warmly greeted the young peasant, his elder
brother shook hands with old Deyke, with a certain stiff politeness,
and the president cried:
"Now, every one must eat and drink in the courtyard. It is the young
people's turn to be pleased. It must never be said that my friends,
after giving me so much pleasure, went away with empty mouths."
Madame von Wendenstein gave her eldest daughter a sign, and soon all
the servants in the house were hastily carrying tables, white cloths,
plates, jugs, and bottles into the courtyard.
The schoolmaster, however, whispered something to old Deyke, who said,
"Herr President, the schoolmaster begs your kind entertainment may be
put off until the other songs are sung, as he fears the voices will not
be in such good order afterwards!"
"Are you going to sing to us again?" cried the president, with
pleasure. "Pray go on then, Herr Niemeyer. Sit down with us, my dear
Deyke, and let us drink a glass to old times!"
He had some arm-chairs rolled into the middle of the room, and made the
old peasant sit with the pastor and himself. The lieutenant fetched
some cigars; the eldest son filled the glasses. The old peasant
moistened his cigar with his lips, and smoked it with carefully
screwed-up mouth. He knocked his glass against the president's and the
pastor's, half emptied it, with a satisfied nod at its contents; then
he sat very upright on his chair, with a look which showed he was
sensible what a high honour it was to sit in such company, as well as
the conviction that he was quite the man on whom such honour should
fall.
The schoolmaster and young Deyke had hastened out again, and soon the
simple but beautiful _volkslied_ of the country commenced.
Madame von Wendenstein returned to her place on the sofa, and listened
thoughtfully to the melodious sounds; her eldest son stepped, with Herr
von Bergfeld, into a window-niche; the president's youngest daughter
had followed her sister; the lieutenant walked up and down the room,
listening to the singing with some impatience; for he longed to go out
to the young peasants, whom he had known from childhood, and joke and
laugh with them.
The pastor's daughter, forsaken by her young friends, stepped out on to
the terrace. She leant against the stone balustrade and looked up at
the moon; its silvery rays fell on her thoughtful, beautiful face, and
lighted up her large clear eyes.
After the lieutenant had paced up and down the room several times, he,
too, went on to the terrace. He breathed in the fresh evening air,
looked at the well-known plain below as it lay in the moonlight, and
then perceived the young girl, whom he hastened to join.
"Are you indulging in romantic dreams in the moonlight, Miss Helena?"
he cried, jokingly. "May I share them, or is it needful to be quite
alone?"
"The moon always makes me come out, whether I will or not," said
Helena, "and the singing sounds even better here. But I was dreaming a
little," she said, laughingly, as she raised herself from the stone
balustrade; "my thoughts were far away from here, up in the clouds,"
and she pointed with her hand to a black bank of clouds, stretching
from the horizon towards the moon, whose light touched their edges with
silver. They looked like a black mantle with a brilliant hem.
"I know your thoughts go far and wide, and I like to hear them, for
they take me to a world I love, but to which I cannot go alone. You
remember the old story of the wonderful garden no one could enter
unless they knew the magic word which opened the door in the rock? you
know this word. Even as a child I was never happier than when listening
to your ideas; they took me so far away from every-day life. Tell me
what you and the clouds have been talking about."
"Do you see," said the young girl, as she looked upwards, "do you see
that black cloud resting so quietly in the moonlight? An image of
peace, you might almost believe it had ever been there, and would ever
remain; yet in a short time the cloud has spread itself far, far over
the country--will it bring blessing and fruitfulness, or will it spread
tempest and destruction over the land, destroying the hopes of the
husbandman? Who can tell? but we know it will move away from the light
now so peacefully shining upon it, though the moon will shine on as it
has ever done. Such is life; such is the fate of man," she added, in a
melancholy tone; "now we are in happy peace; soon we may feel the wild
tempest."
"Your thoughts are always sad," said the lieutenant, with a slight
smile, whilst a reflection of the young girl's enthusiasm appeared in
his face, "always grave, but always beautiful; but I cannot imagine,"
he added, "how such ideas come to you."
"How can I help it?" she returned, "when they talk so much of war, and
the threatening future; how soon our peaceful happiness may vanish like
the moon if the cloud rises higher!"
The young officer looked grave, and was silent for a moment.
"How extraordinary!" he then said. "War is my business, and I have
always wished for a brisk, merry war, instead of our tiresome garrison
life; but what you say makes me sorry. Are we soldiers the black cloud
which is to blot out the moon's peaceful light, to spread tempest and
destruction, and to annihilate so many hopes? And may not the lightning
resting in the cloud's bosom smite even ourselves?"
"Oh! that it were granted to human power to guide the course of clouds
and the fate of men to light and peace," cried the pastor's daughter;
"but as the moonlight silvers the black cloud, so must our hopes and
prayers accompany those whom the storm of fate drives far away; such
comfort will remain for those at home."
The lieutenant was silent. His eyes were fixed with dreamy surprise on
the young girl's excited face, which looked almost inspired in the
moonlight. He slowly approached her; but the singing ceased, loud
voices and clanging glasses were heard in the court. The other young
ladies came on to the terrace, and the lieutenant and Helena hastily
joined them.
The president went into the hall, and again thanked the singers
heartily for the pleasure they had given him, proposing they should now
attack the refreshments. The whole party then mixed with the peasants,
and cheerful talking and merry laughter were heard throughout the
courtyard.
The lieutenant had gone into the drawing-room, and he remained there
for a time grave and thoughtful, though his sister and Helena had gone
to say a few friendly words to all the village maidens.
His elder brother went to the young peasants; he knew quite well what
to say to them, for he had been brought up amongst them, and they
talked to him without reserve: but it was somewhat of a ceremonious
conversation which he carried on in a quiet voice, as he moved from
group to group.
Loud bursts of laughter, however, accompanied the lieutenant, when he
entered the courtyard shortly afterwards. Accompanied by Fritz Deyke,
he spoke to all the young fellows, who, for a joke, arranged themselves
in the stiffest of military attitudes, under the auspices of some old
cavalry soldiers.
All was life and mirth. At last the lieutenant was surrounded by some
young folks, who made Fritz Deyke their spokesman. The lieutenant
laughed when he heard their request, nodded his head, and went up to
his father.
"They want to sing our Hanoverian air, father, but they wish for your
consent: they are not sure if it is quite the thing, they say."
"If it is the thing?" cried the president, cheerfully, "of course it
is; let them begin!"
Fritz Deyke, who had followed the lieutenant, hurried back to his
friends. They formed a semicircle before the door of the house, and the
curious song began, the words of which are scarcely comprehensible, and
often altered _ad libitum_, but which it is the dear delight of every
Hanoverian peasant and soldier to sing on every opportunity.
The president was delighted to hear the national song shouted by the
merry young peasants with all the strength of their lungs. He joined in
the chorus himself, as did the lieutenant, and
"Our king before us we did see,
Riding straight on so merrilie;
And to his brigadier cried he,
'Roystering Hanover boys are we,'"[4]
was loudly echoed back from the old castle walls to Blechow.
At last the peasants dispersed, and with loud laughter and cheerful
conversation returned to the village. The pastor and his daughter also
took leave, and went back to the quiet vicarage. Soon the whole castle
was hushed in peace and darkness.
Madame von Wendenstein kissed her youngest son affectionately, as she
bid him good-night, and her lips softly murmured,
"O God, our help in ages past,
Our hope in years to come,
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
And our eternal home."
The lieutenant sat thinking in silence for a long time in an ancient
arm-chair in his room; and when at last he went to bed and to sleep, he
dreamt he was on a black cloud, whirled along by a tempest; the
lightning flashed about him, the thunder groaned, and he was borne
farther and farther from the mild rays of the moon, though she still
pursued him with her peaceful light.