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Transcriber's Notes:
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COLLECTION
OF
GERMAN AUTHORS
VOL. 4.
* * * * *
IN THE YEAR '13 BY FRITZ REUTER.
IN ONE VOLUME.
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
By the same Author,
AN OLD STORY OF MY FARMING DAYS 3 vols.
* * *
IN THE YEAR '13:
A
TALE OF MECKLENBURG LIFE
BY
FRITZ REUTER.
TRANSLATED FROM THE PLATT-DEUTSCH
BY
CHARLES LEE LEWES.
_Authorized Edition_.
LEIPZIG 1867
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.
LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE & RIVINGTON, Limited.
ST. DUNSTAN'S HOUSE, FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.
PARIS: C. REINWALD & CIE, 15, RUE DES SAINTS-PERES; THE GALIGNANI
LIBRARY, 224, RUE DE RIVOLI.
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
In presenting to the public this, the first English translation of one
of Reuter's works, it may not be superfluous to say a few words
concerning their author.
Though his name is unknown in England, in Germany he is one of the most
popular authors of the day. His stories and poems are written in
_Platt-deutsch_, and are read wherever that dialect is spoken, that is
to say throughout Northern, or Lower, Germany,--extending from Memel in
the extreme North East to Aix-la-Chapelle in the South West,--and even
the Germans of the more southern and higher-lying States, where
Platt-deutsch is unknown, now frequently learn it for the sole purpose
of reading Reuter's works.
The following story, called in the original "Ut de Franzosentid", was
published in 1860, and rapidly passed through several editions. It is
one of a series to which Reuter has given the name of "Olle Kamellen"
literally "old camomile-flowers", by which he means "old tales, old
recollections, useful as homely remedies." It is one of the most
popular of his works, and perhaps also the most translateable. Hence
the reason for bringing it first before the English public.
The scene of the story is laid in Stavenhagen, or Stemhagen as it is
called in Plattdeutsch, Reuter's native town. The characters introduced
were all real people; and even their names have been retained.
The story opens at the moment when the German people was at length
beginning to rise against Napoleon, and it gives a vivid picture of the
state of feeling which then prevailed in Germany towards the French.
The Germans were in the galling position of being forced to treat the
French as allies, whilst hating them with an intense and unconquerable
hatred. And this hatred, wide-spread over the whole country, is shown
in the expressions of detestation ever bursting forth at the mention of
the French name.
The language in which the story is written is closely allied to the
Saxon, and has much more resemblance to English than High German has;
but it is nevertheless a dialect, and bears the same relation to the
High German as the child's language does to the man's; and my aim has
been, while endeavouring to make the translation read like an English
work, to adhere as closely as possible to the form and simplicity of
the original.
Hampstead, _June_ 1867.
IN THE YEAR '13.
CHAPTER I.
Showing why Miller Voss could not be made a bankrupt, and how he
helped the Amtshauptmann in a great difficulty.
I was baptised, and had godfathers: four of them. And, if my godfathers
were still alive, and walked through the streets with me, people would
stop and say: "Look, what fine fellows! you won't see many such." They
were indeed godfathers! And one of them was a head taller than the
others, and towered above them as Saul did above his brethren. This was
the old Amtshauptmann Weber. He used to wear a well-brushed blue coat,
yellowish trousers, and well-blacked boots, and his face was so marked
by the small-pox that it looked as if the Devil had been threshing his
peas on it, or as if he had sat down upon his face on a cane-bottomed
chair. On his broad forehead there stood written, and in his eyes too
you could read, "Not the fear of Man but the fear of God." And he was
the right man in the right place.
About eleven o'clock in the morning he might be seen sitting in an
arm-chair in the middle of the room, whilst his wife fastened a napkin
under his chin, put the powder on his hair, tied it behind and twisted
it into a neat pigtail.
When the old gentleman walked up and down under the shade of the
chestnut-trees at noon, his little rogue of a pigtail wagged merrily,
and nodded over the collar of his blue coat as if it wanted to say to
any one who would listen: "Yes, look old fellow! What do you think of
me? I am only the tip of his hair, and if I can wag so comically out
here, you may fancy how merry it must be inside his head."
When I took him a message from my father, and managed to give it
straight off, he would pat me on the head, and then say: "Now, away
with you, boy. Off, like a shot! When you pull the trigger the gun
mustn't hang fire, but must go off like a flash of lightning. Run to
Mamsell Westphalen, and ask her for an apple."
To my father he would say: "Well, friend, what do you think? Are not
you glad that you have a son, boys are much better than girls; girls
are always fretting and crying. Thank God, I have a boy too, my
Joe.--What say you, eh!"
My father told my mother. "Do you know," said he, "what the old
Amtshauptmann says? Boys are better than girls." Now, I was in the room
at the time and overheard this, and of course I said to myself: "My
godfather is always right, boys _are_ better than girls, and every one
should have his deserts." So I took the large piece of plumcake for
myself and gave my sister the small one, and thought not a little of
myself, for I knew now that I was the larger half of the apple. But
this was not to last; the tables were to be turned.--
One day--it was at the time when the rascally French had just come back
from Russia, and everything was in commotion--some one knocked at the
Herr Amtshauptmann's door. "Come in," cried the old gentleman, and in
came old Miller Voss of Gielow, ducking his head nearly down to the
ground by way of a bow.
"Good afternoon, Herr Amtshauptmann," said he.
"Good morning. Miller."
Now, though the one said "good afternoon" and the other said "good
morning," each was right from his own point of view; for the Miller got
up at four o'clock in the morning, and with him it was afternoon, while
with the Amtshauptmann it was still early in the morning, as he did not
rise till eleven.
"What is it, Miller?"
"Herr Amtshauptmann, I've come to you about a weighty matter.--I'll
tell you what it is:--I want to be made a bankrupt."
"What, Miller!"
"I want to be made a bankrupt, Herr Amtshauptmann."
"Hm--Hm," muttered the Amtshauptmann, "that's an ugly business." And he
paced up and down the room scratching his head. "How long have you been
at the Bailiwick of Stemhagen?"
"Three and thirty years come Midsummer."
"Hm--Hm," again muttered the Amtshauptmann, "and how old are you,
Miller?"
"Come peas-harvest five-and-sixty, or may be six-and-sixty; for as to
our old Pastor Hammerschmidt he wasn't much given to writing, and
didn't trouble his head about parish registers, and the Frau Pastor,
who made the entries--I' faith she had a deal to do besides--only
attended to them every three years, so that there might be enough to
make it worth while; and then some fine afternoon she would go through
the village and write down the children's ages, but more according to
height and size than to what they really were; and my mother always
said she had cut off a year from me, because I was small and weakly.
Bat less than five-and-sixty I'm not. I am sure of that."
During this speech the Amtshauptmann had kept walking up and down the
room, listening with only one ear; he now stood still before the
Miller, looked straight into his eyes, and said sharply: "Then, Miller
Voss, you're much too old for anything of the kind."
"How so, Herr?" exclaimed the poor Miller, quite cast down.
"Bankruptcy is a hard matter; at your age you could not carry it
through."
"Do you think so, Herr?"
"Yes, I do. We are both too old for it. We must leave such things to
younger people. What do you think folks would say if I were to get
myself declared bankrupt? Why, they would say, of course, the old
Amtshauptmann up at the Schloss has gone quite mad! And," added he,
laying his hand gently on the Miller's shoulder, "they would be right,
Miller Voss. What say you, eh?"
The Miller looked down at the toes of his boots and scratched his head:
"It's true, Herr."
"Tell me," said the old gentleman, patting him kindly on the shoulder,
"where does the shoe pinch? What is troubling you?"
"Troubling! say you, Herr Amtshauptmann," shouted the Miller, clapping
his hand to the side of his head as if a wasp had stung him.
"Troubling! Torturing, you mean. Torturing!--That Jew! That cursed Jew!
And then the lawsuit, Herr Amtshauptmann, the cursed lawsuit!"
"Look you, Miller, that's another of your follies, entangling yourself
at your age in a lawsuit."
"True enough, Herr; but when I began it I was in my prime and thought
to be able to fight it out; now, I see clear enough that your lawsuit
has a longer breath than an honest Miller."
"But I think it's coming to an end now."
"Yes, Herr Amtshauptmann, and then I shall be hard up, for my affairs
are in a bad way. The lawyers have muddled them, and as for my uncle,
old Joe Voss, why his son who will soon get possession of all is a
downright vagabond, and they say he's sworn a great oath to oust me
from the Borcherts Inn at Malchin. But I have the right on my side,
Herr Amtshauptmann. And how I got into this lawsuit I don't know to
this day, for old Frau Borcherts while she was still alive--she was
the aunt of my mother's sister's daughter--and Joe Voss--he was my
cousin...."
"I know the story," interrupted the Amtshauptmann, "and if you would
follow my advice, you would make it up."
"But I can't, Herr, for Joe Voss's rascally son wouldn't be satisfied
with less than half the money, and if I pay that, I shall be a beggar.
No, Herr Amtshauptmann, it may go as it will, but one thing I'm
resolved on, I won't give in though I go to prison for it. Is a ruffian
like that, who struts about with his father's money in his pocket,
spending it right and left, and who doesn't know what it is to have to
keep up a house in these hard times--and who's never had his cattle
carried off by those cursed French, nor his horses stolen out of the
stable, nor his house plundered,--is such a rascal as that, to get the
better of me? By your leave, Herr, I could kick the fellow."
"Miller Voss, gently, Miller Voss," said the old gentleman, "the
lawsuit will come to an end sometime or other. It is going on."
"Going, Herr Amtshauptmann? It's flying, as the Devil said when he tied
the Bible to his whip and swung it round his head."
"True, true. Miller Voss; but at present you're not much pressed."
"Pressed? Why, I'm fixed in a vice--in a vice, I say! That Jew, Herr
Amtshauptmann, that thrice cursed Jew!"
"What Jew is it?" asks the Herr Amtshauptmann. And the Miller twirls
his hat between his finger and thumb, looks cautiously round to see
that no one is listening, draws closer to the old gentleman, and,
laying a finger on his lip, whispers: "Itzig, Herr Amtshauptmann."
"Whew!" said the old Herr. "How came you to be mixed up with that
fellow?"
"Herr Amtshauptmann, how came the ass to have long ears? Some go to
gather wild strawberries, and get stung by nettles. The sexton of
Gaegelow thought his wheelbarrow was full of holy angels, and when he
had got to the top of the mountain and expected to see them fly up to
heaven, the Devil's grandmother was sitting in the wheelbarrow, and she
grinned at him and said: 'Neighbour, we shall meet again!' In my
troubles, when the enemy had taken everything I had, I borrowed two
hundred thalers from him, and for the last two years I have been
obliged to renew the bill from term to term, and the debt has crept up
to five hundred thalers, and the day after to-morrow I shall be forced
to pay it."
"But, Miller, did you sign?"
"Yes, Herr Amtshauptmann."
"Then you must pay. What's written is written."
"But, Herr Amtshauptmann, I thought...."
"It can't be helped, Miller; what's written is written."
"But the Jew?..."
"Miller, what's written is written."
"Then, Herr Amtshauptmann, what shall I do?"
The old gentleman began again to walk backwards and forwards in the
room, tapping his forehead. At last he stopped, looked earnestly in the
Miller's face, and said: "Miller, young people get out of such
difficulties better than old ones; send me one of your boys."
The old Miller looked once more at the toes of his boots, and then
turning his face away, said in a tone which went straight to the old
Amtshauptmann's heart: "Sir, whom shall I send? My Joe was ground to
death in the mill, and Karl was carried off to Russia by the French
last year, and he's not come back."
"Miller," replied the old Amtshauptmann patting him on the back, "have
you then no children at all?"
"I have," said he wiping a tear from his eye, "a little girl left."
"Well, Miller, I am not particularly fond of girls myself, they are
always fretting and crying."
"That's true, sir, they _are_ always fretting and crying."
"And they can be of no use in a matter like this, Miller."
"But what will happen to me then?"
"The Jew will put in an execution, and will take away everything."
"Well, Herr Amtshauptmann, the French have done that twice already, so
the Jew may as well try it now. At any rate he will leave the millstone
behind.--And you think I'm too old to be made bankrupt?"
"Yes, Miller, I fear so."
"Well, then, good day, Herr Amtshauptmann." And so saying he went away.
The old gentleman stands still a while and looks after the Miller as he
goes across the courtyard of the Schloss, and says to himself: "It's
hard for one old man to see another gradually going to ruin through the
bad times and bad people. But who can help him?... The only thing is to
give him time.--Five hundred thalers!! Who in these days can pay down
five hundred thalers?... Take away old Roggenbom of Scharfzow, and I
think you might set the whole bailiwick of Stemhagen, town and all, on
its head, and no five hundred thalers would fall out.... And Roggenbom
won't do it.... Possibly at Easter it might be done; but the Jew will
not wait as long as that.--Yes, yes, they are hard times for
everybody."
But while he thus stood and looked out of the window, the courtyard
became full of life, and seven French Chasseurs rode in at the gate.
One of them got down, and fastened his horse to the door of Mamsell
Westphalen's hen-house, and went straight into the Amtshauptmann's
room, and began swearing and gesticulating at him, while the old
gentleman remained standing, and stared at him. But as it grew more
serious, and the Frenchman began to draw his sword, the Amtshauptmann
stepped towards the bell and called for his factotum Fritz Sahlmann,
who used to run his errands for him, and "Fritz," said he, "run down to
the Herr Burmeister[1] and see if he cannot come up here a little
while, for I have come to the end of my Latin."
And Fritz Sahlmann now comes down to my father and says: "Herr
Burmeister, come quickly to the Amtshauptmann's help, or, by my life,
things will go badly."
"Why, what's the matter?" asks my father.
"There are six rascally French Chasseurs in the courtyard at the
Schloss,--and the Captain of them,--he is in with the Herr,--and has
forgotten his manners,--and has drawn his sword, and is brandishing it
before the eyes of the Herr, and the Herr stands fixed to the spot, and
doesn't move an inch; for he knows about as much of French as the cow
does of Sunday."
"The devil!" said my father and jumped up, for he was a quick,
determined man, and did not know what fear meant.
When he entered the room, the Frenchman was rushing about like a wild
beast, and the words came sputtering out of his mouth like the beer
from a barrel without a bung. The Amtshauptmann was standing quite
still, and had his French pocket dictionary in his hand, and whenever
he caught a word the Frenchman said, he turned over the leaves to see
what the dictionary made of it, and when my father came in, he asked:
"My friend, what does the fellow want? Eh!... Ask the fellow what he
wants."
My father thereupon began to speak to the Frenchman, but he was so loud
and vehement, shouted and gesticulated so much, that the old
Amtshauptmann asked: "What is he so excited for, friend?" Well, at last
my father got out of the Frenchman what it was he wanted:--"fifteen fat
oxen, and a load of corn, and seven hundred ells of green cloth, and a
hundred louisd'ors;"--and a great deal "doo vang," (as my father told
the Amtshauptmann) for himself, and his men besides. "My friend," then
said the old Herr, "tell the fellow he is a scound...."
"Stop!" cried my father, "don't say that word, Herr Amtshauptmann, he
will often have heard it lately, and maybe he understands it. No, I
advise that we should give him plenty 'doo vang' now, it will be time
enough to think of the rest afterwards." And the Herr Amtshauptmann
agreed, and ordered Fritz Sahlmann to get glasses and wine from Mamsell
Westphalen, "but not the best."
Well, the wine comes, and my father fills the Frenchman's glass and the
Frenchman fills my father's, and they drink and fill alternately, and
my father soon says: "Herr Amtshauptmann, you must sit down too and
help me, for this fellow is a cask without a bottom."
"My friend," answered the Amtshauptmann, "I am an old man and the chief
justiciary in his Grace's bailiwick of Stemhagen; it is not fitting
that I should sit and drink with this fellow."
"Yes," said my father, "but Necessity knows no law, and besides, this
is for our country."
And so the old Herr sat down and did his best. But after some time my
father said: "Herr Amtshauptmann, the fellow is too many for us; what a
mercy it would be if we could get hold of some one with a strong head."
And as he said this, there came a knock at the door. "Come in."
"Good day," says old Miller Voss of Gielow, coming in, "good day, Herr
Amtshauptmann."
"Good day, Miller, what is the matter now?"
"O! Herr, I have come again about my lawsuit."
"There's no more time for that to-day; you see the position we are in."
But my father cried out: "Voss, come here, and do a Christian deed.
Just seat yourself by this Frenchman and drink him down." Miller Voss
looked first at my father and then at the Amtshauptmann, and thought to
himself: "I've never been at a session like this before;" but
nevertheless he soon found himself at home in it.
My father now goes to the Amtshauptmann, and says: "Herr Amtshauptmann,
this is our man; he will finish the fellow, I know him."
"Good," said the old Herr, "but how are we to get rid of the six
fellows out there in the courtyard?"
"They are but a band of ruffians and marauders," replied my father,
"only let me do as I like, and I will soon get rid of them," and he
called Fritz Sahlmann and said: "Fritz, my lad, go down through the
Schloss-garden,--mind no one sees you,--and run to Droz the watchmaker;
he is to put on his uniform and his black leggings and bearskin and
sword and gun, and slip across the garden through the little green gate
to the corner window, and then cough."
Now as concerns Droz the watchmaker, he was by birth a Neufchatelois;
he had served under many flags, amongst them the French, and at last
had come to a halt in my native town, where he had married a widow and
settled. He had hung up his French uniform, and in the evening twilight
when it was too dark to see to mend watches, he used to put it on and
strut up and down his little room, but with his head bare, as the
ceiling was too low for him to wear his bearskin. And then he would
talk about "la grande nation" and "le grand Empereur" and command the
division: Right wheel: Left wheel: Right about face: till his wife and
children crept behind the bed for fear. But he was a good man and would
not hurt a fly, and the next day "la grande nation" would be safe in
the cupboard, and he mending away at his watches and eating Mecklenburg
dumplings dipped in the fat of Mecklenburg bacon.
Well, while the watchmaker was buttoning on his leggings and putting on
his bearskin. Miller Voss sat drinking with the Frenchman, both working
well at the Amtshauptmann's red wine, and the Frenchman clinked glasses
with the Miller and said: "A vous!" and the Miller then took his glass,
drank and said: "Pooh, pooh!" and then the Miller clinked glasses with
the Frenchman, and the Frenchman thanked him and said: "Serviteur," and
then the Miller drank again and said: "Rasc'lly cur!" And in this way
they went on drinking and talking French together.
Gradually they became more and more friendly, and the Frenchman put his
sword in its sheath, and before very long they were in each other's
arms. At this moment a cough was heard under the corner window, and my
father stole out and gave the watchmaker directions what he was to do.
But the Herr Amtshauptmann kept walking up and down, wondering what the
Duke would say to all this if he were to see it, and said to the
Miller: "Miller, don't give in, I will not forget you." And the Miller
did not give in, but drank sturdily on.
Meanwhile the watchmaker went stealthily back again through the
Schloss-garden, and when he came on to the road leading up to the
Schloss, he slapped himself on the breast and drew himself up to his
full height, for he was now "grande nation" again, and he marched in at
the Schloss-gate in military style which suited him well, for he was a
fine-looking fellow. The six Chasseurs who were standing by their
horses, looked at him and whispered together, and one of them went
after him and demanded whence he came and whither he was going. But
Droz looked scornfully over his shoulder at him and answered him
sharply and shortly in French that he was the quartermaster of the
seventy-third Regiment, and that it would be up from Malchin in
half-an-hour, and he must first of all speak to "Monsieur le Baillif."
The Chasseur turned pale, and as Droz began to talk about marauders and
related how his Captain had had a couple shot the day before, first one
and then another jumped on to his horse, and although a few did chatter
together for a moment or two and pointed to the Schloss, yet none of
them felt inclined to stay any longer, and almost before you could lift
your finger, the courtyard was empty. And we boys stood at the
Brandenburg gate and watched the six French Chasseurs as they
floundered about in the mud, for it was just the season for the
Mecklenburg roads, being the spring and the thaw having just set in.