What Mamsell Westphalen and the watchmaker talked about; why
Friedrich wanted to cut the buttons off the Frenchman's trousers;
how he put him to bed in the Stemhagen Wood; and why Fieka
did not accept the Malchin Merchant.
As soon as the courtyard was clear, the watchmaker marched with sword
and gun into Mamsell Westphalen's pantry; and Mamsell Westphalen dried
her eyes and said: "Herr Droi, you are an angel of deliverance." She
always called him Droi instead of Droz because she thought Droi was
better French and that people did not pronounce it properly.--The angel
of deliverance now put his musket down beside the soap-tub, hung up his
sword on the meat hook, threw his bearskin on a chair, and seated
himself on the table; he then drew forth a checked handkerchief, laid
it on his knees and folded it neatly, passed it twice slowly under his
nose, and then pulled out his large round snuff box and offered it to
Mamsell Westphalen saying: "Plait i'?"
"Certainly," said Mamsell Westphalen, "it platee's me; for, Herr Droi,
my eyes are very bad, and they have been getting weaker ever since last
autumn,--it was then I had my great illness, and the doctors gave
it a long name, but, Herr Droi, I said it was nothing but the common
hay-fever, and I hold to that still."
So saying she set before Herr Droi a delicious roast duck and a bottle
of wine, of the Amtshauptmann's best, and made a little bobbing
curtsey, and said in her turn: "Platee?"
Well, it "plaiti'd" the watchmaker very much, and it seemed to him as
if he _were_ an angel of deliverance, and Mamsell Westphalen's pantry a
paradise after his dumplings and bacon; and when he was at his second
bottle, he talked a great deal about the "vin de Vaud" and "ze
beauteeful Suisse." "Ah!" said he, "je suis fier de mon pays, it must
zat you come one time to my pays, zere zing ze birds and zere murmurent
ze brooks."
Darkness had gradually crept upon them, when all on a sudden Fritz
Sahlmann burst into the room and said: "Well, here's a pretty business!
The Herr Amtshauptmann is striding up and down the garden without any
hat on, talking to himself; the Herr Burmeister has made off without
saying a word to anybody; Miller Voss's Friedrich has been standing at
the gate for the last hour swearing away at the 'cursed patriots' and
the 'gallowsbird Dumouriez,' and the Miller is holding his fist in the
Frenchman's face, and asking what the French have done with the four
horses and six oxen which they robbed him of; and the Frenchman is
sitting there and not moving an inch, only rolling his eyes about."
"Fritz Sahlmann," asked Mamsell Westphalen, "doesn't he move at all?"
"No, Mamsell."
"I know you're a bit of a coward, and that you don't always speak the
truth. Tell me, Fritz, on your conscience, are you sure that he does
not move?"
"No, Mamsell, he does not move or stir a bit."
"Well then, Herr Droi, let us go upstairs; we will soon set him to the
right about; but take some of your instruments for cutting and stabbing
with you, and if you see he is going to do me any harm, you must
protect me. And you, Fritz Sahlmann, run to the Miller's Friedrich and
tell him that he is to put up his horses and come in here, for better
_is_ better, and 'what one can do easily won't be difficult for two.'"
So Friedrich now comes in, and gets a huge dram, and shakes himself, as
is the custom after a good draught, and the procession moves forward
towards the Amtshauptmann's room: Friedrich in front, then Mamsell
Westphalen, who had taken the watchmaker's arm, and finally Fritz
Sahlmann in the rear.
As they entered the room, the Miller sat at the table, a broad grin on
his round face, and before him two glasses which he clinked together,
first the one against the other, and then the other against the one,
drinking for himself and the Frenchman too. He had taken off his coat,
the work having made him warm. On his head he had got the Frenchman's
helmet with the long horse-hair plume; and round his huge body, as well
as it would go, the Frenchman's sword. The latter lay stretched on the
sofa, arrayed in the Herr Amtshauptmann's white cotton nightcap and
flowered dressing-gown; and the rogue of a Miller had given him,
instead of his sword, a long quill pen, which he silently waved about
in the air, for he could not speak a word.
When Mamsell Westphalen got to the door and beheld this spectacle, she
set her arms a-kimbo, as every right-thinking elderly person would
naturally do under such circumstances, and asked: "Miller Voss, what is
this? What do you call this? What do you mean by this?"
The Miller tried to answer, but burst out laughing, and could with
difficulty and only after some time, bring out, "Fun."
"What!" exclaimed Mamsell Westphalen. "Is that a proper answer for a
man with wife and children? Do you call _that_ respect for your
superiors, to play such tricks in the Amtshauptmann's study? Herr Droi,
follow me!" So saying, she went over to where the Frenchman lay,
snatched the nightcap from his head, gave him a couple of boxes on the
ear, said merely: "The poor innocent nightcap!" and, "You pig!" and
turned round and cried out to Friedrich: "Friedrich, come here and help
me take off the Herr's dressing-gown from this fellow; and you, Herr
Droi--for you will understand such things--take the soup-dish off that
stupid Miller's head, and unbuckle his sword."
When that was done, she said: "Fritz Sahlmann, you chatterbox, mind you
don't say a word to the Herr Amtshauptmann about what has happened to
his things, for he would be sure to burn them, and how could the
innocent nightcap and dressing-gown help it if grown-up men will behave
like schoolboys?" As she said this, she looked sharply at the grinning
Miller, replaced the cork in the half-finished bottle, put her arms
once more a-kimbo, and said: "Well, what's to be done now?"
"I know," cried Friedrich; and he pulled his clasp-knife out of his
pocket, and opened it with a snap, then walked up to the Frenchman,
tore open his coat, and was proceeding to insert the knife, when
Mamsell Westphalen rushed in between them, crying:
"Good heavens, Friedrich! Is the devil tempting you? Surely you would
not murder him?"
"Diable," said Herr Droi, and caught hold of Friedrich's arm; and Fritz
Sahlmann threw up the window and shouted: "Herr Amtshauptmann, Herr
Amtshauptmann, it's beginning now." Smack! He got a blow on the mouth.
It seemed, however, to come quite naturally to him, for Mamsell
Westphalen gave him daily three--more or less.
Friedrich remained where he was, and said coolly: "What do you mean? Do
you think I'm a cannibal? I was only going to cut the buttons off his
trousers. We used always to do it when we took any prisoners when I
served in Holland under the Duke of Brunswick against the cursed
patriots and the gallowsbird Dumouriez in the year '90;" and, turning
to Mamsell Westphalen, he added "You see, Mamsell, then they can't
escape, for if they tried, their trousers would fall down over their
knees."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Friedrich, for saying such a
thing. What have I got to do with the Frenchman's trousers? Our
business is to think what we are to do with this fellow!"
"Do? Do, indeed?" cried Miller Voss, "What do you mean? Where I go, he
goes; and we have sworn eternal friendship; and he's a jolly Frenchman,
and I'm a jolly Mecklenburger, and whoever wants to know about it, let
him come here." And he looked at them all, one after another. As nobody
said anything, he clapped the Frenchman on the shoulder and said:
"Brother, you shall go with me."
"That will be best," said Mamsell Westphalen; "then we shall be rid of
both of them. Herr Droi, take hold of him." And the one "grande nation"
took the other "grande nation's" legs, and Friedrich took his head;
Fritz Sahlmann carried the light, Mamsell Westphalen commanded the
whole, and the Miller stumbled along after her.
"Now," said Friedrich, "in with him into the waggon under the straw!
That's it. Now lie there! Fritz Sahlmann, put the horses to. And you,
Herr Droz, help me up with the Miller; but take care he does not lose
his balance, for I know him, and he slips over if you're not careful."
When the Miller was seated, Friedrich asked: "Well, is everything on
board?"
"Everything," replied Mamsell Westphalen.
"Well then, gee-up," said Friedrich. But scarcely had they gone a
couple of paces when the watchmaker cried out, "Halte, halte, Frederic!
you have forget ze camerade's horse, it stop in ze logis for ze leetle
poules."
"Yes," said Fritz Sahlmann; "it's standing in the hen-house."
"Well, then, wo!" cried Friedrich; "fasten it to the tail of the
waggon."
They set about doing so; but before it was done, the old Amtshauptmann
came back from his walk in the garden, and asked what the matter was.
"Oh! nothing, nothing!" said Mamsell Westphalen; "only Miller Voss has
invited the Frenchman to go home with him and spend the night up at the
Gielow Mill."
"It's all right then," said the old Herr. "Good-bye, Miller. I shall
not forget you."
The Miller muttered something in his teeth about fine weather, and
Mamsell Westphalen whispered to Fritz Sahlmann to run up in advance and
take the Frenchman's helmet and sword out of the Herr Amtshauptmann's
room, so that he should not see them. "Take them into my room," said
she, "and put them behind my bed." Friedrich now applied his whip to
the horses, and drove down the hill into the Malchin road, and said to
himself: "This'll be the proof; if the Miller remains sitting on his
sack with all this jolting, he will be able to get down from the waggon
alone to-night." But when they had got as far as the Barns, and he
turned round to look, the Miller lay between the foremost and the
hindmost sack, and Friedrich thought: "He won't get down without help
to-night, that's clear." And he threw a couple of sacks over the Miller
to prevent his getting cold.
And so they passed through the Barns, and the horses trotted along at
an even pace through the heavy roads and the dark night; and all kinds
of thoughts came into Friedrich's head. First of all, he thought of the
Miller's wife, and what she had said once before when the Miller had
come home in this state; but _then_ he had been alone--what would she
say to-night when there were two of them? and what would the Miller's
daughter, Fieka, say to it? and he shook his head: "It can't go well
anyhow." And then he remembered how it was just about this time of year
and in such a night that he had run away from the Prussians at
Prenzlow, ten years before, and how until he got to Stemhagen he had
been obliged to sleep in the open air, and had covered himself over
with hawthorn boughs. And then, too, he recollected--and as the
remembrance came back upon him he gnashed his teeth--the time when he
was in France under the Duke of Brunswick, and had no clothes and
nothing inside him except craving hunger, and how the French had hunted
and pursued them, and how many of his comrades had fallen dead by the
roadside, amongst them his best friend, Kristian Krueger, and how the
people had had no pity for him. "And my two beautiful bays," he added
to himself, "which they took away from me, and here I must drive two
lame old broken-winded jades. It's a shame they should be tormented
drawing a harpy of a marauder along these heavy roads--a fellow who's
not a real soldier, even. Cursed patriots! Gallowsbird Dumouriez!"
These were his oaths when he was angry. "Wo!" he cried, jumped down
from the waggon, went round to the back of it, raised up the straw,
drew the Frenchman half out by his leg, then laid him across his
shoulders, carried him into the Stemhagen Wood, and laid him down under
a beech-tree. "Yes," said he, as the Frenchman moved rather uneasily,
"it's rather damp, no doubt, but then you're damp inside; so why
shouldn't you be damp outside too?" And he looked up at the sky and
said, "For the end of February it's a nice warm night, and if the
cuckoo isn't singing just now, I heard him singing in this beech-tree
last summer, and he'll sing here again this year, please God." And, on
the Frenchman giving a slight shudder as though he were cold, he added:
"It's a bit cool, camerade, isn't it? I might cover you with a good
three foot of clay and nobody be the wiser, but I'll show you that I
have a Christian heart." With that he went to the waggon, fetched a
couple of armfuls of straw, and threw it over the Frenchman and said:
"Now adieu! I can't take you with me; for why should the Miller's wife
and Fieka be troubled with you?"--climbed into the waggon again and
drove off.
When they were near the mill, he woke up the Miller and said: "Miller,
sit up straight on the sack. I'll help you down again." Voss sat up and
said: "Thank you, Herr Amtshauptmann;" and stared wildly about to see
where he was, and asked whose horse that was running after the waggon.
When he had a little recovered his senses, he put his hand under the
straw and asked: "Friedrich, where's the Frenchman?" "Yes, where is
he?" answered Friedrich; and drew up before the door, and jumped down,
and helped the Miller off before the women came out with a light. The
Miller scrambled up the steps, and his wife came out to meet him,
"Well, father, how has it gone?" she asked. The Miller stumbled over
the doorsill into the room, laid hat and gloves on the table, and
walked up and down the room a couple of times, fixing his eyes on the
cracks of the floor to steady himself, and at last brought out the
words: "It's very hard work."
"So I see," said his wife. Fieka sat at the other side of the table
mending clothes.
And the Miller walked up and down again proudly and asked: "Don't you
see anything remarkable about me to-night?"
"Indeed I do," replied his wife; "you have been sitting drinking again
with Baker Witte and have forgotten your wife and children, and that we
are all ruined."
"Oh! that's what you think? Well then, let me tell you, even wise hens
sometimes lay outside the nest. No, I have been drinking with the Herr
Amtshauptmann, and the Herr Burmeister, and a French General, or
something of that sort, and the Herr Amtshauptmann has told me, he
won't forget me, for 'this was for our country.'--And Fieka, I say to
you, don't throw yourself away. You needn't do it. I wouldn't mind your
marrying the Malchin Merchant; but you don't want to."
Fieka looked up from her work and said: "Father, don't talk of
that,--at least not this evening."
"Very well. You are right, my child.--Remember, you are my only one
now, for where are Karl and Joe? Ah! merciful heaven!--But I only said,
don't throw yourself away; that was all I said.--And, Mother, about the
money, think of what the old Herr Amtshauptmann said. 'Miller Voss, I
will not forget you!'--But the Frenchman, where is he? Donnerwetter!
where's the Frenchman? He was lying in the straw. Friedrich must know,"
and he threw up the window and shouted: "Friedrich, Friedrich, don't
you hear me?"
Friedrich heard him well enough, but he winked to himself and said:
"Yes, yes, cry away as long as you like. Why should I go and blurt out
what the Miller's wife can see for herself plainly enough? I'm not
going to burn my fingers." So saying he fastened up the Frenchman's
horse and took off the saddle, and as he took down the valise he said:
"The Devil, isn't this heavy!" and laid it in the oat bin, gave his
horses their last feed, lay down on his bed, and slept as if nothing
had happened that day.
As the Miller was beginning to fume because Friedrich did not come, his
wife said: "Father, never mind him; you are tired and wearied with the
jolting of the waggon--come to bed; Fieka shall warm a little beer for
you to drive out the night air."
"Mother," he answered, "you're right as usual, I am dreadfully tired,
for money business is so wearying. Well, it's in order now--as good as
in order at least--for the Herr Amtshauptmann said: 'Miller Voss, I
shall not forget you.' I must be in again at Stemhagen early to-morrow
morning."
So saying, he went to bed, and was asleep and snoring in five minutes.
Mother and daughter sat up a while longer, Fieka lost in thought and
knitting away rapidly. "Fieka, you are industrious," said her mother at
last; "and I don't fold my hands and lay them in my lap either; and
Father has worked and done what he could all his life. But what is the
use of it all? The bad times come and what the French have left, the
Jews and lawyers take; the day after to-morrow we must pay Itzig five
hundred thalers, and we haven't a shilling."
"But Father speaks as if it were all right now?"
"Don't trust what he says this evening; a red sky in the morning and a
red sky in the evening are very different things; but he was right
about one thing this evening; if you had only accepted the Malchin
Merchant!"
"Mother dear," said Fieka and laid her hand gently in her mother's and
looked up into her face, "He was not the right one."
"Few people are able to marry exactly as they would like now-a-days,
daughter; there is always something. The Merchant is well off and if
your father and I knew that you were well provided for, it would take a
great stone off our hearts."
"Mother, dear mother, don't talk so. Would you have me leave you when
you're in trouble, and in a dishonest way?"
"Dishonest, Fieka?"
"Yes, dishonest, mother," she answered, "for when the Merchant sought
me, he thought we were rich, and therefore he wished to have me, but I
would not deceive him. I knew we were poor, for though you and father
in your goodness have tried to keep it from me that we had lost our
money, I have seen it for a long while. Now, pretty nearly every one
knows it, so if any one comes and wants to marry me, he will want me
and not my money; and perhaps he will be the right one."
Then she got up, and put her knitting things away and kissed her
mother. "Good night," she said and went into her bedroom.
The Miller's wife, after sitting thinking some time longer, sighed:
"She's right, and we must trust in God, who orders all for the best."
She too went to bed, and everything lay in deep quiet. Only the Mill
went working on without ceasing or resting, grinding and groaning,
flinging its arms about like a man in sore trouble striving and
struggling to rise above the toil of daily life. And from the wheel the
water ever drips like bitter sweat; and deep down below the stream
rushes on with its monotonous chant: "Nought avails it, nought avails
it. I am thy heart. As long as I flow wave upon wave, wish upon wish,
so long hast thou no rest. But when autumn comes and the corn is ripe,
my stream will slacken; and then the miller will close his mill, and
everything be standing still,--and then 'tis Sunday."