1.
Not many will divine the orthography of this name in the Almanac; yet
it is by no means uncommon, and the fate of the poor child who bore it
reminds one strongly of the German story of her afflicted patroness,
the holy St. Genevieve.
The grandest house in all the village, which has such a broad front
toward the street that all the wandering journeymen stop there to ask
for a little "assistance," once belonged to Vefela's father: the houses
standing on each side of it were his barns. The father is dead, the
mother is dead, and the children are dead. The grand house is now a
linen-factory. The barns have been altered into houses, and Vefela has
disappeared without a trace.
One thing alone remains, and will probably remain for all time to come.
Throughout the village the grand house still goes by the name of the
Manor-Farmer's House; for old Zahn, Vefela's father, was called the
Manor-House Farmer. He was not a native of the village, but had moved
there from Baisingen, which is five miles away. Baisingen is one of
those fertile villages called "straw shires," and the Baisingers were
nicknamed "straw-boots," from their custom of strewing the streets of
the village with straw. The German peasantry are not difficult to
please in point of cleanliness; and such a device suits their tastes
for two reasons: it saves street-sweeping and helps to make manure
for the numerous fields of such rich folk as the Baisingers. The
Manor-House Farmer lived in the village thirty years; but he never had
a dispute without hearing himself reviled as the Baisingen straw-boots,
and his wife as the Baisingen cripple. Mrs. Zahn had a fine figure and
a good carriage; but her left leg was a little short and made her limp
in walking. This defect was a chief cause of her unusual wealth. Her
father, whose name was Staufer, once said publicly at the inn that the
short leg shouldn't hurt his daughter, because he would put a peck of
crown-thalers under it as her wedding-portion, and see if that wouldn't
make it straight.
He kept his word; for when his daughter married Zahn he filled a
peck-measure with as many dollars as would go into it, stroked it as if
it had been wheat, and said, "There! what's in it is yours." To keep up
the joke, his daughter was told to set her foot upon it, and the peck
of silver flourished on the wedding-table as one of the dishes.
With this money Zahn bought the manorial estate of the counts of
Schleitheim, and built the fine house from which he took his nickname.
Of nine children born to him, five lived,--three sons and two
daughters. The youngest child was Vefela. She was so pretty and of such
delicate frame that they used to call her, half in scorn and half in
earnest, "the lady." Partly from pity and partly from malice, every one
said in speaking of her that she was "marked," for she had inherited
the short leg of her mother. This expression has an evil meaning: it is
applied to humpbacks, to one-eyed and lame persons, as if to insinuate
that God had marked them as dangerous and evil-disposed. Being too
frequently treated with scorn and suspicion, these unfortunates are
often bitter, crabbed, and deceitful: the prejudice against them
provokes the very consequences afterward alleged in proof of its truth.
It was not that Vefela did harm to any one: she was kind and gentle to
all. But the hatred felt by all the village against the manor-house
farmer was transferred to his children.
For eighteen years the manor-house farmer carried on a lawsuit with
the village commune. He claimed the seignorial rights of the estate. He
had fifty votes in the election of the squire; and he drew the
smoking-tithe, the chicken-tithe, the road-tithe, and a hundred other
perquisites, which the farmers never paid without the greatest chagrin,
grumbling, and quarrelling. Such is human nature! A count or a baron
would have received all these taxes without much difficulty; but the
farmer had to swallow a curse with every grain which was yielded by his
fellows. For want of a better revenge, they mowed down the manor-house
farmer's rye-fields at night while the corn was yet green. But this
only made matters worse, for the manor-house farmer recovered his
damages from the commune; and he employed a gamekeeper of his own, half
of whose salary the villagers were bound to pay. So there was no end to
petty disagreements.
A new lawyer having settled in the little town of Sulz, a lawsuit began
between the manor-house farmer and the commune, in which paper enough
was used up to cover acres of ground. Like a great portion of the Black
Forest, the village then belonged to Austria. The "Landoogt" sat at
Rottemburg, the court of appeals at Friburg in the Breisgau: an
important case could be carried still further. In the complicated state
of the higher tribunals, it was easy to keep a suit in a proper state
of confusion to the day of judgment.
The quarrel between the manor-house farmer and the villagers grew in
time into a standing feud between Baisingen and Nordstetten. When they
met at markets or in towns, the Baisingers called the Nordstetters
their subjects or copyholders, because a Baisingen man ruled over them.
The Nordstetters, who went by the nickname of Peaky-mouths, never
failed to retort. One sally provoked another: the badinage remained
friendly for a time, but grew more and more bitter, and, before any one
expected it, there was a declared state of war, and cudgellings were
heard of on all sides. The first occurred at the Ergenzingen fair; and
after that the two parties rarely met without a skirmish. They would
travel for hours to a dance or a wedding, drink and dance quietly
together for a while, and finally break into the real object of their
visit,--the general shindy.
The manor-house farmer lived in the village as if it were a wilderness.
None bade him the time of day; nobody came to see him. When he entered
the inn, there was a general silence. It always seemed as if they had
just been talking about him. He would lay his well-filled tobacco-pouch
upon the table beside him; but the company would sooner have swallowed
pebbles than asked the manor-house farmer for a pipeful of tobacco. At
first he took great pains to disarm the general ill-will by kindness
and courtesy, for he was a good man by nature, though a little rigid;
but when he saw that his efforts were fruitless he began to despise
them all, gave himself no more trouble about them, and only confirmed
his determination to gain his point. He withdrew from all companionship
of his own accord, hired men from Ahldorf to do his field-work, and
even went to church at Horb every Sunday. He looked stately enough when
on this errand. His broad shoulders and well-knit frame made him seem
shorter than he really was; his three-cornered hat was set a little
jauntily on the left side of his head, with the broad brim in front.
The shadow thus flung on his face gave it an appearance of fierceness
and austerity. The closely-ranged silver buttons on his collarless blue
coat, and the round silver knobs on his red vest, jingled, as he
walked, like a chime of little bells.
His wife and children--particularly the two daughters, Agatha and
Vefela--suffered most under this state of things. They often sat
together bewailing their lot and weeping, while their father was
discussing his stoup of wine with his lawyer in town and did not return
till late in the evening. They had become so much disliked that the
very beggars were afraid to ask alms of them, for fear of offending
their other patrons. In double secrecy, as well from their father as
from their neighbors, they practised charity. Like thieves in the
night, they would smuggle potatoes and flour into the garden, where the
poor awaited them.
At last this was too much for Mrs. Zahn to bear: so she went to her
father and told him all her troubles. Old Staufer was a quiet, careful
man, who liked to be safe in whatever he did. First of all, therefore,
he sent his peddler-in-ordinary and general adviser in the practical
duties of his magisterial office, who was of course a Jew, and bore the
name of Marem, to Nordstetten, directing him to inquire privately who
were the actual ringleaders in carrying on the lawsuit, and to see
whether the matter could not be settled. Marem did so, but with an eye
to his private interests. He procured an acquaintance to spread the
report that the manor-house farmer had succeeded in having an imperial
commission appointed to come to Nordstetten and remain there until the
matter was finally adjudicated, at the expense of the losing party.
Then he went himself to the leading spirits, and told them that for a
certain compensation he would bring about a compromise, though it would
be no easy matter. Thus he secured a perquisite from both parties. But
what is the use of all this fine man[oe]uvring, when you have men to
deal with who act like bears and spoil the most exact calculations with
their savage ferocity?
[Illustration: Marem secured a perquisite from both parties.]
Old Staufer now came to Nordstetten, and Marem with him. They went to
the inn, accompanied by the manor-house farmer, "to meet the spokesmen
of the village.
"Good-morning, squire," said the assembled guests to the three men as
they entered, acting as if no one but old Staufer himself had come. The
latter started at this, but called for two bottles of wine, filled his
glass, and drank the health of the company, jingling his glass against
the glasses of the others. But Ludwig the locksmith replied, "Thank
you, but we can't drink. No offence, squire, but we never drink till
after the bargain is made. What the rich gentlemen-farmers of Baisingen
do is more than we can say."
The squire took his glass from his lips and sighed deeply. He then went
to business with much calmness; dwelt upon the folly of throwing away
one's dearly-bought earnings to "those blood-suckers," the lawyers,
reminded the company that every lawsuit eat out of one's dish and
skimmed the marrow-fat from one's soup, and concluded by saying that a
little allowance here and a little allowance there would bring about a
peace.
Each party now proposed a composition; but the two propositions were
far apart. Marem did all he could to bring them nearer to each other.
He took aside first the one and then the other, to whisper something
into their ears. At length he took upon himself, in the teeth of
objections made on both sides, to fix a sum. He pulled them all by the
sleeves and coat-tails, and even tried to force their hands into each
other.
After much wrangling, the manor-house farmer said, "Sooner than take
such a beggar's bit as that, I'll make you a present of the whole, you
starvelings!"
"Why, who spoke to you," said Ludwig the locksmith, "you straw-boots?"
"You'll never walk on straw as long as you live," replied the
manor-house farmer. "I'll find such beds for you that you won't have
straw enough under your heads to sleep on. And if I should be ruined,
and my wife and child too, and not have a span of ground left, I'll not
let you off another farthing. I'll have my rights, if I must go to the
emperor himself. Mark my words." He gnashed his teeth as he rose, and
all hope of a compromise was gone. At last he even quarrelled with his
father-in-law, and went out, banging the door after him.
When he came home, his wife and daughters wept as if somebody had died,
so that all the passers-by stopped to learn what was the matter. But
all their entreaties could not turn the manor-house farmer from his
purpose. Old Staufer returned home without coming to see his daughter:
he sent Marem to say good-bye to her.
The old state of things went on. The manor-house farmer and his wife
had frequent differences, which Vefela had to settle. The father had a
sort of reverence for "the child," for such was the name by which she
went all over the house. There was such angelic mildness in her face,
and her voice had such a magic charm, that if she only took his hand,
looked up into his face with her blue eyes, and said, "Dear daddy," he
became meek and gentle at once: the strong man followed the guidance of
his child as if it were a higher being; he never spoke a harsh word in
her presence, and did every thing to please her, except only to make
peace with his enemies.
Yet on this very subject the obstinacy of the manor-house farmer was
but the cloak for a great struggle which was going on in his mind. He
would fain have extended the hand of reconciliation, but was ashamed to
confess what he called his weakness; and, as matters had gone so far,
he thought his honor was at stake in keeping up the war. The thought of
his honor recalled his pride; and he thought himself superior to the
other farmers. This notion was fostered by the fawning law-clerks of
the town and by mine host of the Crown Inn there, who always talked to
him of his excellent mind and of his barony. He did not believe what
they said; but still he liked to hear it. Finding, in time, that the
townsfolk were really no wiser than himself, and convinced, like all
European peasants, that the city is inhabited by beings of a far
different order from those who plod in the fields, he could not but
come to the conclusion that the peasantry were far beneath him. Not
that he really enjoyed the society of this sort of people, who never
objected to his standing treat for a stoup of wine; "but," thought he,
"a man must have some company, and it's better than farmers' gossip,
after all." At last, without avowing it even to himself, he enjoyed the
stimulus to his vanity which their conversation afforded.
Such is life. The manor-house farmer quarrelled with himself, with his
wife, with his fellow-men, with everybody and every thing, because he
would not humble himself to surrender a jot or tittle of these old
feudal rights, or rather wrongs, when he had enough and to spare
without them: the confusion of his heart and of his mind increased from
day to day, and he undermined his happiness and that of his family when
they might all have enjoyed so much good fortune.
After a time, a few old farmers, who had no warm stoves at home, or
whose scolding wives made their dwellings too hot to hold them, would
drop in to see the manor-house farmer of a winter evening; but he
received them sullenly, vexed that these only came and not the more
important and influential. Their visits soon ceased.
The mother and daughters often spent a week with her father at
Baisingen, but the manor-house farmer did not go with them. He never
saw his father-in-law again until he lay upon his bier.
[Illustration: Hard times did not leave a single farm-house unvisited.]
The life in the village became more and more disagreeable. It is a sad
thing to go into the fields and not receive a friendly greeting from
all you meet. The manor-house farmer, to make the time pass away, was
forced to talk to his dog, Sultan,--a poor entertainment for a man at
any time.
The hard times brought upon Europe by Napoleon did not leave a single
farm-house of the Black Forest unvisited. Strasbourg was not far away,
and those who had good hearing maintained that they had heard the shots
fired off there in honor of the French victories. This was said to be a
sign of great trouble in the land,--just as if any sign were needed to
show that things would be turned upside-down.
The preparations for the Russian campaign were going on briskly. The
manor-house farmer's oldest sons, Philip and Caspar, were forced to go:
their father would rather have gone himself, for he was tired of every
thing. He saw the departure of his sons with the stony silence of one
whose faculties for wishes or for hopes were gone.
Philip and Caspar were probably buried in the Russian snows: at all
events, they have never been heard of. General Huegel used to tell a
story of a soldier whom he had seen on the retreat from Moscow leaving
the ranks and shedding copious tears over his many distresses. The
general rode up to him and asked, kindly, "Where are you from?"
"I'm the manor-house farmer's boy from the Black Forest over there,"
answered the soldier, pointing sideways, as if his father's house were
within gunshot around the corner. The general was so much amused by the
soldier's answer that the tears ran down his cheeks also and turned to
icicles in his mustache.
This is all that was ever known of the life and death of the
manor-house farmer's two sons.
Meantime, pleasure and pain were mingled at home. When a misfortune
lasts long, people manage to live in it as if it were a house, and make
themselves comfortable. While in health, man cannot cultivate sorrow
beyond a given length of time, the fountain of life always lifts the
gladness of life like the sunbeams upon its waters. Harvest-homes and
weddings were once more held at home, while far away in the distant
steppe hundreds of sons, brothers, and sweethearts were laid on the
cold bed of death.
Agatha, the oldest daughter, was engaged to be married to the innkeeper
of Entingen: the manor-house farmer, at war with the whole village, had
to see his children travel out of his sight and easy reach. At the
wedding-day, Vefela, the bride's-maid, looked beautiful. She was
dressed just like the bride, with a crown or tiara of glittering
silver-foil around her head, and her hair, which hung down her back in
two long wefts, tied in red silk ribbons a handbreadth wide. This
is a decoration which none but virgins are permitted to wear: those
who cannot claim the title are compelled to wear white linen ribbons
or tape. Around her neck was the chain of garnets worn by every
peasant-girl, the dark color of which displayed the brilliant fairness
of her tints to great advantage. The collar of white lace was partially
covered by a nosegay which was set in the bosom of her scarlet bodice
with its silver chains and clasps. The wide blue skirt reached down to
the knees and was half covered with, a white apron; at the shoulders,
and at the ends of her short linen sleeves, red ribbons fluttered
gayly. The high-heeled, wooden-soled shoes made her limping gait more
unsteady still. And yet, as she walked to the church beside her sister
to the sound of music and the firing of pistols, she looked so charming
that all wished she had been the bride instead of the bride's-maid.
Who knows where were the manor-house farmer's sons while he sat with
his guests at the wedding-table? No one thought of them. Once only
Vefela sank into a deep brown study and gazed fixedly into vacancy. She
seemed to see nothing of what was going on around her: her look seemed
to pierce the walls and to wander searching into space. She was
thinking of her brothers that were gone.
Not two months later, Melchior, the third son of the manor-house
farmer, was married also. At Agatha's wedding he had made the
acquaintance of the only daughter of the innkeeper of the Angel, in
Ergenzingen, and engaged himself to her. Although Melchior was still
very young and scarcely a year older than Vefela, the wedding was
hurried as much as possible, lest he might also be forced to go to the
wars. Melchior left the village, and Vefela was left at home alone. The
mother's health failed. A silent grief was gnawing at her life. She
always wished to induce her husband to sell all he had and live with
one of his married children; but his answers were so harsh that she was
forced to drop the subject. These were sad times for Vefela, for she
was always called upon to mediate and make peace. Her mother's
ill-health increased her fretfulness; and she often said that if her
father were still living she would leave her husband. These two people
had lived to see the second generation which issued from their union,
and yet they could not come to understand each other: the older they
grew the more did their heart-burnings and bickerings increase. Vefela
always brought matters around, and wore an air of gayety and happiness;
but in private she often wept bitterly over her sad lot and that of her
parents, and made many vows never to marry. She knew no one to whom she
would have devoted herself; and then she saw how much she was needed in
the house to prevent the smouldering flames from bursting through the
ashes. It is written that God visits the sins of the fathers upon the
children. Such is the case particularly with evil marriages. The heart
that is without love to its father and its mother is exposed to many
dangers.
The death of Vefela's mother suddenly made her father feel how dearly,
after all, he had loved her in his inmost heart. He grieved to think
that he had not been more indulgent, and that he had often taken her
ailments for pretexts and affectation. Every unkind word he had uttered
stung him to the soul: he would gladly have given his life to recall
it. Such are we. Instead of bearing with and sustaining each other in
life, most men grieve when it is too late, when death has made the
irreparable separation. Why not love while yet we live? Every hour not
spent in kindness is so much robbed from the life of those around us,
which can never be restored.
On Sunday the manor-house farmer no longer went to church in the town,
but to the village church, for his wife lay buried beneath the shadow
of its steeple: he always took the roundabout way of the churchyard.
The weekly visit to his wife's grave seemed like an effort to atone for
his shortcomings toward her in life.
The house was all quiet now. Not a loud word was spoken, and Vefela
ruled there like a spirit of peace. Peace was there, but not joy: some
one seemed to be always missed or anxiously expected. Still, the effect
of Vefela's management on the manor-house farmer was such that he
gradually regained his spirits: he did nothing without consulting "the
child." Indeed, he left almost every thing to her disposal: when any
thing was asked of him, he usually answered, "Ask Vefela."
Thus they lived for years. Vefela was over five-and-twenty. Many
suitors asked for her hand; but she always said that she did not wish
to marry; and her father always assented. "Vefela," he would say, "you
are too refined for a farmer, and when I have gained my lawsuit we will
move into town, and I will give you a peck of dollars for your portion,
and you can choose a gentleman." Vefela would laugh; but secretly she
agreed with her father, at least in so far that she made up her mind
that if she ever did marry it should not be a farmer. She had suffered
so much from the ill-governed passions and implacable hatred of the
peasantry that she had contracted a great hatred against them. She
thought that in town, where people are more refined and have better
manners, they must also be better and truer. She had steeled herself to
bear her troubles only by looking upon the people about her as coarse,
and herself as something higher; and, after pondering on the matter for
so many years, she had come not only to think herself better, but even
to fancy that she occupied a higher position. This was her great
misfortune.
2.
It is a great mistake to suppose that in the country people, may live
alone and undisturbed. Such a thing is only possible in a large city,
where men take no interest in each others' affairs, where one man may
meet the other daily for years, and never think of inquiring who he is
or what he does; where you pass a human being without a greeting or
even a look, just as if he were a stone. In the country, where
everybody knows everybody, each one is compelled to account to all the
others' for what he does: no one can rest content with the approbation
of his own judgment. In the Black Forest the passing word of
recognition varies with the direction of your steps. If you are going
down hill, the passer-by inquires, "'You going down there?" If you are
ascending, "'You going up there?" If he finds you loading a wagon, he
says, "Don't load too heavy," or, "Don't work too hard." If you are
sitting before your door or on a stile, it is, "'You resting a little?"
If two are talking, the third man who passes by says, "Good counsel,
neighbors?" and so on.
There is a charm in this communion of work and rest, word and thought;
but the custom has its drawbacks. Any one having good or bad reasons of
his own for disposing of his time in a manner different from what is
customary has to contend against the gossip and the jibes and mockery
of all. An old bachelor or an old maid are in particular the butts of
this sort of street-raillery, whether it be from poverty or any other
motive that they cling to their single condition.
The more Vefela approached the sombre years of old-maidenhood, the more
was the "manor-house lady" persecuted by this sort of fun. One Sunday,
as she walked through the village, a crowd of young men were standing
before the town-hall, and "Tralla," the butt of the village,--a poor
simpleton who was half dumb,--stood near them. When they saw Vefela,
one of them cried, "Tralla, there comes your sweetheart." Tralla
grinned from ear to ear. They urged him on to take his sweetheart by
the arm. Poor Vefela heard them, and almost sank to the ground with
shame and vexation. Already had Tralla hobbled up and taken her arm,
with his brutal features distorted with fun. Vefela raised her eyes to
the young fellows with a look so full of entreaty and reproach that one
of them was actually induced to take her part. What he said was not
heard, being drowned in the uproarious laughter of the others. Here
Vefela found a rescuer whom nobody had expected. Her father's dog Nero,
who had followed her, suddenly sprang on Tralla's back, seized him by
the collar, and dragged him down. Vefela took him away from his victim
in all haste, and hurried on her way. From that time Nero was a power
in the village. The whole affair mortified Vefela greatly, and
confirmed her in her dislike to farmers and farmers' ways.
Vefela spent some weeks with her brother Melchior, in Ergenzingen. Here
too she was often sad; for Melchior had hard-hearted, stingy wife, who
hardly gave him enough to eat.
[Illustration: The squire of Ergenzingen.]
The squire of Ergenzingen, a widower with three children, frequently
came to Melchior's house; and one day he asked Vefela to marry him.
Vefela was disposed to consent; for, though not attached to the squire,
she was weary of her lonesome life, and hoped to derive pleasure from
being a kind mother to the children. But the manor-house farmer came
and told his daughter that the squire was a hard man, who had been
unkind to his first wife, and, besides, that Vefela could only be happy
with a man of great refinement. The squire was rejected. But his
proposal had been heard of in Ergenzingen; and the boys, with whom he
was unpopular on account of his strictness, came one night and strewed
bran all along the path between his house and Melchior's. The squire
forthwith began to hate the manor-house farmer and Vefela: she returned
with her father to the solitude of his roof.
Vefela would have done better to have followed her own counsel and
married the squire; but her doom was sealed, and she could not escape
it.
The life of the manor-house farmer seemed likely to end sooner than his
lawsuit. The strong man was sinking under petty ailments: the trouble
and chagrin so long suppressed had gnawed his core. For hours and hours
he would sit speechless in his arm-chair, only murmuring occasionally
an indistinguishable word to his dog Nero, whose head was on his
master's knee, while his faithful eyes looked up into his face. Vefela
could not be with him always, and he now felt doubly the dreariness of
his lot. He would have given any thing for the privilege of receiving a
guest in his warm, cosy room, only to have given or received a pinch of
snuff. He went to the window and looked out; he coughed when anybody
passed; but no one spoke to him, no one came. He closed the sash and
returned grumbling to his seat.
It was two days before New-Year. Vefela had gone to the well with the
maid for water. She purposely did this coarse kind of work because the
villagers had said that she was ashamed of it. Just as her bucket was
full, the girl said, "Look at that man there with the double eyes: I
guess he is the new surgeon."
[Illustration: The maid said to Vefela, 'Look at that man there with
the double eyes.']
A man in citizens' dress, with spectacles on his nose, was coming down
the village. Just as he was passing the two girls, Vefela took the pail
on her head; but, by an unlucky step, she slipped upon the ice and
fell, pouring the water over her. When she recovered herself the
strange gentleman was standing by her: he took her hand and helped her
up, and then asked her, kindly, whether she had not hurt herself, for
she had had a bad fall. There was something so winning in the tone of
his voice that Vefela experienced a strange sensation: she thanked him
quite warmly, and assured him that she was not hurt. She walked on, the
gentleman beside her.
"Why, you are limping," said he again. "Does your foot pain you?"
"No," answered Vefela; "I have a short foot;" and, though she was
chilled through, the blood shot into her face. She covered her face
with her apron, pretending to wipe it, though it was wet through and
through. The stranger now remarked that her limp was scarcely to be
perceived. Vefela smiled, half incredulous, half flattered. It was a
strange thing to Vefela to find the gentleman walking by her side
through the village, all the way to her father's house; and even there
he entered with her, with a word of apology, to which he gave no time
to reply. Nero, however, sprang upon the stranger, and would have
dragged him down had not the manor-house farmer and Vefela interfered.
The stranger now gave sundry directions to guard against Vefela's
taking cold. She must go to bed, drink tea, and so on.
Edward Brenner (for such was his name) sat down and chatted cosily with
the manor-house farmer. Not an hour passed before he was master of his
whole history. The latter took a strong liking to Dr. Brenner, but
spoke so much of the spectacles, and asked so often whether he had need
of them all the time, that Brenner soon perceived that this instrument
of learning was not agreeable to him. He took them off, and the
manor-house farmer nodded pleasantly, observing that he could talk with
a man much better when his head was not in a lantern. He now gave him a
full account of his bodily grievances also. Brenner looked wise, said
that the doctors had all mistaken his disease, and prescribed an
infallible remedy.
From this time forth he visited the manor-house farmer daily. All were
glad to see him except Nero, who proved so intractable that he had to
be chained whenever Brenner came. One day the latter threw him a piece
of bread as he was leaving the house; but the dog never touched it, but
sprang furiously at the giver.
Vefela was not equally inaccessible to the fine speeches and flatteries
of Brenner. She often scolded the maid for saying that Brenner had but
one coat, for he wore the same in the week and on Sunday. Such was the
way with the gentlefolks, she said; and everybody knew it who wasn't
too stupid. She often lingered near when Brenner talked with her
father, and rejoiced to find the latter almost invariably pleased with
the views advanced by the surgeon. His health happened to improve a
little after taking Brenner's prescription: this gave the latter an
excuse for saying again and again that he was in fact a better doctor
than the licensed physician, but that the law prevented him from
practising. He scolded about those who thought the only way to be wise
was to cram your head with books. "Practice makes perfect," he said. "A
farmer who knows the world often understands more about government
matters than all the ministers and governors; and so it is in
medicine." This mixture of sense and nonsense was very pleasing to the
manor-house farmer's ears: it jumped exactly with what his own
experience had made him wish to be true. The lawsuit also came in for a
share of the kind solicitude of Brenner. He confirmed the notion of the
manor-house farmer to meet in kind the tactics of his adversaries, and
resort to bribery. Brenner suggested the shrewd expedient of stealing a
march on the other party by giving gold instead of silver. Those were
the "good old times" when a lawsuit could not come to an end without
"cribbings" and officials had no hesitation in receiving illegal pay.
One evening, as Brenner left the house, Vefela accompanied him to the
door, and they remained standing there a while together. Brenner took
Vefela's hand and said, "'Pon honor, Vefela, you are a sweet girl,
and not like the peasant-girls at all: you are too refined for a
peasant-girl. 'Pon honor: and you have as much sense as any of them in
the city."
Vefela said he was making fun of her; but in her heart she believed
him. He kissed Vefela's hand and took his leave, taking off his hat
politely to Vefela. She remained standing under the door a long time
with thoughtful eyes and a pleased smile upon her lips: Brenner's
polite and yet kind-hearted manner had pleased her greatly. She went
upstairs singing, and let the soup-bowl fall out of her hands,--at
which she laughed aloud. Every thing was so delightful that evening
that she could not frown, no matter what happened. Late at night she
went into the cellar and brought the men a bottle of cider: they must
have a little enjoyment on a working-day for once.
The intimacy between Brenner and Vefela increased from day to day.
An event which had been so long expected that it almost took them by
surprise brought rejoicing into the manor-house. The news came that the
lawsuit was gained. The opponents had been at Rottenburg, where the
magistrate had told them very plainly, though with a little
circumlocution, that "the manor-house farmer's duns had come in ahead
of their grays." Though confined to the house, the manor-house farmer
put on his Sunday clothes and poured a whole pot of fresh milk into
Nero's breakfast. He sent to Melchior and Agatha to come and rejoice
with him: nobody cared to let him know that Agatha was on her
death-bed. Brenner, also, was sent for; and he alone accepted the
invitation. The manor-house farmer sat up till late at night, drinking,
laughing, and talking, and sometimes lapsing into sudden seriousness.
He sighed to think that his "old woman" could not share his good luck,
and drank a full glass to her memory. At last, as he was beginning to
nod in his chair, they carried him to bed.
It was very late when Brenner started to go. Vefela lighted him to
the door: they were both greatly excited, and exchanged fervent kisses.
On his entreaties and solicitations, Vefela at last said, aloud,
"Good-night." Brenner did the same, took the key, unlocked the door,
closed it with a bang, and locked it. But he had not left the house.
No one had any suspicions except Nero, who was tied in the yard, and
who barked all night as if a thief had got into the house.
Life and death were both busy in that house that night. The next
morning the manor-house farmer lay dead in his bed: the palsy had
struck him.
None could understand why it was that Vefela raved like a maniac by the
bedside of her father. Usually so calm and moderate, she could not be
made to hear reason now.
The estate was again purchased by a baron, and the farmers bore their
feudal burdens without a murmur.
3.
Vefela moved to Ergenzingen, to live with her brother Melchior.
Nobody accompanied her from the village except Nero. Agatha died soon
after her father, and people whispered that Vefela would marry her
brother-in-law; but that was out of the question. Brenner came to
Ergenzingen several times every week. He must have raised money in some
way or other, for he was always showily dressed, and had a peculiar
confidence, almost amounting to arrogance, in his behavior to Vefela as
well as to others. He gave them all to understand that he must be
addressed as "Doctor." Vefela did not quite understand it all, but she
did not complain, as she had made him acquainted with her situation.
Melchior had a man employed whose name was Wendel,--a stalwart,
hard-working fellow, who shared all Nero's friendships and enmities. He
loved the dog because the dog hated Brenner, and loved him doubly for
his devotion to Vefela. In Germany, polite people address each other as
"they;" equals on intimate terms are the "thee" and "thou;" and
superiors sometimes undertake to address inferiors as "he" or "she."
Brenner had once addressed Wendel as "he;" and this gave the latter,
what he had long desired, a pretext for hating the "beard-scraper" like
poison. In spite of this, however, he never objected to hunting him up
in town, even late at night, whenever Vefela took the trouble to say,
"Wendel, won't you, please?" Then he trudged along, and Nero ran with
him, and they brought the doctor a letter from Vefela. Sometimes, when
he had ploughed all day and was more tired than his horses, it cost
Vefela but a word to make him hook up again and take Brenner to town
through storm and darkness.
One Saturday night Vefela said to Wendel in the yard, "To-morrow you
must be so kind as to drive to Horb early in the morning and bring
Brenner here."
"Is it true," asked Wendel, "that you are going to be betrothed to
him?"
"Yes."
"Take my advice and don't do it. There are honest farmers in the world
enough."
Vefela replied, "You can't forgive Brenner for having said 'he' to
you." She had intended to say more, but checked herself, not wishing to
offend the poor fellow. To herself she said, "It is shocking how stupid
and obstinate these farmers are," and congratulated herself on having
got over all that. Notwithstanding his demurrer, Wendel was on the road
long before daybreak.
Vefela and Brenner were now publicly betrothed, and people gossiped a
good deal about it, some even hinting that Brenner had given the
manor-house farmer a drink of which he died, as he had refused his
consent to the match. So over-cunning is foul-mouthed suspicion.
The first change to which Vefela was now forced to submit was a very
sad one. Brenner sent a seamstress from the town to fit dresses for
her. Vefela felt like a recruit who is no longer his own master, and is
forced to wear any clothes brought to him, because the lot has picked
him out; but she submitted without a word. Next Sunday, when she had to
put on the new dresses, she stood weeping beside the seamstress, and
took a sad farewell of every piece. The skirt was particularly hard to
part with: her mother had given it to her when she was confirmed, and
had told her to go in it to the altar when she married. It is a great
defect in a city lady's dress that it cannot be put on or off without
the assistance of a servant. Vefela shuddered as the seamstress fumbled
about her. Her hair was braided and put up in a comb; and, when all was
done, Vefela could not help laughing as she looked at herself in the
window and made herself a reverential bow.
Brenner was delighted when she bashfully entered the room: he said she
looked ten times as pretty as before. But when Vefela said that the
city dresses amounted to nothing after all,--that one peasant's dress
was worth more, and cost more too, than six such city flags,--Brenner
looked cross, and said that that was "silly village-prattle." Vefela
bit her lips, and her eyes were full of tears: she went out and wept.
She very seldom left the house, for she was ashamed to be "marked" so.
She thought everybody must be looking at her. Only one other girl in
the village wore city dresses. She had been brought up by old Ursula,
and no one knew exactly where she came from.
Vefela had hard times in Melchior's house, for his wife was a very
dragon, and always gave birth to still-born children,--so that people
said they were poisoned in her womb. Melchior and Vefela often sat in
the barn, pretending to amuse themselves by peeling turnips, but in
fact eating them with much appetite. Vefela did her best to encourage
her brother to yield and keep the peace. She knew what it was to live
in a house divided against itself, and thought a quiet life cheaply
bought at almost any sacrifice. Melchior was a good fellow, and agreed
to every thing.
Vefela urged Brenner with increasing earnestness to hasten their
marriage. Then he suddenly came out with a new project. He would go to
America. He knew as much of doctoring as the official physician, but
the laws would not allow him to practise here; so he would go to a free
country. Vefela wrung her hands, fell on her knees, and besought him to
give up the plan: they had money enough to live comfortably without
doctoring. But Brenner was not to be moved, and scolded Vefela for a
"stupid peasant-girl that didn't know there were people living 'tother
side the big hill." Poor Vefela gave way at this: she lay with her face
on the ground, and the dreadful thought swept through her mind that she
was despised and would be wretched for life. Brenner must have guessed
at her thoughts: he came, raised her up gently, kissed her, and spoke
so well and so politely that Vefela forgave and forgot every thing and
agreed to go to America with him at once. Where would she not have gone
if he had led the way?
Brenner made all the preparations. Vefela's fortune was turned into
money and exchanged for gold, to be of better use for travelling.
Vefela kept it in the same press with her wardrobe.
The banns were to be spoken at the church; but Brenner's papers never
arrived from Hohenlohe, his birthplace. At last he came one day when
Vefela was busy at the wash-tub, and said, "Vefela, I'll tell you what:
I'll go home and get my papers myself. A friend of mine is waiting at
the door in the carriage; and so I shall have a ride for nothing as far
as Tuebingen. While I'm about it, I'll get our passport countersigned
by the ambassador, and then we can be off in the fall."
"The sooner the better," said Vefela.
"By-the-by," said Brenner, again, "I'm out of change: couldn't you let
me have a little?"
"Here is the key," said Vefela: "help yourself. You know where it
is,--at your left hand as you open the press, by the new linen which is
tied with blue tape."
Brenner went up-stairs and returned after some time. Vefela dried her
hand with her apron and gave it to him: his hand trembled. She wished
to go with him a little way, but he begged her to stay, and ran quickly
down the stairs. Vefela was hurt that he would not let her go with him
to the door, supposing that he was ashamed of having his friend see
her. What was all this to end in? Bitter tears fell into the wash-tub
at the thought of it. Still, she went up into her attic and looked out
of the window to follow the carriage with her eyes. What was her
astonishment when she saw that the carriage, instead of taking the road
to Tuebingen, started toward Herrenberg! It was on her lips to call to
the travellers that they were on the wrong road; but she bethought
herself that she must have misunderstood Brenner, or that he might have
made a slip of the tongue.
A week, a fortnight, passed by, and nothing was seen or heard of
Brenner. Vefela was often sad to think that her whole life was to be
given to a man who did not esteem her: she was not proud, yet she could
not help thinking how much every one in the village, even the squire
himself, would have felt honored by her hand. But again the mere
recollection of Brenner would make her happy as a queen, and she would
beg his forgiveness in thought for all the unkind ideas she had had of
him. She saw no fault in him now: when those we love are away we never
see their faults, but only their virtues. Had Brenner but had a single
virtue!
When Melchior wondered why Brenner remained so long away, she would
answer in such a manner as to make him suppose she knew the reason and
was not disturbed about it.
One day, when in low spirits, Vefela went into her room. For a long
time she looked out of the window in the direction from which Brenner
was to come. To dispel her sadness by a look at her wedding-dress, she
opened the press. Oh pity! what did she behold! Every thing rifled and
strewed about as if the Pandours had been there. Involuntarily her hand
sought the money: it was gone! She shrieked aloud, and the whole truth
flashed upon her. The wrong road--the trembling hand--the fear of her
going with him--the long absence! She flew to the window to fling
herself out. A hand seized her and held her back. Melchior had heard
her cry and hastened to her. Vefela fell upon her knees, wrung her
hands, and told him the dreadful truth. Melchior raved and swore. He
would find him out. He would bring him before every court in the
empire. Then Vefela sank upon her face and told him her shame: her
brother sank down by her side and wept with her. Long they remained
closely pressed against each other, sobbing aloud, without speaking a
word, and almost afraid to look each other in the face.
Whoever is acquainted with human nature, and with the German peasantry
in particular, will fully appreciate the goodness exercised by Melchior
in never reproaching his sister with her fall. On the contrary, he did
his best to restore her love of life. Most people make themselves paid
for their sympathy with misfortune by immediately giving full vent to
their friendly mortification and their wise admonitions. This treatment
may do for children and for people who know not what they have done or
what has befallen them; but for those who feel the arrow rankling in
their flesh it is sheer cruelty to harry them still further, instead of
drawing it out with care and tenderness.
They held counsel together what was to be done, and agreed that the
main thing was to keep quiet and adjust the whole affair secretly. With
a resolution quite unlike him, Melchior made his wife give him money,
and started in his little wagon in pursuit of Brenner. Vefela wished to
go too, and seemed desperate at the thought of having nothing to do but
stay at home and weep; but Melchior kindly persuaded her not to
undertake the journey.
Days and weeks passed in silent wretchedness. Those who had known
Vefela before would have been frightened at the change in her. But she
saw nobody, and lived a life of hopelessness which was hardly life. She
ate and drank, slept and waked, but seemed to know nothing of what she
was doing, and looked straight before her, like a mad woman. She could
not even weep any more. Her soul seemed to be buried alive in her body.
She saw and heard the world around her, but she could not find and
could not understand herself.
When Melchior returned without having seen a trace of the runaway,
Vefela heard his story with heart-rending calmness. She seemed
incapable of surprise. For days she hardly spoke a word. Only when she
heard that Brenner was pursued with warrants giving an exact
description of his appearance did she break out into loud wailings. A
million tongues seemed to proclaim her sorrows and her shame throughout
the land. And yet--so inexhaustible is love--she wept almost more for
Brenner than for herself.
Yet her misery had not yet reached its climax. When Melchior's wife
discovered her condition she became more wicked than ever. Vefela bore
all this with patience; the double life within her seemed to give her
strange new powers of mind and body, which bore her safely through her
troubles. But when she heard her sister-in-law reproach Melchior and
curse the day in which she had entered a family that had such a stain
upon it, then the heart of the poor unfortunate bled deeply. She, the
angel of peace, to be the disgrace of such a dragon! This was too much
to bear.
It was the sad fate of poor Vefela that a phalanx of bad or weak men
and women, clad in the dismal garb of gloomy passions, lined the path
on which her journey through life had been cast. This prevented her
from recognising those bright exceptions who do not press forward
hastily, because their unostentatious dignity holds them back, and
because they have a right to suppose that they will be detected without
it.
As Vefela sat weeping on the kitchen-hearth one day, Wendel came in and
said, "'Mustn't cry: don't you mind how I told you there were plenty of
good farmers' boys in the world, though they don't know how to make
bows and shambles?"
Vefela looked up with tearful eyes, astonished at the speech. But she
said nothing, and after a while Wendel went on:--
"Yes, look at me: what I say is as true as if the parson said it in the
pulpit." He took Vefela's hand and said, "To make it short, I know all
about it: but you are better than a hundred others for all that; and,
if you will say the word, we shall be man and wife in a fortnight; and
your child shall be my child."
Vefela quickly drew away her hand and covered her eyes. Then, rising,
she said, with a burning blush, "Do you know that I am as poor as a
beggar? You didn't know that, did you?"
Wendel stood still a while, anger and pity contending for the mastery
within him. He was ashamed of Vefela's words for her sake and for his
own. At last he said, "Yes, I know it all. If you were rich yet, I
would never have opened my mouth. My mother has a little lot, and I
have saved a little money: we can both work and live honestly."
Vefela looked up to heaven with folded hands, and then said, "Forgive
me, Wendel: I didn't mean to speak so wickedly. I am not so bad; but
the whole world seems so wicked to me. Forgive me, Wendel."
"Well, do you say the word?" he inquired.
Vefela shook her head, and Wendel, stamping the ground, asked, "Why
not?"
"I can't talk much," said Vefela, breathing hard; "but, forgive me, I
can't. God will reward your good heart for this: but now please don't
let us speak another word about it."
Wendel went out and gave Melchior warning against next Martinmas.
At last the worst came. The squire of the village had heard of her
condition, and now gave full scope to the spite he had so long
harbored. He sent the constable to tell her that she must leave the
village, as otherwise her child, if born there, would have a right to
claim a settlement and come upon the parish.
Vefela would not allow any resistance to be made to this act of
cruelty. In a stormy autumn night she got into the little wagon, and
Wendel drove her to Seedorf. On the road Wendel tried to comfort her as
well as he could. He said he could never forgive himself for not having
pitched Brenner down the Bildechingen steep, as he once intended, and
mashed him to a jelly. Vefela seemed almost glad to find no chance to
live at Seedorf. Wendel begged and implored her to go with him to his
mother in Bohndorf. But she was deaf to all his prayers, sent him back
next morning, and went on her way on foot to Tuebingen, as she said.
Nero had gone with them too, and would not be separated from Vefela.
Wendel had to tie him with a rope under the little wagon.
The wind drove the rain about, and the soil was so slippery that Vefela
lost her footing at every step as she took the way to Rottenburg. She
wore a city dress, and had a light-red kerchief on her neck. Under her
arm was a little bundle. An old song, long forgotten, suddenly returned
to her thoughts,--the song of the earl's daughter who was betrayed.
Without opening her lips, she often repeated to herself,--
"O, weep ye for your land so wide,
Or weep ye for your fallen pride?
Or your bright cheeks that are so wan,
Or for your honor that is gone?
Gone, gone!
Your honor that is gone."
She was hardly a hundred yards out of Seedorf before something rushed
up to her. At first she started; but soon her eyes brightened, for it
was Nero. He had a piece of rope around his neck, and seemed so happy!
The storm was so severe that it seemed as if two stones were being
struck together close by your ears, and as if intangible, rustling
curtains were weaving themselves around and around as if to smother
you. As she went slowly on her way, of a sudden the thought fell on her
like a thunderbolt that Brenner was now upon the sea. Only once had she
seen a picture of the storm in the gospel, but now she saw the terrible
reality: she was in the midst of it herself. The dark, hilly billows
tossed the ship, and there stood Brenner stretching out his arms and
wailing. There! There! Vefela raised her arms, her lips parted, but the
scream died in her mouth: she saw Brenner buried in the waves. Her arms
sank to her side, she bowed her head, folded her hands, and prayed long
for the soul of the lost one. Thus she stood for a long time, fully
knowing that Brenner had died that instant. With a deep sigh she looked
up again, took the bundle, which had fallen from her hand, and went on.
On the hill where the road turns and Rottenburg is displayed to the
eye, stands a chapel. Vefela entered, and prayed long and fervently. On
leaving the chapel again, the long plain before her had the appearance
of a lake: the Neckar had overflown its banks. Vefela went outside of
the town toward Hirschau. Here she met an old acquaintance,--Marem, her
grandfather's Jew adviser. He had a bag strapped across his shoulder,
and was leading a cow toward Hirschau. Who would have supposed that
Marem's sympathy for Vefela drew tears from his eyes? Yet so it was.
Take a village Jew and a peasant of the same degree of intelligence,
and you will find the former more cunning, more on the alert for his
profit, and apparently more cold; but in all purely human misfortune
you will see a warmth and a delicacy of feeling which lift him far
above his ordinary existence. His peculiar lot has deadened his social
feelings, but has concentrated his heart all the more upon that which
is purely human.
Marem tried his utmost to dissuade Vefela from pursuing her aimless
journey. He offered to take her to his own house, and even to raise
money for her. Vefela refused every thing. At Hirschau they both went
into a tavern: Marem had a good soup boiled for Vefela; but after the
first spoonful she got up again to continue her journey. Marem wished
to keep the dog back; but the faithful beast refused to stay behind,
and Vefela departed with a "God reward you."
[Illustration: Nero came running up with a red kerchief in his mouth.]
An hour later, Marem, having sold his cow, went to Tuebingen also. Not
far from Hirschau, Nero came running up to him with a red kerchief in
his mouth. Marem grew pale with fear. Nero ran forward, and he
followed: they came to a spot where the water had overrun the road; the
dog sprang in, and swam on and on, on and on, until he was lost to
sight.
* * * * *
The grandest house in all the village once belonged to Vefela's father.
The father is dead, the mother is dead, and Vefela has disappeared
without a trace.