The clear tones of the church-bell melted into the bright glow of
noonday, and the peasants came homeward from the fields. The men
carried their caps in their hands until they reached the highroad: the
voice of God had called upon them to lay their farming-utensils aside
and to seek refreshment in prayer and in bodily food. A young man of
slender form had come up the road leading from the town to the village.
He was attired in citizen's dress, and carried a brown "Ziegenhainer"
walking-stick, with numerous names engraved upon it, in his hand. On
coming in sight of the village, he stood still, listened to the song of
the bell, and surveyed the forest of white-blossomed orchards in which
the hamlet was imbedded. He saluted the people who came from the fields
with a peculiar earnestness, as if they were his friends. They returned
the greeting with almost equal cordiality, and often turned round to
look at him again. It seemed to them as if he must be some native of
the village returning home after long journeys; and yet they could not
recall his features.
When the last sound of the bell had died away, when all the fields were
hushed and not a human being remained in sight, while the larks alone
continued to revel in the skies, the stranger sat down upon a bank,
and, after another long look at the village, he drew out his note-book.
Having assured himself that he was unobserved, he wrote into it as
follows:--
"Greeks and Romans, how your triumphs rent the air and your trumpets
brayed! But it was left for Christianity to steal the ore from the dark
bowels of the earth, to hang it aloft in mid-air, and pour its tones
over the land, summoning mankind to devotion, to joy, to mourning. How
glorious must have been the sound of harp and drum at Jerusalem! But
now there is no longer but one temple upon earth: Christianity has
raised them by thousands, far and near. When I heard the sound just
now, it was like a heavenly welcome to my entrance into this place. You
looked at me in astonishment, good people. Ye know not what we are to
be to each other. Oh for a magic charm to obtain, the entire control
over the minds of these beings, so that I might free them from
ignorance and superstition and give them a taste of the true pleasures
of the mind! They walk the earth even as the cattle which they follow,
seeking nothing but food for their mouths.
"This, then, is the spot where my new life is to begin,--there the
dingles and the downs on which my eye shall rest when my mind is full
of the experiences of labor and exertion! Wherever flowers are seen,
the earth is beautiful and gladdening. And, though men do not
understand me, thou dost understand me, O deathless Nature, and dost
reward my attention to thy revelations with a kindly smile. Here the
trees send forth their blossoms, and in the village I hear the merry
shouts of the children into whose minds I am to cast the light of
education."
He ceased writing, and, looking at his cane, he said to himself, "Ye
are scattered to the four winds of heaven, ye friends of my youth, and
your names alone are left me; but I lean upon the memory of your names
in crossing the threshold of my new existence. I commit my greetings to
the spring: may the birds of the air convey it to your ears and refresh
your hearts!"
He rose and walked briskly to the village.
It is not necessary to say that it was the new schoolmaster whose
acquaintance we have just made. He asked for the squire, and was
directed to Buchmaier's house.
Buchmaier and his numerous household were at dinner when the stranger
entered. With a hearty welcome, he was invited to take a seat at the
table, but politely declined.
"Oh, pshaw!" said Buchmaier, who had resumed his seat and his
masticatory operations without delay: "move up a little, you. Quick,
Agnes! get a plate. Sit down, Mr. Teacher. We don't do like the Horb
folks: they always say, 'If you'd only come sooner.' Whoever comes
into our houses at dinnertime must help us. You'll be too late for
dinner where you're going; and we're just sitting down. You must take
pot-luck, you see. It's a regular Black Forest dinner,--little fried
dumplings and dried apples, boiled."
Agnes had brought a plate; and the teacher, to avoid giving offence,
took his seat at the table.
"My Agnes here," said Buchmaier, after heaping his plate, "you'll have
in Sunday-school."
"Oh, you won't have much more to learn," said the teacher, by way of
saying something. The girl's eyes were fixed bashfully on her plate.
"Why, Agnes, why don't you talk? You generally carry your tongue about
you. Do you know every thing?"
"Wall, I kin sheow a fist at readin' good enough, but the writin' won't
gee no more, noheow, a body gits sich nation hard fingers workin' all
the week."
We have attempted to reproduce Agnes' speech in the broadest Yankee
brogue; but it is entirely insufficient to give the reader an adequate
idea of the effect produced upon our hero's mind by the guttural
consonants and parti-colored vowels of the original. All the beauty of
the lips disappeared from his view when he heard what issued from them.
After the closing grace, one of the hands, who had been sitting near
Buchmaier at the table, placed himself before him and said, pocketing
the knife with which he had eaten, "'Guess I'll go out alone with the
horses."
"Yes, I'm coming out d'rectly. Take a boy with you to hold the sorrel:
he won't fall into the harness well."
"Oh, never you mind: I'll look out for all that," said the ploughman,
walking away heavily. The teacher shook his head.
Agnes cleared the table, and hastened to the kitchen to exchange notes
with the hired girls about the stranger.
"A good-looking chap enough," said Legata, the oldest, Agnes' special
confidant. "He looked at you: I didn't know whether he wanted to give
you a kiss or a slap. Wouldn't he do for you? He's a single man."
"I'd rather be single myself till a cow's worth a copper."
"You're right," said another girl: "why, he feeds himself with both
hands. Did you mind how he held the knife in his right hand and his
fork in his left? Who ever saw an honest man doing the like of that?"
Until a very short time ago not only the peasantry, but _all_ classes,
of Germany, ate with the fork alone, which they held in the right fist
and handled like a shovel.
"Yes," said a third: "he never got outside of his father's dunghill
before, I bet you. He cut the dumplings with his knife, instead of
pulling them to pieces; so they got as tough as tallow. Served him
right, for a tallow-head as he is. He gulped at 'em till I thought he'd
choke."
While the girls were thus washing the dishes and overhauling the guest,
the conversation in the room had taken a turn not calculated to remove
the unfavorable impressions already produced on the teacher's mind.
"By your talk," said Buchmaier, "I should judge you were raised in the
lowlands."
"Not exactly: I am from the Tauber Valley."
"Oh, we're not so particular about that: we call it all lowlands the
other side of Boeblingen. What's the name of your place?"
The teacher hesitated a little, laid his hands upon his breast, and
finally answered, with a bend of the head, "Lauterbach."
Buchmaier burst into a shout of laughter, which the teacher received in
solemn earnestness. At last the former said, "Don't take it amiss: why,
Lauterbach,--every child knows of Lauterbach,--it's in the song, you
know. What made you hem and haw about it? There's no shame in't, I'm
sure. Now, couldn't you tell me--I always wanted to know--why did they
just put Lauterbach into the song?"
"How should I know? I suppose there is no reason for it. These stupid
songs are generally made by simpletons who take any town they happen to
think of, if it fits the metre: I mean the verse."
"Oh, I don't think the song so stupid as all that, and it has a funny
tune: I like to hear people sing it."
"You must permit me to differ with you."
"What about permitting? If I didn't permit it, you'd do it anyhow. Just
tell me, straight out, why you don't like it."
"What idea, what common sense, is there in a song like this?--
'At Lauterbach my stocking slipp'd off:
Without a stocking I can't go home;
So I'm just going back to Lauterbach
To buy another stocking to my one.'
That is sheer nonsense; and that you call funny? How can a song be
funny when there isn't a single idea in it? Is nonsense fun?"
"Well, that may be as it will: it's funny, anyhow: it just suits you
when you're----" Buchmaier, at a loss for words, snapped his fingers,
and went on:--"I mean to say, when you're a little over the traces. We
have a fellow here, his name's George: you must hear him sing it once:
he thinks just as I do about it. Some joker once told me that it ought
to be 'shoe' instead of 'stocking,' and that it was Lauterbach because
there are so many old shoes lying about in the streets. But what have
we to do with it now? Let's talk of something else. Have you got any
friends here?"
"Not a single acquaintance."
"Well, you'll find 'em: the people hereabouts are a little rough
sometimes; but it isn't that: it only looks so. They're a little fond
of a joke, too, and sometimes it comes out of season; but they don't
mean any harm by it; and you must only pay 'em back, and be quick on
the trigger; and if you manage 'em right you can twist 'em round your
little finger."
"I shall certainly treat them all with gentleness and kindness."
"Oh, I was going to say, don't forget to visit the councilmen and the
committee-members; and go to see the old schoolmaster, who's been out
of office these twenty-five years: he's a fine man, and 'll be glad to
see you. He's one of the old sort, but as good as gold. I went to
school with him myself, and I know mighty little,--that's a fact. The
last schoolmaster made him mad because he didn't go to see him; and if
you want to do him a particular favor, let him play the organ sometimes
of a Sunday. Now I'll show you where you're to live: your things came
yesterday."
With a discontented air, the teacher walked up the village at
Buchmaier's side. The transcendent anticipations with which he had come
were writhing under the pitiless blast of rude reality. More than once
he heard the persons they passed stop and say to each other, "That's
the new schoolmaster, I guess." At the Crown Tavern they encountered
our old friend Mat, now a member of the committee of citizens.
Buchmaier introduced the new-comer. Some of the villagers overheard
this, and now the news spread like wildfire. Mat turned and walked with
them.
The instinctive affection of the children, of which the teacher had
been dreaming, was so great that they scampered away the moment they
saw him in the distance. Here and there only a very courageous boy
would remain standing, and acknowledge his presence with a friendly
nod, though without taking off his cap,--the latter for the simple
reason that he wore none.
Near the schoolhouse they found a fine boy of six or seven years of
age. "Come here, Johnnie," cried Mat: "see, Mr. Teacher, this is my
boy. Keep a tight rein on him: he can learn well enough, only he don't
always want to. Shake hands with the gentleman, Johnnie: he's your
teacher now: you must mind him. What do you say to a stranger?"
"God greet you!" said the boy, stretching out his hand without
hesitation.
The teacher's face beamed at this welcome from childish lips. He was in
his paradise again the moment he divined a kindly inclination of a
childish heart toward him. Stooping down to the boy's face, he kissed
him.
"Will you be fond of me?" he asked.
The child looked at his father.
"Will you be fond of the gentleman?" asked Mat.
The boy nodded, but could not speak,--for the tears were coming into
his eyes.
The three men went on their way, and the little fellow ran home in all
haste, without looking behind him.
Buchmaier and Mat installed the teacher in his new dwelling.
"There's a woman wanted here," said Mat: "a schoolmaster ought to have
a wife. This is the first time we ever had a single one; and we have
smart girls here, I can tell you. You must look about a bit. The best
way is to take one that belongs to the place: if you come into a
strange place and marry a stranger you'll be a stranger always. Isn't
it so, cousin?"
"Perhaps Mr. Teacher has picked one out already," replied Buchmaier;
"and, let her come from where she will, she shall be welcome here."
"Yes: we'll ride out to meet her," said Mat, thinking, in his heart,
"Buchmaier's a smarter boy than I am, after all." The teacher
answered,--
"I am free and single, and have time to think about it for a while." To
himself he said, "Before I get into the clutches of one of these
peasant-camels, I'll run away with a baboon."
"Well, you must excuse me now," said Buchmaier. "I must go afield: I'm
just trading for a horse, and must see how he behaves in harness. See
you to-night, I hope. Goodbye, meanwhile. Going up street, Mat?"
"Yes. Good-bye, Mr. Teacher, and if the time is long take it double."
The teacher did not quite understand the last speech of Mat, which was
a figure derived from a long thread or string. When the door closed
upon the peasants he gave it another push, as if to assure himself that
he was now alone. He was oppressed in spirit, though without knowing
why. At length the story of the Lauterbacher recurred to him. He
regarded it as a piece of coarse vulgarity, sufficient to make him
forget all the well-meant attentions otherwise rendered. Such is man.
Once irritated, he remembers only what has offended him, and forgets
the greatest kindnesses accompanying it.
Rousing himself from his reverie, he proceeded to unpack his trunks.
The sight of the familiar objects tended in some degree to soothe his
spirits; but his meditative mood would not be dispelled. "I am like a
hermit in the wilderness," thought he. "What makes me happy has to the
people round me no existence. This squire is nothing but a shrewd
peasant a little proud of his coarseness. There may be a spark of mind
slumbering in their bodies; but it is smothered in ashes. Let me summon
up all my strength to guard against being transformed into a peasant.
Every day of my life I will upheave my soul from its inmost fastenings,
and not suffer a blur to settle upon it.
"I have seen teachers enter into office filled with the free
aspirations of the time, and in a few years they had sunk into the
slough of routine and become peasants like the peasants around them.
Even their exterior was careless and slouchy." Writing "Memento" upon a
bit of paper, he stuck it into the looking-glass.
At last he threw off his languor and walked out into the fields and on
the road by which he had come. The farmers working here and there said,
"How goes it, Mr. Teacher? 'Getting used to it?" He answered kindly but
curtly: their familiarity struck him as odd, and almost offensive. He
did not know that these people thought they had a claim upon him
because they had first seen him and received his first salutations.
After a long ramble, he found in "The Bottom" a solitary pear-tree of
picturesque growth. Having walked round and round it until he found the
most fitting spot, he sat down upon a corner-stone and began to sketch.
The farmers gathered around and looked on. The rumor went rapidly from
mouth to mouth that "the new teacher was copying the trees."
As a background he drew the hill beyond, with the hazel-bush and the
blackberry-hedge which wound around a cliff, as well as the little
field-house built to keep farming-implements or to protect field-hands
against sudden showers: last of all, he added a farmer, with horse and
plough.
Late in the day he rose to return, with his spirits much calmed by his
occupation. Several peasants joined him and gave evidence of a burning
thirst for information. Our friend submitted to it all with the best
grace he could assume. But it was unfortunate that, when asked whether
"it wasn't a fine country hereabouts," he answered, "Tolerable." He saw
but little in it of the picturesque.
Being struck with the clumsiness of the church-steeple, he asked who
had built the church. They looked at each other in astonishment; for
they could not bring themselves to think that there should ever have
been a time when that church was not standing.
At home the teacher sat waiting for Buchmaier, who, he thought, would
come to meet him. The dusk of evening brought out a more lively hum of
voices: the teacher alone sat silently at his open window. The
suggestion of Mat could not but return to his mind; and he thought
seriously of seeking a companion who would rescue him from the lot of
being
"Among monsters the only heart feeling a throb."
It was Friday evening: the young Jews passed, singing through the
streets, according to custom. There was a voice among them once which
no longer sings so merrily. Some songs were given from books: just as
they passed the schoolhouse they sang the beautiful air,--
"Heart, my heart, why weep'st thou sadly?
Why so still, and why so grave?
Sure the stranger's land is lovely:
Heart, my heart, what wouldst thou have?"
[Illustration: The teacher took up his violin and played.]
As the sound died away, the teacher felt the full force of the music in
his soul. He took up his violin and played that remarkable waltz
ascribed to Beethoven,--Le Desir. Nothing of the kind had ever been
heard in the village, and a crowd soon assembled at the window. To
please them as well as himself, he struck up another waltz, full of
life and frolic. The shouts and laughter of the listeners rewarded him.
Tired at last of solitude, he left the house, and, meeting Mat,
inquired where Buchmaier might be looked for.
"Come along," was the answer: "he's at the Eagle every Friday night."
The teacher complied, though he thought it very wrong for the squire to
be sitting in the tavern like anybody else. He found a large concourse,
engaged in animated conversation. The Jews, who are generally out of
the village at other times, were now mingling with their Christian
fellow-citizens and drinking: they testified their reverence for the
Sabbath only by abstaining from the use of tobacco.
After a brief halt consequent upon the new schoolmaster's entrance,
Buchmaier, who had made room for him at the table, continued his
remarks:--
"As I was saying, Thiers wanted to do France brown with a slice of
German lard; but he's found the mess too salt for his fancy, and
another time he won't be so greedy. What do you think of it, Mr.
Teacher?"
"You're very right; but we ought to have Alsace back again besides."
"So we ought, only the Alsatians won't come back. The last time I was
in Strasbourg I was right-down ashamed of myself the way they treated
me,--wanting to know whether we wouldn't soon have some more
counterfeit money that didn't belong anywhere. A real fine man I met
with said that the office-holders over there would like to be German
very much, because here they are paid best and cared for to the third
and fourth generation, and sure of their places, but in France they
can't come it quite so strong. And, if it was to be German again, who
should have it? A son of the counterfeit sixer? I believe there's one
in circulation yet? Or a sweated Hanoverian ten-guilder piece? I guess
they wouldn't give it to any one alone: they'd cut it into snips, just
as they chipped up the left bank of the Rhine, so that everybody might
see it was German and no mistake."
"While the teacher sat dumb with, astonishment at this audacious
utterance, a stout man, whose dress and accent bespoke the Israelite,
began:--
"Yes; and the Jews in Alsatia--there's lots of 'em, too--would rather
be butchered than made Germans of. Over there they're every whit as
good as the Christian citizens, and here they pay the same taxes and
serve in the army just like the Christiana, and only have half their
rights."
"You're right, Mendle, but you won't be righted," replied Buchmaier.