"Piety alone makes even the decrepitude of age an object of admiration
and of reverence. Piety is the childhood of the soul: on the very verge
of imbecility it spreads a mild and gentle lustre over the presence and
bearing. How hard, tart, and repulsive is the old age of selfish
persons! how elevating was the conversation of this old woman in the
midst of her superstition!"
He wrote something more than this, but immediately cancelled it. Wrapt
in self-accusation, he sat alone for a long time, and then went out
into the road: his heart was so full that he could not forego the
society of men. The distant song of the young villagers thrilled his
breast. "I am to be envied," said he to himself; "for now the song of
men is more potent over me than the song of birds. I hear the cry of
brothers! Men! I love you all."
Thus he strolled about the village, mentally conversing with every one,
though not a word escaped his lips. Without knowing how he had come
there, he suddenly found himself once more in front of the house of
Johnnie of the Bruck. Every thing was silent, except that from the room
the occupation of which was part of the dower of old Maurita issued the
monotonous murmur of a prayer.
Late at night he returned home through the village, now still as death,
except that here and there the whispers of two lovers might be heard.
When he re-entered his solitary room, where there was no one to welcome
him, no one to give answer to what he said, to look up to him, and to
say, "Rejoice: you live, and I live with you," he prayed aloud to God,
"Lord, let me find the heart to which my heart can respond!"
Next day the children were puzzled to know what could have put the
teacher in such good humor. During recess he sent Mat's Johnnie to the
Eagle to say that they need not send him his dinner, as he was coming
there to eat it.
It was unfortunate that, in approaching the life that surrounded him,
his thoughts were pitched in such an elevated key. Though he had wit
enough to refrain from communicating these flights of imagination to
others, he could not avoid seeing and hearing many things which came
into the most jarring discord with them.
As he entered the inn, Babbett was in the midst of an animated
conversation with another woman. "They brought your old man home nasty,
didn't they?" she was saying: "he had the awfullest brick in his hat.
Well, if I'd seen them pour brandy into his beer, as they say they did,
I'd 'a' sent 'em flying."
"Yes," returned the woman: "he was in a shocking way,--just like a sack
of potatoes."
"And they say you thanked them so smartly. What did you say? They were
laughing so, I thought they would never get over it."
"Well, I said, says I, 'Thank you, men: God reward you!' Then they
asked, 'What for?' So I said, says I, 'Don't you always thank a man
when he brings you a sausage?' says I; 'and why shouldn't I thank you,'
says I, 'for bringing me a whole hog?' says I."
On hearing this, the teacher laid down his knife and fork: but, soon
resuming them, he reflected that, after all, necessity and passion were
the only true sources of wit and humor.
Whenever his feelings were outraged in this manner, he now fell back,
not upon mother Nature, but upon Grandmother Maurita, who gave him many
explanations on the manners and customs of the people. Many people took
it into their heads that the old woman had bewitched the schoolmaster.
Far from it. Much as he delighted to hold converse with her simple,
well-meaning heart, it would have been much more correct to have
accused Hedwig of some incantation, although the teacher had only seen
her once and had never exchanged a word with her. "Ha' ye gude counsel,
grandmammy?" These words he repeated to himself again and again. Though
uttered in the harsh mountain dialect, even this seemed to have
acquired a grace and loveliness from the lips it passed.
Yet he was far from yielding to this enchantment without summoning to
his aid all the force of his former resolves. To fall in love with a
peasant-girl! But, as usual, love was fertile in excuses. "She is
certainly the image of her grandmother, only fresher and lovelier, and
illuminated by the sun of the present time. 'Ha' ye gude counsel,
grandmammy?'"
One evening, as he was sitting by the old woman's side, upon the same
bench, the girl came home from the field with a sickle in her hand: her
cheeks were flushed,--perhaps from exercise: she carried something
carefully in her apron. Stepping up to her grandmother, she offered her
some blackberries covered with hazel-leaves.
"Don't you know the way to do, Hedwig?" said her grandmother: "you must
wait on the stranger first."
"Help yourself, Mr. Teacher," said the girl, looking up without
hesitation. The teacher took one, blushing.
"Eat some yourself," said her grandmother.
"No, thank you: just help yourselves: I hope they'll do you good."
"Where did you pick them?" asked her grandmother.
"In the gully by the side of our field: you know where the bush is:"
said the girl, and went into the house.
The bush which had formed the subject of the teacher's first sketch was
the same from which Hedwig now brought him the ripened fruit.
Hedwig soon returned, still followed by the white hen.
"Where are you going so fast, Miss Hedwig?" asked the teacher: "won't
you stop and talk with us a little?"
"No, thank you: I'll go and see the old teacher a little before
supper."
"If you have no objection, I'll go with you," said our friend, and did
so without waiting for an answer.
"Do you see the old teacher often?"
"Oh, yes: he's a cousin of mine: his wife was my grandmother's sister."
"Was she? Why, I'm delighted to hear it."
"Why? Did you know my grandaunt?"
"No, I was only thinking----"
On entering the old teacher's garden, Hedwig closed the gate hastily
behind her: the white hen, thus excluded, posted herself before it like
a sentinel.
"What makes that hen run after you so?" asked the teacher. "That's
something extraordinary."
Hedwig pulled at her apron in great embarrassment.
"Are you not permitted to tell me?" persisted the teacher.
"Oh, yes, I can, but---- You mustn't laugh at me, and must promise not
to tell anybody: they would tease me about it if it was to become
known."
He seized her hand and said, quickly, "I promise you most solemnly." It
seemed a pity to let the hand go at once, and he retained it, while she
went on, looking down,--
"I--I--I hatched the egg in my bosom. The cluck was scared away and
left all the eggs; and I held this one egg against the sun, and saw
there was a little head in it, and so I took it. You mustn't laugh at
me, but when the little chick came out I was so glad I didn't know what
to do. I made it a bed of feathers, and chewed bread and fed it; and
the very next day it ran about the table. Nobody knows a word of it
except my grandmother. The hen is so fond of me now that when I go into
the field I must lock it up to keep it from running after me. You won't
laugh at me, will you?"
[Illustration: "Sha'n't I have a shake of the hand for good-night?"]
"Certainly not," said the teacher. He tried to keep her hand as they
walked on, but soon found reason to curse the economy of the old
teacher, who had left so little room for the path that it was
impossible for two to walk abreast.
His indignation grew still greater when the old teacher came to meet
them with a louder laugh than usual, and cried, "Do you know each other
already? Ah, Hedwig, didn't I always tell you that you must marry a
schoolmaster?"
With a great effort he restrained himself from giving vent to the
mortification caused by this rude dallying with the first budding
of so delicate a flower. To his astonishment, Hedwig began, as if
nothing had been said:--"Cousin, you must cut your summer-barley in the
mallet-fields to-morrow: it's dead ripe, and will fall down if you
don't take care."
But little was spoken. Hedwig appeared to be fatigued, and seated
herself on a bench under a tree. The men conversed, our friend
regarding Hedwig all the while with such intensity that she passed her
apron several times across her face, fearing that she had blackened it
in the kitchen while putting the potatoes over the fire. But our
friend's attention was directed to very different matters. He perceived
for the first time a slight cast in Hedwig's left eye: the effect was
by no means unpleasant, but gave the face an interesting air of
shyness which suited very well the style of the features. A fine nose
of regular form, a very small mouth with cherry lips, round,
delicately-glowing cheeks,--all were enough to arrest the delighted
gaze of a young man of twenty-five. At last, after having given a
number of wry answers, he became aware that it was time to go. He took
leave, and Hedwig said, "Good-night, Mr. Teacher."
"Sha'n't I have a shake of the hand for good-night?"
Hedwig quickly put both her hands behind her back.
"In our parts we shake hands without asking: ha, ha!" said the old
teacher.
At this hint our friend whisked round the tree to catch Hedwig's hand;
but she drew them quickly before her. Not having the courage to pass
his arms round her, he ran forward and backward around the tree, until
he stumbled and fell down at Hedwig's feet. His head fell into her lap
and on her hand, and he hastily pressed a warm kiss upon it and called
her his in spirit. Finding him in no haste to get up, Hedwig raised his
head, her hands covering his cheeks, and said, looking around in great
confusion, "Get up: you haven't hurt yourself, I hope? See: this comes
of such tricks: you mustn't learn them from my cousin here."
As he rose, Hedwig bent down to brush his knees with her apron; but
this the teacher would not permit: his heart beat quickly at the sight
of this humble modesty. He said "Goodnight" again; and Hedwig looked
down, but no longer refused her hand.
He walked homeward without feeling the ground beneath his feet: a
feeling of inexpressible power coursed through his veins, and he smiled
so triumphantly on all he met that they stared and stood still to look
after him.
But the mind of man is changeful; and when the teacher had reached his
home he lapsed into cruel self-accusation. "I have suffered myself to
be carried away by a sudden passion," he said. "Is this my firmness? I
have committed myself,--thrown myself away upon a peasant-girl. No, no
the majesty of a noble soul breathes from those lineaments."
Various other thoughts occurred to him. He knew something of the life
of the villagers now; and, late in the evening, he wrote into his
pocket-hook, "The silver cross upon her bosom is to me a symbol of
sanctity and purity."
At home Hedwig had not eaten a morsel of supper, and her people scolded
her for having overworked herself,--probably by having assisted the old
teacher in the garden before supper. She protested the contrary, but
made haste to join her grandmother, in whose room she slept.
Long after prayers, hearing her grandmother cough, and seeing that she
was still awake, she said, "Grandmother, what does it mean to kiss
one's hand?"
"Why, that one likes the hand."
"Nothing else?"
"No."