"How is it, I wonder,
When sweetheart I see,
I want to be talking,
But yet it won't gee?
'No, no,' and 'Yes, yes,'
And 'I s'pose,' and 'In course,'
Is often the whole of our loving discourse."
"Come, wake up!" said she, shaking the teacher's arm; "stir your
stumps. 'I lost my stocking at Lauterbach:'" and she danced around the
room, dragging him after her.
Thaddie now came in, and general hilarity with him. In a grand council
the politic resolve was taken that, if the Constantine question should
be still unadjusted when harvest-home came on, the teacher was to
attend Agnes at the festival, while Thaddie was to figure as the
nominal escort of Hedwig.
After a long conversation in anticipation of what the future was
expected to bring forth, Agnes called upon the teacher to reward her
intervention by telling a story. The others joined their requests to
hers. The teacher offered to go home to get a book; but this was not
permitted: he had nothing to do but begin at once.
Collecting his thoughts with an effort, he launched into the story of
the Beautiful Magelona. At first he spoke almost without intonation,
hardly knowing what he said, and thinking more of Hedwig's hand, which
rested in his, than of the tale. As the interest of the narrative
increased, he closed his eyes, and resigned his imagination entirely to
the world of wonders and witchery he was describing. His hearers hung
upon his words with beaming eyes, and Hedwig's heart bounded within
her.
When he had finished, Agnes took his head between her hands and shook
it, saying, "He is a fine fellow, every inch of him. May I kiss him
now, Hedwig?"
"Yes, with all my heart."
Availing himself of the permission, the teacher immediately turned to
Thaddie and said, extending his hand, "Let us be friends too."
When he took his leave, Thaddie went with him to the door and said, on
the steps, "Mr. Teacher, I want to ask a favor of you, and maybe I can
do you another some day. I can read very well: won't you lend me one of
your storybooks?"
"With the greatest pleasure," said the teacher, shaking hands warmly at
parting.
Besides the happy change in his feelings which the love of Hedwig had
effected, it was attended with a further consequence; for he was one of
those sensitive natures in which the thirst for union and harmony
brings all thoughts into very near juxtaposition and allows the
electric spark of association to combine them with rare frequency.
The words that fell from Hedwig's lips were so sweet as to imbue with
their charm even the harsh dialect in which they were spoken. He now
determined to devote his particular study to this idiom, and, if
possible, to make it the basis of the instruction of his pupils. He
asked the old teacher to help him to some of the works written in the
Upper Suabian dialect, and received that old gentleman's favorite
work,--indeed, almost the only one he read,--Sebastian Sailer's poems.
With all his new predilections, it was some time before he could read
these effusions with pleasure. The entire absence of what is ordinarily
called refinement in the character of these people--that spirit which
cannot deal even with the most sacred things save in a vein of blunt
good-humor akin to burlesque--is here presented with overpowering
truthfulness. The poet--a spiritual one, by-the-by--represents God the
Father in the character of a village squire, and keeps up the _role_
for many pages.
The old teacher explained that all this had not in the least affected
the sanctity of religion. "In those days," said he, "when people's
piety was in their hearts and not on their tongues, they could crack a
dozen jokes, and yet their hearts remained the same: nowadays they're
afraid of the snuffers coming near the candle, for they know it will
take very little to put it out, and they must trim it all the time to
keep it alive. I used to play jigs on the organ whenever I had a mind
to."
Our friend, while admitting the force of this argument, suspected that
a little of the scoffing spirit of the last century had also found its
way into the poet's rhymes, though, doubtless, not into the hearts of
his public; but he kept this idea to himself, and drew from the
schoolmaster a full account of the manner in which these extraordinary
dramas used to be performed at Carnival-time. The old gentleman was
particularly explicit in describing the costume he himself had worn in
the character of Lucifer.
"Modern culture and refinement have taken many things from the people.
What substantial joys have they received in return? Can they be
compensated? and how?"
These words, taken from his note-book, appear to have been written
about that time. A movement was going on within him.
One day Buchmaier urged him to apply for the right of citizenship
in the village, as he might calculate upon receiving the office of
town-clerk. Seizing the broad hand of his friend, he replied, joyfully,
"Now you have it in your power to make peace in the whole village, if
you will only get my broth--I mean the College Chap, this office: he is
amply competent."
Buchmaier smiled, but would not consent. At the teacher's earnest
entreaties, however, he agreed to abstain from all opposition.
[Illustration: The procession passed up the street.]
The teacher hastened to broach the matter to the College Chap. The
latter received the suggestion with some _hauteur_, and said he did not
know whether he could take the office. Nevertheless, he thanked the
teacher for his good-will, and the preliminaries of a peace were
concluded between the parties.
Harvest-home came, and the two couples went to the dance, as they had
arranged.
No longer did the teacher loiter in the fields while the village was
alive with dance and song: he was himself a participator in the revel;
but even yet he was not entirely absorbed in it.
For two days he did not leave the dancing-floor, except once, to take a
short walk with Hedwig and Agnes in the fields and refresh his powers
for new exertions. At times a pang would strike him when an impure song
was heard: he would fain have stopped his ears and Hedwig's against it.
The idea of endeavoring to exert an influence upon this spontaneous
product of the popular mind and heart recurred to him with more force
than ever. He had acquired some popularity among the young fellows by
his participation in their amusements; and upon this foundation he
built a portion of his hopes.
For two whole nights he had kept it up; but when, on the third day, the
harvest-home was buried with pomp and funeral solemnities, he could not
induce himself to join in this extravaganza also. Standing before his
door, he watched the procession as it passed up the street, preceded by
the band playing a dead march, sometimes interrupted by a whining chant
or dirge. A trestle, covered with broken bottles, glasses, and legs of
chairs, was borne solemnly to the height and there cast into a grave
and covered with earth, while the wit of the village expended itself in
funeral orations.
Joy and sadness came and went by turns in Johnnie's house, after the
harvest-home. Constantine was elected town-clerk, the teacher having
electioneered for him in public. Peace was thus restored between the
contending parties, and the College Chap made friendly advances to the
teacher. The latter, in the gladness of his heart, addressed him,
according to the German custom, with "thee" and "thou." Such an excuse
for drinking a "smollis" was not to be neglected. The new town-clerk
took the teacher's arm and dragged him by force to the inn, where the
toasts were drunk in the most approved forms, the "brothers hail"
standing arm in arm and clinking their glasses as they sang.
After these preliminary operations, the College Chap entered the family
council at home, and advocated the teacher's suit of Hedwig with his
usual eagerness and impetuosity.
The betrothal of the two lovers was solemnized with the accustomed
ceremonies. They plighted their troth to each other in the presence of
her father and brother, of the old squire, and of Buchmaier, whom the
teacher had invited in lieu of kindred or other friends.
When the transaction was over, Hedwig left her room with the
bridegroom--for to that name, in German parlance, he was now
entitled--and embraced him for the first time, saying, "I do love you
dearly,--dearly!"
They repaired to her grandmother's room, who was lying ill in bed, and
knelt down at her bedside.
"He is mine now, forever," said Hedwig. She could not say more. The
grandmother laid her hands upon them and muttered a prayer; after which
she said, "Get up, and don't kneel here: you mustn't kneel anywhere but
before God. Don't I tell you? I am the messenger who is to give them
notice in heaven that you have found each other. Teacher, what's your
mother's name? I'm going to her the minute I get there, and to your
father too; and then I mean to take my Jack Adam, and my brothers and
sisters, and my parents with me, and my three grandchildren that are
gone, and we'll all sit down together and talk about you and pray for
you; and then you must be happy. Hedwig, I leave you my necklace,
you'll find it in the closet there. And there's a wreath beside it,
from my wedding: take good care of it: it will bring blessings down on
you. Let your children smell at it after the christening. And, though
you should get married soon after I go, you must have music at your
wedding. Do you hear? You sha'n't be grieving for me, and the
seven-league dance you must dance for me: I will look down on you with
joy, and the whole family up there shall celebrate the wedding too."
The lovers tried to dispel her anticipations of death; but she replied,
"I feel just as if somebody was pulling my arm all the time, and
saying, 'Make haste: it's time.' But it isn't hard enough yet: it must
come harder. You mustn't cry now: don't. I am going into good hands,
a'n't I? I thank the Lord for having let me live long enough to see
Hedwig get a good husband. Love each other, and honor each other.
"Hedwig, he's a studied man, and they often get kinks into their heads:
I know that from my sister. You must have patience with him. These
studied men have very different notions from other folks, sometimes,
and then they let them out the wrong way and to the wrong person. And
you, teacher, when you get my Hedwig, my dear Hedwig----" She could not
speak further: the girl lay on her neck, weeping.
The old woman had spoken quite fluently, her cough having disappeared
entirely; now, however, she sank upon her pillow exhausted. The lovers
stood looking upon her sadly. At last she raised herself again, and
said, "Hedwig, go and ask Valentine's Christina to stay with me: I
sha'n't die to-day yet. You mustn't come to me again all day. Go, now,
both of you, and be in good spirits: promise me to be in good spirits."
The teacher executed the commission she had given to Hedwig, and then
both were dismissed from the bedside. Their hearts continued to quiver
with sadness until they had seen Buchmaier's Agnes, who managed to
enliven them with her usual chat and raillery.
Then they walked in the fields, followed by the white hen. The seed was
not yet in the ground,--so that there was no objection to her being at
large. The breath of Nature recalled their souls to the full gladness
of the occasion. Around them autumn was at work among the yellow
leaves; but in their hearts it was all spring.
Next day Hedwig's grandmother called for the Eucharist. The teacher did
duty for the sexton, and carried the lantern for the parson: a
considerable portion of the congregation assembled at the door and
prayed while Maurita was being "served" within. The only reflection
occupying the teacher's thoughts during the ceremony was, "Would that
all freethinkers could meet death with equal confidence!" Maurita
received the sacrament with open, beaming eyes, then turned to the wall
and spoke no more. When they looked at her after a time, she was dead.
Maurita was buried with silent and devout sadness, unaccompanied by
loud weeping or wailing. The whole village mourned. Even old George the
blacksmith said, with a seriousness unusual to him, "I am so sorry she
is dead! My turn comes next."
When the teacher returned from the burial, Hedwig embraced him, and
said, weeping, "I want you more than ever now: I have no grandmother
any more."
The teacher had found another tie to attach him to the village: the
corpse of a friend rested in its soil.
[Illustration: The corpse of a friend rested in its soil.]
Thus we have accompanied the good Maurita to the entrance of the life
beyond, and the teacher to the opening of a new life on earth. We
cannot follow the good old grandmother to heaven: let us see, a little
longer, what happened to the teacher.
His betrothal had given great satisfaction throughout the village. Even
the children playing on the site of the fire were sometimes involved in
excited discussions, as they endeavored to explain their relationship
to Hedwig, and therefore to the teacher. Johnnie had not a great many
friends in the village; but this event gave pleasure to all. Everyone
whom the teacher met shook hands and wished him much joy and happiness.
Every one had something good to tell of Hedwig. Men and women who would
otherwise never have thought of conversing with the teacher now chatted
like old acquaintances. Mat came to his house, shook his hands warmly,
and said, "Ah, I was the one that told you it must come so: don't you
remember? You might have given me a farm and you wouldn't have pleased
me more. When the old teacher dies you shall have the two fields he
farms now: it's good land, and, if you'll let me know, I'll work two or
three days for you with pleasure."
The teacher was doubly pleased at this friendly spirit. He saw the good
hearts of the villagers; and he also saw how firm a footing he had
gained in their affections, and how much he had bettered the prospect
of exerting a beneficent influence over them.
Mankind are no longer accustomed to receive benefits emanating from no
other motive than the general desire to do them good. They have been
betrayed and disappointed so often that now they meet the
philanthropist with intuitive suspicion. They think so very general an
aspiration must cloak some very particular design. They will permit no
one to love them unreservedly but those who are related to them by some
special bond of kindred or other relationship.
Winter stalked into the village with rapid strides. The villagers
remained at home and enjoyed what their toil had gathered. Threshing,
and a little manuring, was the only kind of labor that could be
performed. When the grain was threshed, all was silent. Here and there
a travelling peddler might be heard crying "Spindles! wives' spindles!"
The snow drifted about the street, and all cuddled around the genial
tile stove. At such times an evil spirit would walk in the village in
broad daylight,--the spirit of idleness. Whomsoever the spirit looked
at was doomed to yawn and gossip and quarrel. The time of rest was not
a time of recreation, because there had been no exertion to rest from.
Young men sat for whole days in the tavern, playing cards; and, though
so sorely burdened with excess of time, they never thought of going
home till the last stroke of the "police-hour" of eleven had brought in
the beadle and the landlord's inevitable notice to quit. Others went to
bed early and drowned their time in sleep; while still others soiled it
with wickedness.
[Illustration: Here and there a travelling peddler might be heard.]
Idleness is the root of all evil. The industrious alone are
intrinsically cheerful, peaceable and well meaning; idlers easily lean
to gambling and drunkenness, and are prone to wrangling, quarrels, and
treachery. It is for this reason, and this alone, that all the vices
love to dwell among the so-called upper classes of society.
While the greater part of the villagers were thus vegetating, the
teacher had awakened to a double existence. It sometimes happens that a
man who has had a violent fever rises from his bed an inch or two
taller than before. Thus our friend, while his flying pulses studied
Hedwig's life and being, had made wonderful progress in the
understanding of the people's character. As he had formerly "sipped the
intellectual breath of beauty" from the productions of inanimate
nature, leaving to others the task of turning into use her treasures,
so now he recognised the presence of a higher principle in every living
intelligence. Every person who crossed his path was a representative of
some portion or place of the people's character. Instead of looking
down upon others from the eminence of his own intellectuality, he
forgot himself, and unconsciously looked up to the intelligence he
detected in every other. The others were raised in his estimation,
because he thought only of that which ennobled them: himself had sunk,
because he was only reminded of himself by those petty occurrences of
every-day life which brought out the lesser traits in his own nature.
He was a man who understood the inmost thoughts and feelings of all
around him. He boldly followed up his resolve to give them a taste of
the pleasures of the mind: he was sufficiently matured himself to
penetrate the rough bark which concealed the core of their minds and
hearts.
In the evening he would read aloud the papers at the inn. He had many
explanations to give, and many false impressions to remove: for the
College Chap, who had previously acted as oracle, had taken pleasure in
"stuffing up the natives." A little circle habitually gathered round
him, while others played cards at the table: even these, however, would
occasionally listen to what he was saying, by which many a trick was
lost.
Little by little the teacher obtained their confidence, and they spoke
their minds more freely. With all the excellence of his intention, he
still found it difficult to translate himself entirely into their ways
of thinking. It is an easy thing to say, "I love the people!" but
to be prepared at all times to receive all sorts of crudities with
respect, without taking offence at habits and customs often repulsive
and obdurate,--to follow the discursive ones through a thousand
pointless digressions,--to sympathize with the impetuous in a
jargon of incoherent impulses and sentiments,--requires a power of
self-abnegation, a degree of control over one's own individuality, with
which but very few are favored. Thanks to his clear understanding of
the task, our friend was one of the number.
One evening Mat began, "Mr. Teacher, I'm going to ask a stupid
question; but why is that paper called the 'Suabian Mercury,' and not
the 'Suabian Markery'? Sure it is a markery; because every thing that
happens is marked down there. Is 'Mercury' High German for 'Markery'?"
"You've caught the old robin in his nest," said the College Chap.
"You're right there, Mat: those fellows in Stuttgard don't know any
thing about it. If I was you I'd go down and tell 'em: they'll give you
a premium, depend upon it."
The teacher explained that Mercury had been the messenger of the gods,
and the god of trade, in ancient Greece.
"Yes; but how does he come to be called 'Suabian'?" asked Mat, again.
"Well, they chose to give that name to the paper," answered the
teacher. He had never thought about it himself.
"I want to know," began Hansgeorge: "did the Greecelanders believe in
more gods than one?"
"Of course," replied the College Chap. "One of 'em manured and the
other sowed, one rained and the other thundered: they had a particular
god or goddess for every particular job. The Greeks even allowed their
gods to marry."
"I guess they were saints or angels," said Wendel the mason, "or
tutelaries; but they must have had some sort of a captain over them, or
it would be a carnival stupid enough to split your sides with
laughing."
"You weren't by when they built the tower of Babel, neither, mason,"
said the College Chap. "Of course they had a captain, and a trump card
he was: he had a jealous wife, though, and she gave him lots of
trouble. Now, I'll leave it to the teacher whether all this isn't as
true as gospel."
Suppressing a sigh, the teacher gave the company a cursory sketch of
the Grecian mythology. Some of the wonders included in it created much
sensation. It occurred to him, also, how strange it was that he should
be expounding the Hellenic sages in a smoky bar-room of the Black
Forest. All this was the doing of the Suabian Mercury.
It was almost impossible to persuade the farmers that the Greeks were
not "jackasses." He told them of the wise and good Socrates, and of his
martyrdom.
"Why, that was almost as bad as the way they treated our Savior," said
Kilian of the Frog Alley.
"Certainly," replied the teacher. "Whoever undertakes to teach a new
and wholesome truth by its right name and without circumlocution must
take a cross for his pains." He sighed as he said this; for it seemed
to have some bearing upon his own case: the task he had undertaken was
not an easy one.
As they went away, the men said to each other, "We've had a fine
evening for once: you get a little wiser, and time passes round before
you know it."
The teacher had formed the design of reading something to the farmers
about the Grecian mythology: fortunately, however, he laid his hand
upon a very different book,--a collection of German proverbs. On
entering the bar-room, he took the book from his pocket, saying, "Let
me read you something."
There were wry faces on all sides; for farmers regard books as their
natural enemies. Mat spoke first:--
"Better tell us a story, Mr. Teacher."
"Yes, yes; tell us something: don't read," was the general response.
"Well, just listen a little while," said the teacher: "if you don't
like it, say so, and I'll stop."
He began to read the proverbs, pausing after every one.
"Why, that's what George the blacksmith says," and "That's Spring Bat's
word," "That's what old Maurita used to say," "That's your speech,
Andrew, Mike, Caspar," was soon heard from different quarters of the
room. The players laid aside their cards and listened; for at times a
pithy sentence would provoke general merriment.
The teacher could not refrain from asking, with an air of some triumph,
"Shall I read on?"
"Yes; read on till morning," said every one; and Kilian of the Frog
Alley added, "It must have been the smartest kind of a man that made
that book; for he knew every thing. I wonder if he wasn't one of the
ancient sages."
"Yes: those are your sort of folks, Kilian," said some one in a corner.
"Be quiet, now," cried others. "Read on, Mr. Teacher."
He did so. Sometimes corrections and additions were suggested, which
the teacher would gladly have noted in writing, but refrained for fear
of restraining the open-heartedness of the audience. They were
overjoyed to find the whole stock of their collective wisdom thus
heaped up in a single granary. One or two discussions arose in
reference to the explanation, or the truth of this or that proverb,
with which the teacher never interfered; others would urge the
disputants to silence; while still others urged the teacher to proceed.
A bright fire was burning, which our friend had the satisfaction of
having kindled.
When he returned the next evening, he found more guests than usual.
They had lost their dread of books, and immediately inquired whether he
had not some similar entertainment for them.
"Yes," said the teacher, taking out a book. But this time things were
not destined to go so smoothly; there were tares among the wheat, sowed
by the College Chap, who had a deep-seated aversion to any thing
serious or sensible. With some partisans whom he had enlisted, he sat
at a table and began to sing. The teacher was at a loss.
"Why, Constantine," said Mat, "a'n't you ashamed of yourself, and you a
town-clerk?"
"I've paid for my wine, and have as good a right here as the next man,"
replied the College Chap; "and the tavern isn't a place to read books
in."
There was a general murmur.
"Hold on," said Mat, "we'll soon fix this. Landlord, I'll go and get
some wood, and we'll make a fire in the room upstairs. Whoever wants to
listen may come up, and whoever don't may stay where he is."
"I'll go," said Thaddie, who had come this evening also. The stove was
soon in a glow, for Thaddie was afraid of losing something by making up
the fire afterward. Mat sat down beside the teacher and snuffed the
candle. The story was Zschokke's "Village of Gold-Makers."
In spite of its fine subject and elevating tendency, the book was far
from earning the applause which the teacher had expected: it was so
interwoven with the experiences of peasant-life that every one felt
himself qualified to judge it. It would occupy too much of our space to
repeat all the opinions expressed. Whenever the phrase recurred,
"Oswald opened his lips and spoke," Buchmaier smiled in derision of its
formality. Many of the ideas were lost; while others received a general
nod of approbation.
To the teacher's surprise, the first thing manifest when the story had
reached its close was that most of the company sided with the village
and against Oswald. Mat soon hit upon the reason of this incongruity in
saying, "What I don't like is that Oswald seems to do all the good in
the village alone."
"And I," said Thaddie, "would like to pull off his feather and his
star: he's a fine fellow, and don't want them gimcracks."
"You're right," replied Buchmaier. "He plays the gentleman too much,
anyhow; and as for his hereditary prince, what's he good for? But what
were you going to say, Andrew? Bring out the wild-cats."
"I think Oswald has no business to put his nose into other people's
pots and pans. What's he got to do with their cooking?"
"And I think," said Kilian, "the farmers are made out a good deal too
stupid: it isn't quite so bad, after all."
"And you're a learned man yourself, too," said Hansgeorge. Everybody
laughed.
"My notion is," said Wendel the mason, "the village is a deal too bad
at first and a deal too good afterward. I don't see how things can
change so in one and the same place."
"What puts me out most," said Buchmaier, "is that they can't get
through without even making out what sort of clothes people shall wear
and what they sha'n't. That's just like the cruelty-to-animals
societies. These things must be left to every man's own taste and
fancy. And once I could hardly help laughing when Oswald, in his
uniform and with the feathers on his hat, embraced the thirty-two men
one by one: there's a job for you!"
The teacher called to mind that the book had been written years ago,
when people were far more ceremonious than at present. He adverted to
the fine moral of the book and the many fine passages it contained. He
showed how great is the use of position, money, dress, and other
externals to those who desire to carry out good intentions among men,
and concluded by saying that it was unjust to make such incidental
trifles an excuse for condemning the whole.
"No doubt about that," said Buchmaier. "If I could see the man that
wrote that book, I'd take off my hat rather than to the king himself,
and say, 'You're a good fellow, and mean well by us.' That's my
notion."
When they rose to go, Thaddie nudged Mat, and said, in a whisper,
"Come! out with it now, or they'll all run away."
"What do you say, men," began Mat, "to getting the teacher to read to
us an evening or two every week?"
"Why, that would be first-rate," cried all.
"I'm quite ready," said the teacher. "Let's have a meeting to-morrow
night, say in the school-room. Meantime, all can think about the
society, and make proposals."
"Yes, that's right," said every one: and they parted in great
good-humor.
The meeting, which was held next day, was stormy. The teacher, with
Buchmaier's assistance, had prepared a draft of a constitution. It was
read paragraph by paragraph, with a long pause after each. At every
pause there was a buzz of conversation; but when the talkers were
requested to express their opinions publicly they suddenly ceased. None
but Mat, Hansgeorge, Kilian, and Wendel could be induced to address the
whole company. A general tempest was provoked by the paragraph,--
"During the continuance of the reading-nights no smoking shall be
permitted."
There was no end to the angry mutterings, until Buchmaier, nodding to
the teacher, as if to say, "Didn't I tell you so? I know my men," moved
to "strike out the law about smoking altogether."
"Yes, yes!" they all exclaimed as with one mouth. Buchmaier
continued:--
"So, whoever can't do without smoking, let him smoke. It'll be hard for
the teacher to read in the steam; so, if he has to stop, nobody can
blame him. But one thing we will stick to: if any man's pipe goes out,
he sha'n't light it again till the teacher's done reading. He may sleep
if he can't keep his eyes open; but he sha'n't snore."