Next morning Fred Triddelfitz swam about the farm-yard at Pümpelhagen
like a pickerel in a fish-pond, for he had put on his green
hunting-coat and grey breeches, in order that--as he said to
himself--Mrs. von Rambow might have something pleasant to look at. His
eyes which used to glance ever and anon at Hawermann's window when he
was at work in the yard, were now turned often and curiously in the
direction of the manor-house, and when the squire opened his window and
called him, he shot across the yard as if he were indeed a pickerel and
Alick were the bait he wanted to catch.
"Triddelfitz," said Mr. von Rambow, "I have determined to make a short
address to my people this morning, will you tell them to come up to the
house at nine o'clock."--"Aye, aye, Sir," said Fred, who thought that
answer more respectful than any other he could have used.--"Where is
the bailiff? I want to speak to him; but there's no hurry."--"He has
just gone out at the back gate with Mr. Bräsig."--"Very well. When he
comes back will do perfectly."--Fred made as grand a bow as he could,
and turned to go, but after walking away a few steps, he went back
and asked: "Pray, Sir, do you want to see the women as well as the
men?"--"No, only the men. But wait a moment--yes, you can tell the
married women to come too."--"Aye, aye, Sir," said Fred, who then set
off round the village, and desired all the married women, and the
men who worked on the farm to go up to the manor-house in their
Sunday-clothes.--It was now eight o'clock, and if the ploughmen who
were at work in the more distant fields were to get up to Pümpelhagen
in time, they must be called at once, so he set off to fetch them.
Hawermann had accompanied his old friend a little bit of the way
towards Rexow, and then crossing the fields, he went to see how the
ploughmen were getting on with their work. Whilst he was there, Fred
came over the hill and made towards him in as straight a line as he
could, considering his way of walking and the roughness of the ploughed
land. "Mr. Hawermann," he said, "the men must unyoke their horses at
once, for the squire wants all the workmen to be up at the manor-house
at nine. He is going to make them a speech."--"What is he going to do?"
asked Hawermann surprised.--"Make a speech," was the answer. "All the
other men and the married women have received orders to be ready.
He had forgotten the women, but I reminded him of them."--"You'd
better," ....--"have left it alone," Hawermann was going to have said,
but he stopped himself in time and added quietly: "Go and give the men
your message."--"But you're wanted too."--"Very well," answered the old
man turning to go home with a heavy heart.--That bit of land ought to
have been finished that morning, and now nothing to speak of could be
done till the afternoon.--And there was another thing. His master had
made this arrangement on the very first day without telling him of his
intention. He had consulted Triddelfitz, not him, and yet there was no
such desperate need of hurry.--Still that did not grieve him so much as
the thought of the speech. What on earth was he going to say? Was he
going to lecture them about their duty? If he was it was unnecessary
to do so. The people went to their work as naturally as to their
dinner ..... they did not think about their duty, they just did it. It
would be a great pity to speak to them either in praise or blame upon
the subject. Too much talk did more harm than good. Labourers were like
children, if they were praised for doing their duty, they began to
think that they had done more than their duty.--Or was he going to give
them some proof of his generosity? He was quite good-natured enough for
that.--But what could he give them?--They had all they needed. He could
give them nothing tangible, for he knew too little of their position to
do so, he would, therefore, be obliged to content himself with vague
figures of speech and meaningless promises, which everyone would of
course interpret according to his own hopes and wishes, and which it
would be impossible ever to realize.
These were Hawermann's thoughts as he went to join his master in his
study. Mrs. von Rambow was in the room ready dressed for her walk over
the farm. She went forward to meet him as he came in and said: "We must
wait for a little, Mr. Hawermann, Alick wants to speak to the people
before we go."--"That won't take long," said Alick who was turning over
some papers.--There was a knock at the door.--"Come in."--And Fred
entered with a letter in his hand: "From Gürlitz," he said.--Alick
broke the seal and read the letter. It was from attorney Slus'uhr to
say that when David and he happened to be passing Gürlitz that morning
they had gone in to see Mr. Pomuchelskopp, from whom they had
accidentally heard of Mr. von Rainbow's return home, and as they wished
to speak to him on particular business, they would do themselves the
pleasure, &c. &c. There was also a postscript to say that the business
was very pressing. Alick was in a very painful position, for he could
not refuse to receive the two men however much he might wish to do so.
He went out to the door, and told the messenger that he would be glad
to see the gentlemen, but when he returned to the study he looked so
grave and anxious that his wife asked him what was the matter. "Oh,
nothing," he answered. "I'm thinking about my speech. I'm afraid that
it will last longer than I thought at first, and so perhaps it would
be better if you and Mr. Hawermann were to set out at once without
waiting for me."--"Oh, Alick, without you! I had been looking
forward ...."--"But you see, my dear child, I can't help it. I know the
whole place perfectly, and--and I will follow you as soon as I possibly
can."--It seemed to Hawermann that the squire was nervously anxious to
get rid of them both, so he came forward and asked Mrs. von Rambow if
she would go with him now. She consented and followed him somewhat
gravely.
Soon after they were gone Alick addressed the assembled villagers, but
his whole pleasure in making his speech from the throne was destroyed
by the remembrance of the disagreeable letter in his pocket. The speech
was much what Hawermann had imagined it would be. It was made up of
good advice and promises couched in such long words and high-flown
language, that the villagers were quite puzzled as to what it all
meant; the only thing they understood was that the squire had promised
them all sorts of good things, and had said that any one who had a
favour to ask was to go at once to him, and his request would meet with
fatherly consideration.--"Ah!" said Päsel to Näsel. "That's a good look
out for us. He'll do that, will he? I'll go to him to-morrow, and ask
if I may bring up a calf this year."--"You got one last year."--"That
doesn't matter, I can sell it to the weaver at Gürlitz."--"Well," said
Kegel to Degel, "I'll go to him to-morrow, and ask him to give me
another bit of potato-ground next spring, and tell him that my piece
isn't big enough to supply my family."--"That was because you didn't
hoe your potatoes at the right time; the bailiff gave you a bit of his
mind about it you remember."--"What does that matter? The devil a bit
he knows about that, and he's our master now, and not the bailiff."--So
the people went away restless and discontented with their present
condition, and Alick himself was anxious and unhappy because of the
visit that was hanging over him that morning. The only person at
Pümpelhagen who was perfectly contented was Fred Triddelfitz, so the
young squire had not cast the pearls of his speech entirely before
swine.
Slus'uhr and David arrived, and what can I say about their visit? They
sang the same song as before, and Alick had to renew his bills again.
From long practice he had grown quite expert at this. Borrowing money
is a dreadful thing, nothing comes up to it except perhaps being
beheaded or hung, neither of which is precisely a pleasant experience;
still I have known people who never rested till they had borrowed from
all the Jews and Christians they could persuade to lend them money.
Alick was not as bad as that, but yet he thought it as well to make use
of the present opportunity, and get a new loan from David of sufficient
money to pay for the refurnishing of the house. His excuse was that it
was better "to have to do with one usurer than with several," and it
never seemed to occur to him that that one was as bad as a dozen.
Meanwhile Hawermann and Mrs. von Rambow were walking over the farm. The
beauty of the summer-morning soon chased away the slight shadow of
displeasure from the lady's fair face, and she began to look about her,
and try with right good will to learn something about farming in
Mecklenburg. Hawermann soon discovered to his great delight that she
was by no means so ignorant of agricultural matters as she thought
herself. She had been brought up in the country, and had always taken
an intelligent interest in what was going on around her. She liked to
know why this or that was done, a mere superficial knowledge did not
content her. So it was that she already knew enough about farming to
understand the reasons for the differences she noticed between the
crops at Pümpelhagen and those at her old home. The soil on her
father's estate was light and sandy, while here it was a rich clay,
well suited for the cultivation of wheat. The old bailiff gave her many
simple little hints which helped her very much. They were both
delighted with their walk, and a friendly confidence in each other was
the result of their common enjoyment of the same subjects.
When they reached the Gürlitz march, Hawermann showed her the
glebe-lands, and told her that the late squire had taken a lease of
them.--"And the barley over there," asked Mrs. von Rambow. "That's part
the Gürlitz estate, and it belongs to Mr. Pomuchelskopp."--"Ah, that
was the gentleman who met us yesterday with his family," cried Frida.
"What sort of man is he?"--"I never see anything of him," said
Hawermann, rather confused.--"Don't you know him?" asked Mrs. von
Rambow.--"Yes--no--that is, I used to know him; but we hav'n't seen
anything of each other since he came here," replied the old man, and
then he introduced another subject of conversation, but Frida laid
her hand upon his arm, and asked: "Mr. Hawermann, you know that I
am a stranger in this neighbourhood, and Alick seems to know very
little about these people. Tell me, are they proper acquaintances for
us?"--"No," said Hawermann shortly.--They walked on silently, at
last Mrs. von Rambow stood still, and asked: "Can you, and will you
tell me the reason why you broke off your old acquaintance with that
man?"--Hawermann looked at her long and earnestly. "Yes," he said at
length, but more as if he were speaking to himself than to her. "And if
you believe me as the late squire did, it will perhaps be better for
you to know it."--He then told her his story plainly and quietly,
hiding nothing and exaggerating nothing. Mrs. von Rambow listened
attentively and without interrupting him. When he had finished
she merely said: "I didn't like what I saw of these people
yesterday, and now I dislike them."--They had been walking through the
glebe-lands for some time, and had reached the hedge at the end of the
parsonage-garden; suddenly they heard a sweet young voice at the other
side of the hedge exclaim: "Good-morning, father, good-morning," and at
the same moment the lovely girl that Mrs. von Rambow had seen at the
parsonage-door on the preceding day sprang through the garden-gate
towards her father. But on seeing who was with him she blushed
deeply and stopped short, so that if Hawermann wanted to have his
good-morning-kiss, he would have to go and help himself to it.
The old man introduced his daughter to Mrs. von Rambow with much loving
pride, and the squire's young wife, after a few kindly words of
greeting, asked her to come up to Pümpelhagen to see her father and
herself. When Hawermann had charged his daughter with messages to Mr.
and Mrs. Behrens, they took leave of Louisa, and continued their
walk.--"The clergyman and his wife are very good people, are they not?"
asked Frida.--"Madam," said Hawermann, "I can't give you an impartial
answer to that question. They have saved all that remained to me after
my misfortunes. They have brought up my only child with loving care,
and have taught her all the good she knows. I can never think of them
without the greatest reverence and the deepest gratitude. But if you
want to know more about them, ask any one you like in the parish. Rich
and poor, high and low will all speak of them with affection."--"Mr.
Pomuchelskopp too?" asked the lady.--"If he were to speak honestly and
without prejudice, he would bear the same testimony," answered the old
man; "but unfortunately he had a disagreement with the parson when he
first came here about the glebe. It was not Mr. Behrens' fault. I was
the real cause of it, for it was I who persuaded the late squire to
take a lease of the land. And, Madam," he continued after a pause,
"Pümpelhagen can never pay so well without the glebe; having the
lease of it is an advantage that cannot be given up without great
loss."--Frida made the bailiff explain to her in what this advantage
consisted, and as soon as she understood the whole case, she determined
that she would do her best to keep the glebe for Pümpelhagen.
When they got home, they saw attorney Slus'uhr and David driving away
from the door, and Alick bowing and smiling as much as if Slus'uhr had
been his colonel, and David had been a young count.--"Who is that?"
Frida asked of Hawermann.--He told her.--When she came up to her
husband, she said: "What have you to do with these people, Alick, and
why were you so extraordinarily polite to them?"--"Polite?" repeated
Alick rather confused. "Why not? I am polite to every body," glancing
at Hawermann as he spoke.--"Of course you are," said his young wife,
slipping her hand within his arm, "but these were common Jew traders,
and ...."--"My dear child," interrupted Alick, who did not wish her to
finish her sentence, "the man is a wool-stapler, and I've no doubt I
shall often have to do business with him."--"And the other?" she
asked,--"Oh, he is--he only happened to come with his friend. I've
nothing to do with him."--"Good-bye, Mr. Hawermann," said Frida,
shaking hands with the old man, "and thank you so very much for having
gone with me this morning." She then went into the house, and Alick
followed her; but he looked round again when he had reached the
door-way, and saw that the old bailiff's eyes were fixed on him
sorrowfully. He could not meet that sad gaze, and turning away he
followed his wife into the house.
In that look of honest sorrow lay the future of the three people who
had just parted. Alick had told a lie, he had betrayed the confidence
of his young wife for the first time, and Hawermann knew it; and Alick
knew that Hawermann knew it. A stone was now lying in the way, over
which any one passing by that road might easily stumble, for the way
had grown dark through untruth and deceit, and none could warn the
traveller of the hidden danger. Frida as yet walked on in innocent
fearlessness, but sooner or later her foot would strike against that
stone. Alick, moreover, deceived himself, he thought he could guide
Frida safely past the stone that lay in her path without her ever being
aware of its existence, and he knew that the road was clear on the
other side of it. Hawermann saw the danger distinctly that menaced the
family at Pümpelhagen, and he would willingly have done what he could
to help them out of it, but when he would have stretched out his hand
to assist and warn, Alick thrust it away with outward calmness, but
inward displeasure. It is said that a wicked man grows to hate any one
who shows him forbearing kindness, that may be the case, but such
hatred is nothing to the gnawing impatient dislike which a _weak_ man
feels towards him, who alone in all the world knows some mean action of
which he has been guilty. This kind of dislike does not come all at
once, like the hatred born of open strife; no, it creeps slowly and
gradually into the heart in like manner as the wood-louse bores its
tunnels into the wainscoting, till at last it gains as complete
possession of the heart as the insect does of the wood.