And Fred was happy; he was the happiest creature at Pümpelhagen, for
there was not much of that blessing to be found there, and the
realities of life were discovered to be very different from what
everybody had expected. Hawermann saw more distinctly every day that
his old peaceful life was gone for ever, for the young squire was so
full of plans he did not know how to execute, that he left but little
time for the necessary work of the farm, which had to be hurried over
anyhow. The labourers were kept in such a bustle that they got confused
and made mistakes, and then when anything went wrong Hawermann had to
bear the blame.--Neither was Mr. von Rambow happy, his debts weighed
upon him and also the fact of their concealment from his wife. He was
troubled by the letters he received from David and Slus'uhr, with whom
he had made it a condition of his doing business with them, that they
should never show their faces at Pümpelhagen, and they were only too
glad to consent to this arrangement, for the more the affair was
involved in secrecy, the better chance they had of fleecing him. When
they got him into their clutches at Rahnstädt for a consultation, they
could turn the screw on him to better purpose than at Pümpelhagen,
where they had to treat him with more deference, as he was in his own
house. But Alick had another reason besides this for his unhappiness.
He wanted to be master, but had not the power, for before a man takes
the reins of government into his own hands he ought to have a
_practical_ knowledge of the work to be done, not merely a
_theoretical_ knowledge such as he had, and which made him imagine he
knew everything much better than anyone else. "The great point is to be
able to do a thing yourself," old Flegel the carpenter used to say, and
he was right. The most unfortunate of men is the one who undertakes to
do what he knows nothing about.--And Frida?--She was not happy either;
she saw that her husband did not confide in her; that they held
opposite opinions on many important subjects; that he was totally
ignorant of the work to which he was now to devote his life; that he
threw the blame of his own mistakes on other people's shoulders, and
more than that, she felt--what was harder than aught else for a clever
woman to bear--that he made himself ridiculous. She was convinced that
Pomuchelskopp, who, much to her distress, often came over to
Pümpelhagen, must have other reasons for doing so than mere neighbourly
civility, and that he must often laugh in his sleeve at the crude,
ill-considered opinions propounded by her husband.--She made up her
mind to try and discover the motive for his visits; but that
determination did not tend to increase her happiness.
Fred Triddelfitz was the happiest creature in all Pümpelhagen, and if
we except the twins, he might be called the happiest in the whole
parish. But the twins must be excepted, for a girl who is engaged to a
man she loves, is much happier than anyone else, even than her lover.
Godfrey had taken a situation as tutor in the family of a good tempered
enterprising landowner of the middle-class, whose sons he taught and
flogged with cheerful conscientiousness. Rudolph was earning farming
from Hilgendorf at Little-Tetzleben, where he had to superintend the
spreading of manure over the fields till they were covered as though
with a soft blanket, and on going to bed at night he used to whistle or
sing merrily, but as he was very tired he always fell asleep before he
had finished the first verse.--Happy as these two undoubtedly were,
their happiness was not to be compared with that of the little twins
who sat side by side sewing busily at their trousseaux, or making jokes
with their father and mother, or telling Louisa all about it, or
showing bits of their letters. No, no. Even Fred's joy in the
possession of his new horse was not to be named in the same day with
it.
But the boy was really very happy. His first act every morning was to
go to the stable which his treasure shared with Mr. von Rainbow's two
riding horses, and Hawermann's old hack. He fed his mare himself; he
even stole the oats from under the noses of the other horses and gave
them to her, indeed--little as he liked work in general--he rubbed her
down with his own hands, for which Christian Däsel, who had charge of
the riding horses, did not thank him.--On Sunday afternoon when there
was nothing else to be done, he went into the stable, shut the door,
and seating himself on the corn-bin stroked her gently, and looked on
well pleased while his beloved mare eat her oats and chopped straw.
When she could eat no more, he rose, passed his hand caressingly down
her back and called her his "good old woman."--He never failed to visit
her three times a day, and no one could blame him for it, for his
future wealth depended upon the success of his speculation.
But there is no joy without a flaw.--In the first place he did not like
his sorrel mare to be in the next stall to Hawermann's old horse, she
was too good to be in such company; and secondly, he had a never ending
battle with Christian Däsel about the food and cleaning of his
favourite. "Mr. Triddelfitz," Christian said on one occasion when they
were disputing about it. "I'll tell you something. I give each of the
horses under my charge an equal quantity of food, and I rub them all
down with equal care, but I've noticed that you always take away the
oats intended for the bailiff's old horse and give them to your own.
Don't take it ill of me, Mr. Triddelfitz, if I say that the one animal
is every bit as good as the other, and that both must live. But what's
the meaning of this," he asked, going, up to the rack. "Why, it's some
of the calves' hay! How did it come here? I should get into no end of a
scrape if the bailiff should happen to see it."--"I know nothing about
it," said Fred, and it was quite true that he did not.--"I don't care,"
said Christian, "but I only give you fair warning that I'll break the
legs of anyone I find bringing it. I won't have any such goings on
here."
Christian Däsel set himself to watch for the person who smuggled the
calves' hay into the stables, and before long he made a discovery. Who
was it who broke the stable laws for the sake of Fred's sorrel-mare;
who was it who was hard-hearted enough to deprive the innocent little
calves of their provender for the sake of Fred's sorrel-mare; who was
it who was so lost to every good feeling as to put Fred's sorrel-mare
in danger of having her legs broken by Christian for having the hay at
all? Who was it, I say? I shall have to tell who it was, for no one
would guess. It was Mary Möller who brought Fred's "old woman" a
handful of the sweet hay every time she left the young calves and went
past the stable where the riding-horses were kept. Perhaps some one may
exclaim: Stop, you're getting on too fast, how did there happen to be
young calves so late in summer? To which I reply: My dear friend,
surely I have a right to skip a few months if I like, and the fact is
that I'm telling you what happened in the winter of 1844, about
New-year's-time. And if I am asked: But how did Mary Möller come to do
such a thing? I will answer, that that is as stupid a question as the
one about the young calves. Havn't I as good a right to tell you about
nice people who can forgive and forget, as about malicious wretches who
go on nagging to all eternity? Mary Möller was a woman who was generous
enough to be able to forgive and forget, and as she could no longer
show her love for Fred in the old way, she contented herself with
showing it to his horse by giving it the calves' hay. It was a touching
incident, and Fred was much moved when he discovered, from finding his
old sweetheart and Christian Däsel quarrelling at the stable-door, that
it was she who had shown him this kindness in secret. He therefore made
friends with her again and they once more entered into the old sausage
and ham alliance.
Winter had come as I said before, and nothing of particular interest
had happened in the neighbourhood, except that Pomuchelskopp had
attended the parliament which met late in autumn, and had caused great
excitement in his quiet family circle by his determination to do so.
Henny rushed about the house, knocking everything about that there was
no fear of breaking by such rough usage, and banging the doors; she did
not even hesitate to say that her husband was mad. Mally and Sally took
their father's part against her in secret, for they had heard that Mr.
von Rambow, who was to command the guard round the parliament-house,
drew a large part of his income from the grand ball given after the
meeting of parliament was over, and to which he could give a ticket of
admittance for the sum of eight and four pence. They had been to a
Whitsun market ball at Rostock, and also to an agricultural meeting,
but a parliament ball! That must be far more delightful than anything
they had as yet experienced. They roused their father to summon up all
his courage, and act in opposition to the will of his beloved wife. "My
chick," he said, "I can't help it I promised Mr. von Rambow that I
would go. He started yesterday and expects me to follow him."--"Oh,
indeed!" said Henny. "Then I suppose that his grand lady wife expects
me too?"--"She isn't going, my chuck. If I neglect this opportunity of
showing myself, and of proving that I am a man in whom the nobility may
trust, how can I expect them to raise me to their rank? I am going
away in a black coat to-day, and I shall perhaps come back in a red
one."--"You're sure to have it all your own way," answered his wife
sarcastically as she left the room.--"I've as good a chance as any of
the other noblemen," he muttered after her as she retreated.--"Good
gracious, father," cried Sally running away, "I know ...." A few
minutes afterwards she came back with a scarlet petticoat which she
threw over her father's shoulders like a herald's mantle, and then she
made him look at himself in the glass. Mr. Pomuchelskopp was turning,
twisting and examining the effect of his decoration when his wife came
back, and seeing what he was about exclaimed: "If you _will_ make a
fool of yourself, do it in the parliament house and not in my
drawing-room."
Pomuchelskopp took this for a consent to his going to the parliament,
and so he went. His discomforts began from the moment of his arrival at
Malchin, for after he had taken a room at Voitel's Inn, he discovered
that the nobility all patronised the Bull, and that no one went to
Voitel's except the mayors of towns and middle-class landowners with
whom he did not care to associate. He hung about the coffee-room for
some time and got in everybody's way, for he did not know what to do
with himself. At last he summoned courage to ask whether anyone had
seen Mr. von Rambow of Pümpelhagen, as all his hopes rested on Alick.
Nobody had seen him, but at last some one remembered that Mr. von
Rambow had driven out to Brülow grange that afternoon with Mr. von
Brülow to see a thoroughbred horse. It was a great disappointment to
Mr. Pomuchelskopp for Alick was his mainstay, and was to introduce him
to his noble friends, and now he had gone away to inspect a horse. He
at last turned in his despair to a stout dignified looking man with a
smiling face, but unfortunately for him he did not see the mischievous
sparkle in the stranger's eyes which showed how thoroughly he enjoyed a
joke, for if he had seen it he would have refrained from appealing to
him: "Pardon me," he said, "I am Squire Pomuchelskopp of Gürlitz and
have come here to attend parliament for the first time. You look so
good-natured that I venture to ask you what I ought to do now."--"Ah,"
said the gentleman, taking a pinch of snuff and looking at him
enquiringly. "You want to know what you have to do? You hav'n't
anything particular to do; of course you've paid all the necessary
visits of ceremony?"--"No," answered Pomuchelskopp.--"Then you must go
and call on the government commissioner, the Chief of the constabulary,
and High Sheriff at once. Good-evening, Langfeldt, where are you
going?" he exclaimed, breaking off in his sentence and addressing a man
who was leaving the inn with a lantern in his hand.--"To make those
tiresome calls," and half turning round he added: "Shall I find you
here when I come back, Brückner? I shan't be long."--"Well, make as
much haste as you can," said the good-natured looking man, and
addressing Pomuchelskopp again he went on: "Then you hav'n't paid
those visits yet?"--"No," was the answer.--"I strongly advise you to
get them over as soon as you can. The gentleman you saw with the
lantern is going to make the same calls as you, so that all you have to
do is follow him. Yes, that's a capital plan! But you must make
haste."--Pomuchelskopp snatched his hat from the peg, hastened out of
doors, and ran down the streets of Malchin in pursuit of the lantern as
fast as his round-about figure and shortness of breath would allow
him.--The good-natured looking man took a pinch of snuff smilingly,
seated himself at one of the tables and said to himself with a chuckle
of enjoyment: "I'd give a good deal to see Langfeldt now!"
And it would have been well worth the trouble! Langfeldt, who was mayor
of Güstrow, having arrived at the house of the government commissioner
from Shwerin, entered the hall, and, giving his lantern into the charge
of a footman, was shown into an audience-chamber. Scarcely was this
done when some one came puffing and blowing up the steps, and
Pomuchelskopp made his appearance. He made a low bow to the footman and
said: "Can you tell me, Sir, where I can ad the gentleman who has just
come to call?"--The man opened a door and Pomuchelskopp entered the
room, and made a series of deferential bows to Langfeldt, whom he
mistook for the government commissioner; mistake for which he might the
more readily be pardoned, that the worshipful mayor of the border town
of Güstrow was in the habit of holding his head so high, that it looked
as if it would go through the ceiling, and that was quite what might be
expected of a Mecklenburg government commissioner. He however met
Pomuchelskopp right by showing him the real man, and then, as his own
business was finished, he went way taking his lantern with him.
Pomuchelskopp, in deadly fear of losing sight of him, made a bow to the
commissioner and hurried after Langfeldt and his lantern. The same
thing took place at the house of the Chief of the constabulary forces.
The mayor had just begun to make a polite speech when Pomuchelskopp
panted into the room after him.--"What brings that fellow here, I
wonder," he asked himself, and at once taking leave hoped to make good
his escape; but Pomuchelskopp was wary and the lantern was his only
guide, so off he steered again in its wake.--They met once more at the
house of the High Sheriff of the Wendish district and Langfeldt lost
his temper at the intrusion. As he knew the High Sheriff well, indeed
they were members of the same select committee, he was determined to
come to the bottom of the affair, and enquired sternly: "Sir, may I ask
why you are pursuing me?"--"I--I," stammered Pomuchelskopp, "I have as
good a right as you to make calls."--"Then make them by yourself,"
cried the mayor.--The High Sheriff tried to smooth over matters, and
Pomuchelskopp began to put on a look of clownish stupidity, but no
sooner did the mayor get out of doors than he again started in
pursuit.--Langfeldt became still more angry and turning round in the
street, said: "Sir, why are you running after me?"--And Pomuchelskopp
had now lost the shyness which the High Sheriff's presence had made him
feel, and knew that it was only a mayor he had to deal with, so he
answered loftily: "Sir, I am every bit as much the Grand Duke's
pheasant as you are!"--He meant to have said "vassal," but used the
word pheasant by mistake.[3]--However angry a man may be he is certain
to be amused by a ludicrous blunder such as Pomuchelskopp had made, and
as the mayor happened to be a good tempered fellow in the main, he
burst out laughing, and said: "All right then. Come away. I see what
sort of man you are."--"And," cried Pomuchelskopp furiously, for he
bitterly resented being laughed at, "let me tell you, I've got every
bit as good a right to go to these places as you have!" Having said
that he set off once more in pursuit of the lantern. But he might have
spared himself the trouble, for Langfeldt had finished paying his
visits, and was now on his way back to his inn. Arrived there, he took
his key off the nail and went to get some money to pay his stakes at
ombre. On looking round he found that Pomuchelskopp had followed him
into the room.--The mayor put his lantern on the table, and as the
affair amused him, he said laughingly: "Pray tell me what you
want?"--"I tell you that I've every bit as much right to pay visits as
you have," said Pomuchelskopp, who was boiling over with rage at
finding himself made a laughing-stock.--"But whom do you want to see
here?"--"What's that to you?" said Pomuchelskopp, "the gentleman I have
come to visit will soon be in," and he seated himself on a chair with a
flop.--"This is as good as a play!" said the mayor, and going to the
door he called out: "Sophia, bring candles." When the servant brought
the candles he asked: "Did you ever see a pheasant, Sophia?--Look
there," pointing to Pomuchelskopp, "that's a pheasant, one of the Grand
Duke's pheasants!"--Sophia ran away in fits of laughter. A few minutes
afterwards the landlord came in to have a look at the pheasant, and he
was soon followed by his children, who showed their amusement so openly
that Pomuchelskopp was not long in finding out whom he was visiting. He
went away in a rage and the mayor followed him lantern in hand.
The good-natured looking gentleman said to his friend smilingly as he
entered the coffee-room at Voitel's: "Well, Langfeldt, have you
finished your calls?" "To be sure!" exclaimed the mayor, "I understand
it all now, I wonder that I didn't guess at once that you had sent that
idiot after me."--Then he told the whole story, and as even members of
parliament like a little fun, Pomuchelskopp was known ever after by the
nick-name of the "pheasant," and Alick, whose footsteps he was
continually dogging, was called the "game-keeper," while Mally and
Sally who came to the ball in splendid attire were talked of as the
"chickens." On one occasion when Pomuchelskopp had to record his vote
in favour of a motion, he wrote "yeaws" instead of "yes," so a wit, who
saw what he had done, proposed that he should be called the
"parliamentary-donkey," but nobody was inclined to adopt the new name,
and the old one of "pheasant" carried the day.
Pomuchelskopp cannot be said to have had much enjoyment during the time
he attended the sitting of parliament, for even the nobles to whom he
paid court, and with whom he voted, would have nothing to do with him
for fear of making themselves ridiculous, and when he was at home again
his wife made him even more uncomfortable by her compassionate
"Pöking." He was ill at ease, and yet neither Mally nor Sally came to
his rescue, for they had had no dancing on the evening of the
parliamentary ball, but had been left sitting as motionless as
if they had been hatching eggs. The womenkind all united in stabbing
the poor quiet man and law-giver with their sharp words as he sat
cowering in his sofa-corner, till the sight of his misery would have
softened a heart of stone.--"Well, Pöking, were you much thought
of at the parliament?"--And: "Will they soon make you a nobleman,
father?"--And: "What do people do, Pöking, when they are up at the
parliament-house?"--"How can I tell?" he said. "They're always
fighting."--"What was settled about the nunneries, father?"--"I can't
tell. You'll know soon enough from the Rostock newspaper."--Then he
rose and went to the barn, where he got rid of some of his ill-temper
by abusing the farm-servants.