It was a sunny morning in April--one of those genial growing days that
expand the leaf-bud on the trees, and quicken the throbs of the human
heart. Lenore went with hat and parasol out into the farm-yard, and
walked through the cow-houses. The horned creatures looked full at her
with their large eyes, and raised their broad damp noses, some of them
lowing in expectation of receiving something good at her hands.
"Is Mr. Wohlfart here?" asked Lenore of the bailiff, who was hurrying by
to the stable.
"He is in the castle, my lady."
"His guest is with him, I suppose?" she further inquired.
"Herr von Fink rode off this morning early to Neudorf. He can't rest in
the house, and is always happiest on horseback. He should have been a
hussar."
When Lenore heard in which direction Herr von Fink had ridden, she
walked slowly in a different one to avoid meeting him, and crossed the
brook and the fields to the wood. She gazed at the blue sky and reviving
earth. The winter wheat and the green grass looked so cheerful that her
heart laughed within her. The spring had breathed on the willows along
the brook; the yellow branches were full of sap, and the first leaves
bursting out. Even the sand did not annoy her to-day. She stepped
rapidly through the expanse of it that girdled the forest, and hurried
on through the firs to the cottage. The whole wood was alive with hum
and cry. Wherever a group of other trees rose amid the firs, the loud
chirp of the chaffinch was heard, or the eager twitter of some little
newly-wedded birds, disputing about the position of their nest. The
beetle in his black cuirass droned around the buds of the chestnut; at
times a wild bee, newly wakened from its winter sleep, came humming by;
even brown butterflies fluttered over the bushes, and, wherever the
ground sunk into hollows, these were gay with the white and yellow stars
of the anemone and the primrose. Lenore took off her straw hat, and let
the mild breeze play about her temples, while she drew in long draughts
of forest fragrance. She often stopped and listened to the sounds
around her--contemplated the tender leaves of the trees, stroked the
white bark of the birch, stood by the rippling fountain before the
forester's house, and caressed the little firs in the hedge, which stood
as close and regular as the bristles in a brush. She thought she had
never seen the forest so cheerful before. The dogs barked furiously; she
heard the fox rattle his chain, and looked up at the bull-finch, who
jumped to and fro in his cage, and tried to bark like his superiors.
"Hush, Hector! hush Bergmann!" cried Lenore, knocking at the door. The
loud barking changed into a friendly welcome. As she opened the door,
Bergmann, the otter-hound, came straddling toward her, wagging his tail
immoderately, and Hector made a succession of audacious leaps, while
even the fox crept back into its kennel, laid its nose on its trough,
and looked slyly at her. But she saw a horse's head on the other side of
the hedge; he that she had meant to avoid was actually here. For a
moment she remained irresolute, and was going to turn away, when the
forester came out. Now, then, retreat was impossible, and she followed
him in. Fink stood in the middle of the room, in the full light of the
rays which fell through the small panes. He advanced politely. "I came
to make acquaintance," said he, pointing to the forester; "and here I am
admiring your stout-hearted vassal and his comfortable home." The
forester placed a chair; Lenore could but take it. Fink leaned against
the brown wall, and looked at her with undisguised admiration. "You are
a wonderful contrast to this old boy and to the whole room," said he,
glancing round. "Pray make no sign with your parasol; all these stuffed
creatures only wait your command to come to life again, and lay
themselves at your feet. Look at the heron yonder, raising its head
already."
"It is only the effect of the sunshine," said the forester,
comfortingly.
Lenore laughed. "We know what that means," cried Fink; "you are in the
plot; you are the gnome of this queen. If there be no magic here, let me
sleep out the rest of my days. One wave of that wand, and the beams of
this great bird-cage will open, and you fly with your whole suite out
into the sunshine. Doubtless your palace is on the summit of the
fir-trees without; there are the pleasant halls in which your throne
stands, mighty mistress of this place, fair-haired goddess of Spring!"
"My comfort is," said Lenore, somewhat confused, "that it is not I who
occasion these ideas, but the pleasure you take in the ideas themselves.
I only chance to be the unworthy subject of your fancy. You are a poet."
"Fie!" cried Fink; "how can you detract from me so much! I a poet!
Except a few merry sailors' songs, I do not know a single piece of
poetry by heart. The only lines I care for are some fragments of the old
school; for example, 'Hurrah! Hurrah! hop, hop, hop,' in a poem which,
if I am not mistaken, bears your name. And even to these classic lines I
have to object that they rather represent the material trot of a
cart-horse than the course of a phantom steed. But we must not be too
exact with these pen-and-ink gentry. Well, then, with this single
exception, you will find no poetry in me, except a few of the great
Schiller's striking lines: <i>Potz Blitz, das ist ja die Gustel von
Blasewitz</i>. There's much truth in that passage."
"You are making fun of me," said Lenore, somewhat offended.
"Indeed I am not," asseverated Fink. "How can any one make or read poems
in these days of ours, when we are constantly living them? Since I have
been back in the old country, scarce an hour passes without my seeing or
hearing something that will be celebrated by knights of the pen a
hundred years hence. Glorious material here for art of every kind! If I
had the misfortune to be a poet, I should now be obliged to rush out in
a fit of inspiration, hide myself in the kennel, and, at a safe distance
from all exciting causes, write a passionate sonnet, while the fox kept
biting my heels. But, as I am no poet, I prefer to enjoy the beautiful
when it is before me, to putting it into rhyme." And again he looked
admiringly at the lady.
"Lenore!" cried a harsh voice from a corner of the room. Lenore and Fink
looked in amazement at each other.
"He has learned it," said the forester, pointing to the raven; "in a
general way he has left off learning, and sits there sulking with every
one, but still he has learned that."
The raven sitting on the stove bent down his head, cast a shrewd glance
at both the guests, kept moving his beak as though speaking to himself,
and alternately nodding and shaking his head.
"The birds already begin to speak," cried Fink, going up to the raven;
"the ceiling will soon fly off, and I shall be left alone with Hector
and Bergmann. Now, sorcerer, does the water boil?"
The forester looked into the stove. "It boils famously," he said; "but
what is to be done next?"
"We will ask the lady to help us," replied Fink. "I have," said he,
turning to Lenore, "already been with your family trapper as far as the
distillery and back, and I have brought what always serves me on my
travels for breakfast and dinner." He took out a few tablets of
chocolate. "We will concoct something like a beverage with this, if you
do not disdain to lend us your aid. I propose that we try to mix this
with water as well as we can. It would be charming of you to vouchsafe
an opinion as to how we ought to set about it."
"Have you a grater or a mortar?" inquired Lenore, laughing.
"I have neither of those machines," replied the forester.
"A hammer, then," suggested Fink, "and a clean sheet of paper."
The hammer was soon brought, but the paper was only found after a long
search. Fink undertook to pound the chocolate, the forester brought
fresh water from the spring, Lenore washed out some cups, and Fink
hammered away with all his heart. "This is antediluvian paper," said he,
"thick as parchment; it must have lain for some centuries in this magic
hut." Lenore shook the chocolate powder into the saucepan, and stirred
it. Then they all three sat down, and much enjoyed the result of their
handiwork.
The golden sunbeams shone fuller into the room, lighting up the bright
form of the beautiful girl, and the fine face of the man opposite her;
then they fell upon the wall, and decked the head of the heron and the
wings of the hawk. The raven came to the end of his soliloquy, and
fluttered from his seat, hopping about the lady's feet, and croaking out
again, "Lenore! Lenore!"
Lenore now conversed at her ease with the stranger, and the forester
every now and then threw in a suitable remark. They spoke of the
district and its inhabitants.
"Wherever I have met Poles in foreign lands, I have got on very well
with them," said Fink. "I am sorry that these disturbances prevent one
visiting them in their own homes; for, certainly, one best learns to
know men from seeing them there."
"It must be delightful to see so many different scenes and people,"
cried Lenore.
"It is only at first that the difference strikes you. When one has
observed them a while, one comes to the conclusion that they are every
where much alike: a little diversity in the color of the skin and other
details; but love and hate, laughter and tears, these the traveler finds
every where, and every where these are the same. About twenty weeks ago
I was half a hemisphere off, in the log hut of an American, on a barren
prairie. It was just the same as here. We sat at a stout rustic table
like this, and my host was as like this old gentleman as one egg is to
another, and the light of the winter sun fell in just the same way
through the small window. But if men have so little to distinguish them,
women are still more alike in essentials. They only differ in one
trifling particular."
"And what is that?" asked the forester.
"They are rather more or less neat," said Fink, carelessly; "that is the
whole difference."
Lenore rose, offended at his tone more than at his words.
"It is time that I should return," said she, coldly, tying on her straw
hat.
"When you rose, all the brightness left the room," cried Fink.
"It is only a cloud passing over the sun," said the forester, going to
the window; "that causes the shadow."
"Nonsense," replied Fink; "it is the straw hat hiding the lady's hair
that does it; the light comes from those golden locks."
They left the house, the forester locked the door, and each went off in
different directions.
Lenore hurried home; the linnet sang, the thrush whistled, but she did
not heed them. She blamed herself for having crossed the threshold of
the forester's house, and yet she could not turn away her thoughts from
it. The stranger made her feel uneasy and insecure. Was he thus daring
because nothing was sacred to him, or was it only through his extreme
self-possession and self-dependence? Ought she to be angry with him, or
did her sense of awkwardness only arise from the folly of an
inexperienced girl? These questions she kept constantly asking herself,
but, alas! she found no answer.
When Anton wanted to send a message that evening to the shepherd,
neither Karl nor any other messenger was to be found, so he went
himself. He was not a little surprised to see in one of the farthest
fields through which he had to go his friend Fink on horseback, and the
German farmer and Karl busily occupied near him. Fink was galloping
along short distances, the others placing black and white pegs in the
ground, and taking them out again. And then Karl looked through a small
telescope that he rested on his peg. "Five-and-twenty paces," cried
Fink.
"Two inches fall," screamed back Karl.
"Five-and-twenty, two," said the farmer, making an entry in his
pocket-book.
"So you have come, have you?" cried Fink, laughing, to his friend. "Wait
a moment; we shall soon have done." Again a certain number of leaps,
observations through the telescope, and entries in the pocket-book; then
the men collected their pegs, and Fink rapidly cast up the figures in
the farmer's book. Then giving it back with a smile, he said, "Come on
with me, Anton, I have something to show you. Place yourself by the
brook, with your face to the north. There the brook forms a straight
line from west to east, the border of the wood a semicircle. Wood and
brook together define the segment of a circle."
"That is evident," said Anton.
"In olden times the brook ran differently," continued Fink. "It swept
along the curve of the wood, and its old bed is still visible. If you
walk along the ancient water-course toward the west, you come to the
point where the old channel diverges from the new. It is the point where
a wretched bridge crosses the brook, and the water in its present bed
has a fall of more than a foot, strong enough to turn the best mill
going. The ruins of some buildings stand near it."
"I know the place well enough," said Anton.
"Below the village, the old channel bends down to the new. It
encompasses a wide plain, more than five hundred acres, if I can trust
the paces of this horse. The whole of this ground slopes down from the
old channel to the new. There are a few acres of meadow, and some
tolerable arable land. The most part is sand and rough pasture, the
worst part of the estate, as I hear."
"I allow all that," said Anton, with some curiosity.
"Now mark me. If you lead back the brook to its old channel, and force
it to run along the bow instead of forming the arc of that bow, the
water that now runs to waste will irrigate the whole plain of five
hundred acres, and change the barren sand into green meadows."
"You are a sharp fellow," cried Anton, excited at the discovery.
"These acres, well irrigated, would yield a ton of hay an acre;
consequently, each acre would bring in a clear profit of five dollars,
or, in other words, the five hundred acres would give a yearly income of
two thousand five hundred, and to bring this about would require an
outlay of fifteen thousand dollars at the very outside. This, Anton, was
what I had to say to you."
Anton stood there amazed. There was no doubt that Fink's calculations
were not made at random either as to outlay or return, and the
advantageous prospect which such a measure opened out occupied him so
much that he walked on for some time in silence. "You show me water and
pastures in the desert," said he, at length. "This is cruel of you, for
the baron is not in a condition to carry out this improvement. Fifteen
thousand dollars!"
"Perhaps ten might do," said Fink, sarcastically. "I have drawn this
castle in the air for you, to punish you for your stiff-neckedness the
other evening. Now let us speak of something else."
At night the baron, with an important air, summoned his wife and Lenore
to a conference in his room. He sat up in his arm-chair, and said, with
a greater degree of satisfaction than he had for a long time evinced,
"It was easy to discover that this visit of Fink's was not exactly
accidental, nor occasioned by his friendship for Mr. Wohlfart, as the
young men both made it appear: you two pretended to be wiser than I; but
I was right after all, and the visit concerns us more nearly than our
agent."
The baroness cast a terrified glance at her daughter, but Lenore's eyes
were so fully fixed on her father that her mother was comforted.
"And what do you suppose has brought this gentleman here?" continued the
baron.
Lenore shook her head, and said at last, "Father, Herr von Fink has long
been most intimate with Wohlfart, and they have not seen each other for
some years. How natural that Fink should take advantage of his slight
acquaintance with us to spend a few weeks with his dearest friend! Why
should we seek any other reason for his presence?"
"You speak as young people always do. Men are less influenced by ideal
impressions, and more ruled by their own interest, than your juvenile
wisdom apprehends."
"Interest!" said the baroness.
"What is there surprising in it?" continued the baron. "Both are
tradespeople. Fink knows enough of the charms of business to lose no
opportunity of making a good bargain. I will tell you why he is come
here. Our excellent Wohlfart has written to him stating, 'Here is an
estate, and this estate has an owner who is at present unable to
overlook its management himself. There is something to be made here. You
have money, therefore come; I am your friend; some of the profits will
naturally fall to my share.'"
The baroness gazed steadfastly at her husband, but Lenore sprang up and
cried, with all the energy of a deeply-wounded heart, "Father, I will
not hear you speak thus of a man who has never shown us any thing but
the most unselfish devotion. His friendship for us is such as to enable
him to bear with boundless patience the privations of this lonely place,
and the disagreeables of his present position."
"His friendship?" said the baron; "I never laid claim to so great a
distinction."
"We have done so, though," cried Lenore, impetuously. "At a time when my
mother found no one else to stand by us, Wohlfart faithfully clung to us
still. From the day that my brother brought him to us till this very
hour, he has acted for you and cared for us."
"Very well," admitted the baron; "I find no fault with his activity. I
willingly allow that he keeps the accounts in good order, and is very
industrious in return for a small salary. If you understood men's
motives better, you would hear me more patiently. After all, there is no
harm in what he has done. I want capital, and am, as you know, a good
deal embarrassed besides. What should prevent proposals being made to me
which would advantage others and do me no injury?"
"For God's sake, father, what proposals do you mean? It is false that
Wohlfart has any other interest at heart but yours."
The baroness beckoned to her daughter to be silent. "If Fink wishes to
purchase the estate," said she, "I shall hail his resolve as a
blessing--the greatest blessing, beloved Oscar, that could happen to you
now."
"We are not talking of buying," replied the baron. "I shall think twice
before I give away the estate in such a hurry under the present
circumstances. Fink's proposal is of a different kind; he wishes to
become my tenant."
Lenore sank down speechless in her chair.
"He wishes to rent from me five hundred acres of level ground, in order
to convert them into profitable meadows. I do not deny that he has
spoken openly and fairly on the subject. He has proved to me in figures
how great his gains would be, and offered to pay the first year's rent
at once--nay, more, he has offered to give up his tenancy in five years,
and make over the meadows to me, provided I repay him the expenses
incurred."
"Gracious Heaven!" cried Lenore; "you have surely refused this generous
proposal."
"I have required time for deliberation," replied the baron,
complacently. "The offer is, as I have already said, not exactly
disadvantageous to myself; at the same time, it might be imprudent to
concede such advantages to a stranger, when, in a year or so, I might be
able to carry out this improvement on my own account."
"You will never be able to do so, my poor, my beloved husband," cried
the baroness, weeping, and throwing her arms about the baron's neck,
while he sank down annihilated, and laid his head on her breast like a
little child.
"I must know whether Wohlfart knows of this proposal, and what he says
to it," cried Lenore, decidedly; "and, if you allow me, father, I will
at once send for him." As the baron did not reply, she rang the bell for
the servant, and left the room to meet him at the door.
Fink sat, meanwhile, in Anton's room, amusing himself with rallying his
friend. "Since you have given up smoking, your good angel has deserted
you, after having so torn his hair at your stiff-neckedness that there
he is now sitting bewigged among the angel choir. As for you, your
punishment is to be the having your soul sewed up in a turnip-leaf, and
daily smoked by the smallest imps in the pit."
"Have you been a member of some pious fraternity in America, that you
are so well acquainted with the proceedings of the spiritual world?"
inquired Anton, looking up from his account-book.
"Silence!" said Fink; "formerly there were, at least, occasional hours
when you could trifle too, but now you are always carrying on your
everlasting book-keeping, and, by Tantalus, all for nothing--for nothing
at all!"
The servant entered, and summoned Anton to the baron.
As the latter left the room, Fink called out, "Apropos; I have offered
to rent the five hundred acres from the baron at two dollars and half
the acre--the land to be made over in five years' time on repayment of
the capital expended, either in money or by a mortgage. Off with you, my
boy!"
When Anton entered the baron's apartment, he found the baroness at her
husband's side, his hand in hers, while Lenore walked restlessly up and
down the room. "Have you heard of the offer that Herr von Fink has made
to my father?" asked she.
"He has this moment told me of it," replied Anton. The baron made a
face.
"And is it your opinion that my father ought to accept the offer?"
Anton was silent. "It is an advantageous one for the estate," said he,
at length, with considerable effort. "The outlay of capital is essential
to its improvement."
"I don't want to be told that," replied Lenore, impatiently, "but to
know whether you, as our friend, advise us to accept this offer?"
"I do not," said Anton.
"I knew that you would say so," cried Lenore, stepping behind her
father's chair.
"You do not; and wherefore, if you please?" inquired the baron.
"The present time, which makes all things uncertain, seems to me little
fitted for so bold a speculation; besides which, I believe Fink to be
influenced by motives which do him honor, but which would render it
painful to the baron to accept his offer."
"You will allow me to be the judge of what I ought or ought not to
accept," said the baron. "As a mere question of business, this measure
would be advantageous to both parties."
"That I must allow," said Anton.
"And as to the views that people may take of political prospects, that
is merely a personal matter. He who does not allow his undertakings to
be interfered with is more praise-worthy than he who, through a vague
fear, postpones advantageous measures."
"That, too, I allow."
"Would this undertaking lead to Herr von Fink permanently taking up his
abode in our neighborhood?" asked the baroness.
"I do not think so; he would make over the task to a farmer, and his
temperament is sure to send him wandering off again. As to his motives,
I can but surmise. I believe them to be mainly the respect and regard he
feels for your family, and possibly the wish to have some right to
remain with you in these unquiet times. The very danger that would make
this country undesirable to others has a charm for him."
"And would you not be glad to retain your friend with you?" inquired the
baroness further.
"Till to-day I had no hope of it," answered Anton. "Formerly, my task
used to be that of holding him back from precipitate resolves, and from
staking much upon a sudden fancy."
"You consider, then," said the baron, "that your friend has been
precipitate in his proposal to me?"
"His proposal is a bold one, so far as he himself is concerned,"
returned Anton, significantly; "and there is something in it, baron,
which does not satisfy me on your account, though I should find a
difficulty in defining it."
"Thank you," said the baron; "we will discuss the subject no further;
there is no hurry about it." Anton bowed and left the room.
Lenore stood silently at the window, repeating to herself his last
words, "I should find a difficulty in defining it," while a crowd of
painful thoughts and forebodings rushed through her mind. She was angry
with her father's weakness, and indignant with Fink for presuming to
offer them assistance. Whether his offer were accepted or not, their
relations to their guest were changed by it. They were indebted to him.
He was no longer a stranger. He had intruded into their private griefs.
She thought of the curl of his lip, of the contraction of his eyebrows;
she fancied she heard him laughing at her father and at her. He had
entered their house in his offhand way, and now carelessly seized the
reins, and meant to direct their fortunes as he liked. Perhaps her
parents might owe their deliverance to one of his arbitrary caprices.
This morning she could feel at her ease with him, brilliant man of the
world as he was; they were on equal terms, but how should they meet
henceforth? Her pride rebelled against one whose influence she so
sensibly felt. She determined to treat him coldly; she made castles in
the air as to how he would speak, and how she would reply, and her fancy
kept flying round the image of the stranger as the scared mother-bird
does around the enemy of her nest.
"And what will you do, Oscar?" inquired the baroness.
"My father can not accept," cried Lenore, energetically.
"What is your opinion?" said the baron, turning to his wife.
"Choose what will soonest set you free from this estate--from the care,
the gloom, the insecurity which are secretly preying on you. Let us go
to some distant land, where men's passions are less hideously developed.
Let us go far away; we shall be more peaceful in the narrowest
circumstances than we are here."
"Thus, then, you advise the acceptance of his offer," said the baron.
"He who rents a part will soon undertake the whole."
"And pay us a pension!" cried Lenore.
"You are a foolish girl," said her father. "You both excite yourselves,
which is unnecessary. The offer is too important to be refused or
accepted offhand. I will weigh the matter more narrowly. Your Wohlfart
will have plenty of time to examine the conditions," added he, more
good-humoredly.
"Listen, dear father, to what Wohlfart has already spoken, and respect
what he keeps back."
"Yes, yes, he shall be listened to," said the baron. "And now
good-night, both of you. I will reconsider the matter."
"He will accept," said Lenore to her mother; "he will accept, because
Wohlfart has dissuaded him, and because the other offers him ready
money. Mother, why did you not say that we could never look the stranger
in the face if he gave us alms in our very house?"
"I have no longer any pride or any hope," replied her mother, in a low
voice.
As Anton slowly re-entered his room, Fink called out cheerfully, "How
goes it, man of business? Am I to be tenant, or will the baron himself
undertake the matter? He would like it dearly. In that case, I lay claim
to compensation--free room for myself and my horse as long as they play
at war hereabouts."
"He will accept your offer," replied Anton, "though I advised him not."
"You did!" cried Fink. "Yes, indeed, it's just like you. When a drowning
mouse clings to a raft, you make it a long speech on the imperative
nature of moral obligations, and hurl it back into the water."
"You are not so innocent as a raft," said Anton, laughing.
"Hear me," continued Fink; "I have no superfluous sentimentality; but in
this particular case I should not consider it friendly in you to wish to
edify me by a lecture. Is it then so unpleasant to have me to help you
through these confounded times?"
"I have known you long enough, you rogue," said Anton, "to feel sure
that your friendship for me has had a good deal to do with your offer."
"Indeed!" said Fink, sarcastically; "and how much, pray? It is a good
for nothing age: however virtuously one may act, one is so dissected
that virtue turns to egotism under the knife of malice."
Anton stroked his cheek. "I do not dissect," said he. "You have made a
generous offer, and I am not discontented with you, but with myself. In
my first delight at your arrival, I disclosed more about the baron's
circumstances and the ladies' anxieties than was right. I myself
introduced you into the mysteries of the family, and you have used the
knowledge you acquired from me in your own dexterous way. It is I who
have entangled you with the affairs of this family, and your capital
with this disturbed country. That all this should have happened so
suddenly is against my every feeling, and I am amazed at my own
incaution in having brought it about."
"Of course," laughed Fink, "it is your sweetest enjoyment to be anxious
about those around you."
"It has twice happened to me," continued Anton, "whose caution you so
often laugh at, to speak unguardedly to strangers about the
circumstances of this family. The first time that I asked help for the
Rothsattels it was refused me, and this, more than any thing else, led
me out of the counting-house hither; and now that my second indiscretion
has procured the help I did not ask, what will the consequences be?"
"To lead you hence back into the counting-house," laughed Fink. "Did one
ever see such a subtle Hamlet in jack-boots? If I could only find out
whether you secretly desire or fear such a logical conclusion!" Then
drawing a piece of money from his pocket, he said, "Heads or tails,
Anton? Blonde or brunette? Let us throw."
"You are no longer in Tennessee, you soul-seller!" laughed Anton against
his will.
"It should have been an honorable game," said Fink, coolly. "I meant to
give you the choice. Remember that hereafter."