No one can tell how many years ago it is was since the "Silent Mill"
first received its name. As long as I can remember it has been an old,
tumble-down structure, an ancient relic of long-forgotten times.
Old, and weather-beaten, and roofless, its crumbling walls stretch
upwards toward the sky, giving free access to every gust of wind. Two
large, round stones that once, maybe, bravely fulfilled their task,
have broken through the rotten wood-work and, obeying the natural law
of gravitation, have wedged themselves deep into the ground.
The large mill-wheel hangs awry between its moulding supports. The
paddles are broken off, and only the spokes stick up into the air, like
arms stretched forth to implore the "coup de grace."
Moss and lichen have clothed all in green, and here and there some
water-cress puts forth its sickly green, sodden growth. From a
half-broken pipe the water runs slowly down, trickles in sleepy
monotony onto the spokes and breaks there, filling the surrounding air
with fine, drizzling spray. Under a gray thicket of alders the
little rivulet lies hidden in malodorous slothfulness, washed full of
water-weeds and frog-spawn, choked up with mare's tail and flowering
rushes. Only in the middle there trickles still a tiny stream of thick,
black water, in which the little palegreen leaves of the duck-weed
lazily drift along.
But those long years ago the mill-stream flowed right gayly and
jauntily; snow-white foam gleamed at the weir; the merry chatter of the
wheels resounded as far as the village; in long rows the carts drove in
and out of the mill-yard; and far into the distance there echoed the
mighty voice of the old miller.
Rockhammer was his name, and all who saw him felt that he did honor to
it, too. What a man he was! He had it in him to blast rocks. Of course
there was no such thing as trying to bully or contradict him, for it
only served to make him perfectly wild with rage: he would clench his
fists; the veins on his temples would swell up like thick thongs; and
when he started swearing into the bargain, every being trembled before
him, and the very dogs fled in terror to their kennels. His wife was a
meek, gentle, yielding creature. How could it be otherwise? Not
for twenty-four hours would he have endured at his side a more
sturdy-natured being, who might have attempted to preserve even the
shadow of an independent will. As it was, the two lived together fairly
well, happily one might almost have said, had it not been for his fatal
temper, which broke forth wildly at the slightest provocation and
caused the quiet woman many a tearful hour.
But she shed most tears when misfortune's hand fell heavily upon her
children. Three had been born to them--bonny, healthy, sturdy boys.
They had clear, blue eyes, flaxen hair and, above all, "a pair of
promising fists," as their father was wont to declare with pride,
though the youngest, who was still in his cradle, could as yet only
make use of his to suck at them. The two elder boys, however, were
already splendid fellows. How defiantly they looked about them, how
haughtily they took up their stand! With their heads thrown back and
their hands in their trousers pockets, each seemed to assert: "I am my
father's son. Who'll dare me?"
They fought each other all day long and it was their father himself who
always goaded them on. And if their mother in her terror intervened and
begged them to be at peace with one another, she got laughed at into
the bargain for her fears. The poor woman lived in constant anxiety
about her wild boys, for she saw to her terror that both had inherited
their father's violent temper. Once already she had only just arrived
in the nick of time, when Fritz, then eight years old, was about to
attack his brother, two years older than himself, with a large kitchen
knife; and a half a year later the day really dawned on which her dark
presentiments were realized.
The two boys had been fighting in the yard, and Martin, the elder one,
wild with rage because Fritz had beaten him, had hurled a stone at him
and hit him so unfortunately at the back of his head that he fell down
bleeding and immediately lost the power of speech. They could stanch
the blood, and the wound healed up, but his speech did not return.
Indifferent to all around, the boy sat there and let them feed him: he
had become an idiot.
It was a hard blow for the miller's family. The mother wept whole
nights through, and even he, the energetic hard-working man, went about
for a long time as if in a dream.
But the perpetrator of the disastrous deed was the one most impressed
by it. The defiant, boisterously happy boy was hardly recognizable. His
exuberance of spirits had disappeared; he spent his days in silent
brooding, obeyed his mother to the letter and, whenever possible,
avoided joining in the games of his school-fellows.
His love for his unfortunate brother was touching. When he was at home,
he never stirred from his side. With superhuman patience he accustomed
himself to the brutalized habits of the idiot, learned to understand
his inarticulate sounds, fulfilled his every wish, and looked on
smilingly when he destroyed his dearest toy.
The invalid boy got so used to his companionship that he would not be
without him. When Martin was at school, he cried incessantly and
preferred to go hungry rather than take food and drink from anyone
else.
For three years he dragged on this miserable existence; then he began
to ail and died.
Though his death certainly came as a relief to the whole household, all
mourned his loss sincerely, and Martin especially was inconsolable.
During the first months he wandered out daily to the cemetery and often
had to be torn by force away from the grave. Only very gradually he
grew calmer, chiefly through intercourse with the youngest boy,
Johannes, to whom he now appeared to transfer the intense love which he
had lavished upon his dead brother.
As long as the invalid lived, he had taken little notice of Johannes,
for he seemed to think it almost sinful to give even the merest
fraction of his affection to any one else. Now that death had robbed
him of the poor unfortunate, an invincible longing drew him towards his
younger brother--as if by his love for him he might fill the agonizing
void which the loss of his victim had left in him as if he might atone
toward the living for what he had inflicted on the dead.
Johannes was at that time a fine lad of five, already quite a little
man, who was to have his first pair of stout boots at next fair-time.
He seemed to have inherited nothing of his father's harsh, defiant
nature; he took much more after his gentle, quiet mother, to whom he
clung specially as her pet, and whose very idol he was. Not hers alone,
though, for all in the house spoiled and petted him, their sunbeam,
their source of joy.
Indeed, none who saw him could help loving him! His long, fair hair
gleamed like so many sunbeams, and in his eyes, which could twinkle so
merrily and at other times gaze so dreamily, there lay depths of
goodness and love. He attached himself fervently to his elder brother,
who had so long neglected him; but the disparity in their ages--they
were nearly nine years apart--did not allow of purely brotherly
relations between them.
Martin was already at the close of his boyhood; his serious, thoughtful
mien and measured, old-fashioned speech made him appear older than he
was. Besides, he was already destined to commence work in the following
year. Under these circumstances it was only natural that he should
assume a somewhat fatherly tone towards his younger brother, and though
he was not ashamed to join in his childish games and to be driven as
his patient horse with a "gee-up" and a "whoa," through the mill-yard
and across the fields, there was even in this more of the smiling
indulgence of a kindly tutor than of the spontaneous pleasure of an
older playmate.
The affectionate-natured boy, craving for love and sympathy, gave
himself up heart and soul to his big brother. He recognized his
boundless authority more even than that of his father and mother, who
were further removed from his childish sphere--and when school-days
commenced and Martin proved such a patient helper in word and deed
whenever lessons were hard, then the younger boy's veneration for his
elder brother knew no bounds. Old Rockhammer was the only one who was
not pleased with the closeness of their friendship. They were too
sweet; they "slobbered" each other too much, they had much better "live
like cats and dogs together" as a proof that they were really "one's
own flesh and blood." But their gentle mother was all the happier. Her
prayer to the Almighty by day and night was to protect her children and
nevermore to allow the flame of wrath to burst forth in Martin. And her
supplication seemed to have been heard. Only once more was her soul
filled with horror through an outburst of rage in her son.
Johannes--then nine years old--had been playing with a whip near some
carts standing in the yard ready to take away flour. Suddenly one of
the horses took fright; and the driver, a coarse, drunken fellow, tore
the whip out of the boy's hand, and gave him a cut with it across his
face and neck.
At the same instant Martin, lithe as a tiger, rushed out of the mill;
the veins on his temples swollen, his fists clenched, got hold of the
man and began to throttle him so that he was already black in the face.
Then his mother threw herself with a loud scream of terror between the
two. "Think of Fritz!" she cried, throwing up her arms in an agony of
horror; and the infuriated boy let his hands drop as if paralyzed,
tottered back and fell down sobbing on the threshold of the mill.
Since then his temper seemed to have died out entirely, and even when
he was once insulted and attacked on the highroad, he kept his knife,
which the people of those parts are quick to use, quietly in his
pocket.
The years sped on. Shortly after Martin came of age, the old miller
closed his eyes. His wife soon followed him. She did not recover after
his death, and quietly and without complaining, she withered away. It
was as if she could not exist without the scoldings which she had had
to take daily from her husband for twenty-three years.
The two brothers now dwelt alone in the orphaned mill. So it was no
wonder that they clung to each other even more closely, and that each
lived only for the other!
And yet they were very different outwardly and inwardly. Martin,
thick-set and short-necked, was awkward and silent in the presence of
strangers. His bushy, lowering eyebrows gave his face a dark look, and
his words came with difficulty and by fits and starts as if speaking
were in itself torture--in fact one might have taken him for a hard
misanthropist, if he had not had such an honest, hearty look in his
eyes, and such a good-natured, almost childlike smile that it sometimes
illumined his broad, coarsely-cut features like a ray of sunlight.
How utterly different was Johannes! His eyes beamed into the world so
frankly and cheerfully; the corners of his mouth seemed constantly
twitching with fun and merriment; and over his whole lithe, pliant
figure was cast the glamour of youth. The lassies all noticed it, and
sent many a glance after him, and many a blush, many a warm squeeze of
the hand told him plainly, "You could easily win my love." Johannes did
not care much about these matters. He was not yet "ripe for love," and
preferred a game of skittles to a dance, and would rather sit with his
silent brother beside the lock than walk with Rose or Gretel.
The two brothers had promised each other one still, solemn evening,
that they would never part and that no third person should ever come
between them in love or in hate.
But they had made their reckoning without taking into account the Royal
Recruiting Commission. The time came for Johannes to serve in the army.
He had to go far, far away, to Berlin, to the Uhlans of the Guard. It
was a hard trial for both of them. Martin kept his trouble to himself
as usual, but impetuous Johannes behaved as if he were absolutely
inconsolable, so that he was well teased at parting by his comrades.
His grief was, however, not of long duration. The fatigues of service
as a recruit, the novelty of it all, the lively bustle of the
metropolis, left him little time for dreaming and only now and then, as
he lay in the calm dawn on his camp bed, a great longing came over him;
the homely mill gleamed through the darkness like a lost Paradise and
the clatter of the wheels sounded in his ears like heavenly music. But
as soon as he heard the trumpet call, the vision passed away.
Martin fared worse at the mill, where he was now quite alone, for he
could not reckon as companions the millhands, or old David, an
inheritance from his father. Friends he had never had either in the
village or elsewhere. Johannes sufficed him and took their place
entirely. He slunk about brooding in silence, his mind ever gloomier,
his thoughts ever darkened, and at last melancholy took such hold of
him that the vision of his victim began to haunt him. He was sensible
enough to know that he could not go on living like this, and forcibly
sought to distract his thoughts--went on Sundays to the village dance
and visited the neighboring hamlets under pretense of trade interests.
But as for the result of all this--well, one fine day at the
commencement of his second year of service, Johannes got a letter from
his brother. It ran as follows:
"My Dear Boy:
"I shall have to write it some time, even though you will be angry with
me. I could not bear my loneliness any longer and have made up my mind
to enter into the matrimonial state. Her name is Gertrude Berling, and
she is the daughter of a wind-miller in Lehnort, two miles from here.
She is very young and I love her very much. The wedding is to be in six
weeks. If you can, get leave of absence for it.
"Dear brother, I beg of you, do not be vexed with me. You know
you will always have a home at the mill whether there is a mistress
there or not. Our fatherly inheritance belongs to us both, in any
case. She sends you her kind regards. You once met each other at a
shooting-match, and she liked you very much, but you took no notice of
her, and she sends you word she was immensely offended with you.
"Farewell,
"Your faithful brother,
"Martin."
Johannes was a very spoiled creature. Martin's engagement appeared to
him as high treason against their brotherly love. He felt as if his
brother had deceived him and meanly deprived him of his due rights.
Henceforth a stranger was to rule where hitherto he alone had been
king, and his position at the mill was to depend on her favor and good
will. Even the friendly message from the wind-miller's daughter did not
calm or appease him. When the day of the wedding came, he took no
leave, but only sent his love and good wishes by his old schoolfellow
Franz Maas, who was just left off from military service.
Six months later he himself was at liberty.
How now, Johannes? We are so obstinate that on no account will we go
home, and prefer to seek our fortune in foreign parts; we roam about,
now to right, now to left, up hill and down hill and rub off our horns,
and when, four weeks later, we come to the conclusion that in spite of
the wind-miller's daughter there is no place in the world like the
Rockhammer mill, we went our way homewards most cheerfully.
One sunny day in May Johannes arrived in Marienfeld.
Franz Mass, who had set up the autumn before as a worthy baker, was
standing, with his legs apart, in front of his shop, looking up
contentedly at the tin "Bretzel" swinging over his door in the gentle
noon-day breeze, when he saw an Uhlan come swaggering down the village
street with his cap cocked to one side and clinking his spurs. His
brave ex-soldier's heart beat quicker under his white baker's apron as
he took his pipe out of his mouth and shaded his eyes with his hand.
"Well, I declare, it's Johannes!"
"Hallo, old fellow!" And they were greeting each other with effusion.
"Where do you hail from so late in the season? Have you had to do extra
service?"
"For shame!"
Then they start questions and confessions. About the captain and the
sergeant and old Knapphaus and the fair baker's daughter whom they used
to call "Crumpet Mary," and who lived in the baker's shop close to the
barracks--they all have their turn and not one is forgotten.
"And what about yourself? Did they recognize you in the village?" asks
Franz, transferring his insatiable thirst for knowledge to more homely
ground.
"Not a soul," laughs Johannes, complacently twirling his budding
cavalry moustache which points heavenwards in two smart ends.
"And at home?"
Johannes makes a serious face and says he must go.
"Oh, you're only on the way there now? Then I suppose it's bobbing
about in there?" And he gives him a searching thump on his chest.
Johannes laughs curtly and then suppresses a sigh as if to master his
excitement.
Franz lays his hand on his shoulder and says: "Well, you will find a
sister-in-law--upon my word, she's a sister-in-law worth having!" He
smacks his lips and winks his eye. It fills Johannes again with his
former defiance and rage. He shrugs his shoulders contemptuously,
shakes hands with his friend and goes off clinking his spurs.
Three more minutes' walk; then he is through the village. There is the
church! Poor old thing--it has got even a bit more tumble-down!
But the black larches still rustle as of old, and theirs is the same
sweet song of happy promise which they sang to him on the day of his
confirmation. There on the left is the inn--by Jove, they have put
up a massive new doorway, and at the window there stand immense
liquor-flasks, filled with flaming red and viciously green fluids. Mine
host of the "Crown" has been looking up! That side-path leads down to
the river. And there is the mill, the goal of his dreams! How
comfortable the old thatched roof looks across the alder bushes, how
snowy white are the cherry blossoms in the garden, how cheerily the
mill-wheels clatter: "Welcome, welcome!"
How the dear old moss-grown weir seems to chant a blessing from afar!
He pushes his cap a degree further back and pulls himself together
resolutely, for he is determined to master his emotion.
All the fields stretching on either side of the road belong to the
mill. On the right is winter-rye, as of old; but on the left, where
there used to be a potato-patch, there is now a kitchen garden--there
are asparagus-plants and young beetroots arranged in prim and orderly
rows.
Between the long vegetable borders, about five paces from the fence, he
sees the lithe, robust figure of a girl assiduously bending to her
work.
Who can that be? Does she belong to the mill? Perhaps a new maid!
Hardly that, though, for she looks too smart, too neat; her shoes are
too light, her apron too dainty, the white kerchief so picturesquely
draped round her head is of too fine a texture. If only she would not
so completely shade her face! Now she looks up! Good heavens, what a
sweet girl! How her bonny cheeks glow, how her dark eyes gleam, how her
pouting lips seem to invite a kiss!
As she perceives him, she drops her hoe and stares at him.
"Good-day," he says, and touches his cap somewhat awkwardly. "Do you
know whether the miller is at home?"
"Yes, he's at home," she says, and goes on staring at him.
"I wonder what she means by it," he thinks, fighting against his
embarrassment; and as, since his Berlin days, he has every reason to
consider himself well-nigh irresistible, it is a point of honor with
him now to step close up to the hedge and attempt a little flirtation
with the girl.
"Well, always busy?" he asks, just for the sake of asking, and in his
confusion clutches at the ends of his moustache. Uhlan, beware! Take
care!!
"Yes, I'm always busy," she repeats mechanically, while she stares at
his face unceasingly; and suddenly, raising her hand and spreading out
all five fingers as if she would like to point at him with them all,
she says, as she bursts out laughing:
"Why, you're Johannes!"
"Yes, tha-at's m-e," he stammers in astonishment; "and who are you?"
"I'm his wife!"
"What? You--his--Martin's?"
"Hm!" And she nods at him with assumed dignity, while her eyes are full
of roguishness.
"But you look like a young girl!"
"It isn't so very long since I was one," she laughs.
They stand on opposite sides of the fence and look at each other.
Collecting herself, she wipes her hands ostentatiously on her apron,
and stretches them out to him through the lattice-work.
"Welcome, brother-in-law!"
He returns her hand-shake, but is silent.
"Do you perhaps intend to be angry with me, brother-in-law?" she says,
and looks up at him roguishly. He feels absolutely powerless before
her, and can only laugh awkwardly and say: "I--angry? Oh, dear no!"
"It looked rather like it!" she says, and lifting her finger
threateningly, she adds: "Oh, I should only just have liked you to
attempt such a thing!" Thereupon she sticks her chin into her collar
and bursts into a soft chuckle.
"Well, you are funny! he says, with a rather more easy laugh.
"I funny?--never! You go along now; meanwhile I will run in through the
garden and fetch Martin."
And she starts to run away, then stops suddenly, puts her finger to her
nose and says: "Wait a minute; I will come across to you."
Before he has time to stretch out a helping hand, she had slipped, as
nimble as a lizard, in between the boards of the fencing.
"Well, here I am," she says, smoothing out her dress, while she lets
the knotted kerchief fall loosely onto her neck, so that a mass of
little brown curls escape round her forehead and neck and begin to
dance in the wind as if delighted at their newly regained freedom.
His gaze rests with astonishment on the fresh, girlish beauty of this
young wife, who behaves like a wild unconstrained child.
She notices the look, and slightly blushing, she passes her hand over
the curly disorder which will not be fettered.
For a while they walk beside each other in silence.
She looks down and smiles as if she too had suddenly learned shyness.
Conversation flags till they have got through the large entrance-gate.
Johannes looks about and gives a cry of amazement. He cannot believe
his eyes.
Everything all around is changed, everything is beautified. The round
court-yard, which in rainy weather used to be one immense pool of dirt
and in dry weather one mass of dust-clouds, now is all covered with
turf like some flowering meadow, the doors of the store-houses and
stables are resplendent with bright red paint and bear white numbers.
In the middle of the open space is an artistic pigeon-house, like a
little Swiss chalet, and in front of the house is a newly built
veranda, round whose shining windowpanes and dainty wood-carving some
young creepers twine their budding tendrils. The mill lies before his
ecstatic gaze like the very home of peace and innocence. He folds his
hands in emotion and asks "Who has done all this?"
She looks about without speaking.
"You?" he asks, amazed.
"I helped," she answers modestly.
"But you originated it?"
She smiles. This smile makes her appear older, and for a moment her
child-like face is suffused with a shimmer of womanly grace.
"Your hand is blessed," he says softly and shyly, more in earnest than
is his wont.
He cannot help thinking of his dead mother, who so often complained of
the dreadful dust, and that in the whole space outside there was not a
single place where she could sit down in comfort.
"If only she could have lived to see this," he murmurs to himself.
"Mother?" she asks him.
He looks up astonished. That she should not say "your mother" startles
him at first, then it gives him a feeling of intense pleasure such as
he has never before in his life felt. A sort of happy glow enters into
his heart and will not leave it. So there is now in the world a young,
beautiful strange woman who speaks of his mother as if she had been
hers too, as if she herself were his sister, the sister he had so often
longed for in his foolish younger days, when his gaze used to rest with
admiration on other girls.
And now she softly repeats her question.
"Yes, mother," he answers, and looks at her gratefully.
She bears his look for a second; then drops her eyes and says in some
confusion; "I wonder where Martin can be?"
"In the mill, I suppose!"
"Yes, in the mill, of course," she answers quickly; and with the words
"I will fetch him," she hurries away. Almost without thinking he stares
after the girlish figure bounding so lightly across the grass.
Everything about her seems to be flying and fluttering--her skirts, her
apron-strings, the kerchief about her neck, her untameable, entangled
mass of curls.
He remains for a time gazing after her as if spell-bound; then he
laughingly shakes his head and walks to the veranda. There he notices a
dainty work-table and on it a round wicker-work-basket. Across its edge
hangs a piece of work commenced, a long, white strip embroidered with
flowers and leaves such as women use for insertion. Without thinking he
takes the piece of cambric in his hand and examines the cunning
stitches till his sister-in-law's laughing voice reaches his ears.
Like a surprised criminal he quickly lets the embroidery drop--there
she is already, bending round the corner; and the flour-whitened,
square-set figure she is so merrily dragging behind her and who is so
awkwardly trying to divest himself of her little, clutching hands, and
dispersing thick, white dust-clouds all round, that is, why, that is--
"Martin, dear old Martin!" and he rushes out to embrace him.
The awkward movements cease; the bushy eye-brows are drawn up--the
good-natured, quiet smile grows stony--the whole figure is fixed--the
man draws back--but next moment he rushes forward towards his
newly-regained darling.
In silence the brothers clasp each other.
Then after a time Martin takes the head of the returned wanderer
between his two hands and, knitting his brows darkly and gnawing at his
under-lip he looks long and earnestly into his brother's beaming,
laughing eyes. Thereupon he sits down on the seat in the veranda, rests
his elbows on his knees and looks down.
"Why are you so pensive, Martin?" Johannes asks softly, laying his hand
on his brother's shoulder.
"Well, why shouldn't I be pensive?" he answers, with a peculiar sort of
low grunt which accompanies all his meager speeches. "Ah--you rascal!"
he continues, and the good-natured grin which is his in happy moments
spreads over his heavily-cut features. "You made up your mind to be
angry--you, you?" Then he jumps up and takes his wife's hand. "Look at
him, Trude; he wanted to be angry, the silly fellow! Come here, boy!
Eh--here she is--look at her properly, well! Do you think you could be
angry with _her_?"
Then he drops clumsily onto his seat, so that a fresh cloud of white
dust flies up, looks at Johannes, laughs to himself a little and says
at last: "Trude, fetch a clothes brush!" Trude bursts out laughing and
skips away singing. When she returns waving the desired object high in
the air, he gives the order: "Now brush him!"
"When a miller or a sweep grows affectionate, there's sure to be a
misfortune," Johannes says, attempting a joke, and tries to take the
brush out of her hand.
"Please allow me, Mr. Johannes," she protests, hiding the brush under
her apron.
Martin hits the bench with his fist. "Mr. Johannes! Well, I
never--what's the meaning of that? Haven't you made friends yet?--eh?"
Johannes is silent and Trude brushes away at him with great vigor.
"Then I suppose you haven't even given each other a kiss yet?"
Trude lets the brush fall suddenly. Johannes says "H'm" and busies
himself with rolling the wheel of one of his spurs along the scraper
standing at the entrance.
"It's the proper thing to do, however! Now then!"
Johannes faces about and twirls his moustache, determined to get over
his awkward predicament by playing the man of the world; but with all
that he has not the courage to bend down to her. He stands there as
stiff as a post and waits till she holds up her little mouth; then for
a moment he presses his trembling lips upon hers, and feels how a
slight shudder runs through her frame.
A moment later it is all over. With a shy smile they stand next to one
another--both blushing all over.--Martin slaps his knees with his hands
and declares it has been as good as a side-splitting farce. Then he
suddenly gets up and walks off. He must ponder over his happiness in
solitude.
In the afternoon the brothers go together into the mill. Trude stands
at the window and looks after them, and, when Johannes turns around,
she smiles and hides behind the curtain. On the threshold Johannes
stands still and leans his head against the door-post, and deep emotion
fills him as he gazes into the semi-darkness of the dear old place from
which proceeds such a din of wheels that it nearly stuns him, while the
draught drives into his face great whitish-grey clouds of flour,
bran-dust and steam. Side by side the various "runs" open out before
him. On the left, nearest the wall, the old "bolting-run," for the
finest flour; then the "bruising-run," where the bran and flour remain
together; then the "groats-run," where the barley is freed from its
husks; and finally the "cylinder-run," one of the new kind only
recently added.--They have also had a new spiral alley and a lift made.
Fashion now-a-days requires all these innovations.
Martin puts his hands in his pockets and saunters along with his pipe
in his mouth in silent self-content. Then he takes hold of Johannes'
hand and proceeds to explain the new invention--how the fine flour is
caught up by the spiral and conveyed to the suspiral where small pails,
running along a belting, raise it through two stories, almost to the
roofing, and then empty it into the silken, cylinder-like funnels
through the fine network of which it has to pass before becoming fit
for use. Listening breathlessly, Johannes drinks in his brother's
scant, slowly uttered words, and is surprised how ignorant one grows in
the army; for all these things are sealed books to him.
Business is flourishing. All the works are in full swing, and the
'prentices have plenty to do with pouring the grain into the
mill-hopper and watching the outflow of the flour and the bran.
"I have three now," says Martin, pointing to the white-powdered
fellows, one of whom is continually running up and down the stairs.
"And is David here yet?" asks Johannes.
"Why, of course," answers Martin; and makes a face as if the mere idea
of David's being no longer at the mill had scared him.
"Where has he hidden himself, the old fellow?" Johannes laughingly
asks.
"David! David!" shouts Martin's lusty voice above all the clatter of
the wheels.
Then from out the darkness, by the motor machine, which rises
Cyclops-like from below the woodwork of the galleries, there emerges a
long, lanky figure, dipped in flour--a face shows itself on which the
indifference of old age has left nothing to be read--a slightly
reddened nose, which almost meets the bristly chin, weak and sulky eyes
hidden beneath bushy brows, and a mouth which seems to be continually
chewing.
"What do you want me for, master?" he asks, planting himself in front
of the brothers without removing the clay pipe which hangs loosely
between his lips.
"Here's Johannes," says Martin, patting the old man's shoulder, while a
good-natured smile crosses his countenance.
"Don't you know me any more, David?" asks Johannes, holding out his
hand in a friendly manner. The old man spits out a stream of brown
juice from between his teeth, considers awhile and then mumbles:
"Why shouldn't I know you?"
"And how are you?"
"How should I be?"--Then he begins fumbling about at a sack of flour,
tying and untying the string with his bony fingers; then when he has
made sure that he is no longer wanted, he withdraws once more into his
dark corner.
Martin's face beams. "There's a faithful soul for you, Johannes--28
years of service, eh! And always industrious and conscientious."
"By the bye, what does he do?"
Martin looks confused. "Well--look here--eh--hard to say--position of
trust--eh--faithful soul, faithful soul."
"Does the faithful soul still occasionally prig something from the
flour-sacks?" asks Johannes laughing.
Martin shrugs his shoulders impatiently and mutters something about "28
years of service," and closing an eye.
"He seems still to owe me a grudge," says Johannes, "for having
discovered the hiding place to which he had carried his hardly-stolen
little hoard."
"You will persist in being prejudiced against him," answers Martin,
"just like Trude too--you are unjust towards him,--most unjust."
Johannes laughingly shakes his head; then he points to a door leading
to a newly erected partition.
"What's that?"
Martin moves about uneasily. "My office," he then stammers, and, as
Johannes attempts to open the door, he runs up to him and catches him
back by his coat-tails.
"I beg of you," he mutters, "do not cross that threshold. Not
to-day--nor any other day.--I have my reasons." Johannes looks at him
in vexation. "Since when have you secrets from me," he feels impelled
to ask, but his brother's trustful, pleading look closes his lips, and
arm in arm they leave the mill together.
Evening has come.--The great wheel is at rest, and with it the host of
smaller ones.--Silence is over all the mill and only in the distance
the rushing water of the weir sings its monotonous song. Here of
course--in front of the house--the mill-brook is quiet and peaceful, as
though it had nothing in the world to do but to carry water-lilies and
to mirror the setting sun in its depths. Like a golden-red, dark-edged
streamer it winds along between the straggling thicket of alders, in
which a choir of nightingales are just clearing their throats and, all
unconscious of their superior merit, are about to commence a singing
competition with the frogs down there. The three human beings who are
henceforth to pass their days together in this blossoming, song-laden
solitude have already become lovingly intimate. They sit on the veranda
around the white-spread supper-table, the food upon which has to-day
found little appreciation, and their gaze is full of intense content.
Martin rests his head on his hands and draws great clouds of smoke from
his short pipe, from time to time emitting a sound which is something
of a laugh, something of a growl.
Johannes has quite buried himself in the mass of foliage and lets the
tendrils of the wild vine play about his face. They tremble and flutter
with his every breath.
Trude has pushed her head deep into her collar and is looking furtively
across at the two brothers, like a high-spirited child that would like
to get into mischief but first wants to make quite sure that no one is
watching. This silence is evidently not to her taste, but she is
already too well schooled to break it. Meantime she amuses herself by
making little pellets of bread and shooting them, unnoticed by either
of the brothers, into the midst of the herd of sparrows hopping about
the veranda, with greedy intent. There is one in particular, a little,
dirty fellow, who beats all the others' cunning and alertness. As soon
as a grain of food comes rolling along he spreads both wings, screams
like mad, and while fighting he endeavors to get it away by beating his
wings, so that he can take possession of it comfortably while the
others are still wildly hacking at each other. This maneuver he repeats
four or five times, and always successfully, till one of his comrades
finds out his trick and does it still better.
This gives Trude a fit of laughing which she tries to suppress by
stuffing her handkerchief into her mouth and holding her breath till
she gets quite blue in the face--Then when she finds it absolutely
impossible to contain herself any longer, she jumps up to get away, but
before she reaches the door, her laughter bursts forth and she
disappears into the darkness of the passage, screaming loudly with
delight.
Both brothers are roused from their dreaming.
"What's up?" asks Johannes, startled. Martin shakes his head as he
looks after his young, foolish wife whose tricks he well knows; then
after a time he takes his brother's hand and says, pointing to the
door:
"Well--does she look as if she would oust you?"
"No, indeed," answers Johannes with a somewhat uneasy laugh.
"Oh, my boy," growls Martin, scratching his bushy head, "what a lot of
worry I have been through!--I tossed about in my bed a long night when
I thought of you! I mean on account of the wrong I might be doing
you."--Then after a time--"And yet when I look at her--she is so
fair--so innocent--say yourself, my boy, could I possibly help loving
her? When I saw her--ah--why it was all over with me.--In so many ways
she reminded me of you--merry, and bright-eyed and full of mischief,
just like you.--Of course she was a child and has remained one to the
present day--Charmless and wild and playful as a child.--And I tell
you--she wants holding in tighter--her spirits run away with her.--But
that is just how I love her to be"--a tender look brightens his
features--"and if I rightly think it over, I would not even miss one of
her ridiculous doings. You know I always must have some one to watch
over--formerly I had you, now she is the one."
After relieving his feelings in this manner, he once more becomes
silent.
"And are you happy?" asks Johannes.
Martin hides himself in a thick cloud of smoke, and from out of that he
mutters after a time:
"Well, that depends!"
"On what?"
"On your not being angry with her."
"I angry with her?"
"Well, well, you needn't make excuses!"
Johannes does not reply. He will soon convince his brother of better
things--and closing his eyes, he buries his head once more in the
waving foliage. A gleam of light causes him to look up. Trude is
standing on the threshold, holding a lamp and looking ashamed of
herself. Her charming, childlike face is bathed in a red glow and the
drooping lashes cast long, semi-circling shadows on her full cheeks.
"What a ridiculous creature you are!" says Martin, stroking her ruffled
hair tenderly.
"Won't you go to rest, Johannes?" she asks with great seriousness,
though there is still the sound of suppressed laughter in her voice.
"Good-night, brother!"
"Wait, I am coming too!"
Johannes shakes hands with his sister-in-law, while she turns her face
aside with a furtive smile.
Martin takes the lamp from her and precedes his brother up the stairs.
At the top he takes his hand and gazes silently and deeply into his
eyes, like one who cannot yet contain his happiness; then he softly
closes the door.
Johannes sighs and stretches himself, pressing both hands to his
breast. His heart is heavy for very joy. He feels as if he must go
after his brother and relieve his feelings by a few loving, grateful
words, but already he hears his steps downstairs in the entrance. It is
too late. But his mind must be calmer before he can attempt to sleep.
He puts out the lamp and pushes open a window. The night air cools his
brow.--How soothing it is--how it wafts peace!
He bends over the window-ledge, whistles a song to himself and looks
out into the night. The apple-tree beneath him is in full bloom--a
waving sea of blossoms. How often as a child he has climbed up there,
how often, tired with play, he has leant, dreaming, against its trunk,
while its rustling leaves told him fairy stories. And when in autumn a
gust of wind swept through the branches, it brought down a shower of
rosy-cheeked apples, which fell almost into his lap.--What ecstasy that
was! How many things enter one's thoughts as one whistles! Each note
awakens a new song, each melody conjures up new reminiscences. And with
the old songs there returns the old longing and flies on butterfly's
wings through a vast empire between the moon and the morning sun!--
And as he looks down upon the earth melting into darkness, he sees how
a window is softly opened and an upturned face bends far out. From out
of a pale, gleaming oval, framed in a background of shadowy hair, two
dark eyes glanced up at him, slyly and mischievously.
Abruptly he stops whistling; then a teasing laugh greets his ears, and
his sister-in-law's merry voice cries: "Go on, Johannes!"
And when he will not do her bidding, she points her own lips and
attempts a few very imperfect notes.
Then Martin's deep bass voice becomes audible in the house, saying in a
tone of paternal reproof:
"None of your nonsense, Trude! Let him sleep!"
"But he doesn't sleep," she answers, pouting like a scolded child. Then
the window is shut. The voices die away.
Johannes laughingly shakes his head and goes to bed, but he cannot
sleep. Those flowers prevent him which Trude has placed at his
bed-side, and the leaves of which hang right over the edge of the bed.
Pale bluish bunches of lilac and the nebulous white stars of narcissi
are mingled together. He turns round, kneels up in bed and buries his
face in the flowery depths. Fondly the leaflets kiss his eye-lids and
his lips.
Suddenly he listens. From underneath the floor, as it were from the
bowels of the earth, comes a quiet laugh. It is soft as a breath of
wind passing over the grass, but so merry, so full of happiness.
He listens, hoping to hear it again, but all is still. "Crazy little
body, you," he says amused, then falls back upon his pillow and drops
to sleep smiling.
Next day Johannes fetches down his working-clothes. They are a bit
tight across the shoulders. But then, one gets broader.
The sun is already high in the heavens. As if it could shine so
brightly, right into one's heart, anywhere else!--The sun of home is a
wonderful thing. What it looks upon, it gilds, and when it touches
one's lips, they begin to sing.
"It is lovely at home--hurrah!"
"Now I have a nest of merry birds in the house," laughs Martin, coming
to greet him. "Go on singing. I am used to that from Trude--but what
are you doing in that white coat?"
"I suppose you think I am going to be idle here?"
"At least just for a day!"
"Not for an hour! My lazy times are over!"
Martin has meanwhile noticed the flowers at the bed-side and says with
a grumbling laugh: "Now there's a little witch for you! I have
forbidden it for myself, and now she begins the same nonsense with
others. That's why you look so pale this morning.
"I, pale? Not in the least!"
"Don't say a word! I'll cure her of her tricks."
With that they go downstairs.
Trude is nowhere to be seen.
"She has been in the garden since five o'clock," says Martin with a
pleased smile. "Everything goes like clock-work since she's at the head
of affairs. As quick as a weasel, up at peep of day and always merry,
always ready with a song and a laugh."
On their way to the mill a young turnip whizzes past the brothers',
heads. Martin turns round and laughingly threatens with his finger.
"Who was that?" asks Johannes, peering in bewilderment round the empty
yard.
"Who but she?"
"But can you see her anywhere?"
"Not a trace of her! Oh, she's a teasing elf who can become invisible
at will." And with a beaming face he follows his brother to the mill.
The hours pass by. Johannes wants to show what he can do and works with
twofold energy.
While he is superintending the storing of the grain on the gallery,
some one from below gently pulls his coat-tail. He looks down;--Trude,
with sun-heated face and sparkling eyes, stands on the steps and
invites him to come to breakfast. "In a minute," he says, finishes his
task and jumps down.
"Brr!" she says, shaking herself, "how you look!
"What's the matter?
"Well--yesterday I liked you better." Then she gives him her hand with a
"good-morning," and trips down the stairs in front of him, strewing the
flour about for fun as she goes.
When they get to the door of the partition that Martin called his
office, she pulls a mysterious face and raises her hand silently as if
to lay a ghost.