"Then collar me!"
"You are too floury for me."
"A fine miller's wife to be afraid of flour," he teases.
"Never mind," she interrupts, "I shall soon put your playing powers to
the test."
In the gloaming, when they are once more sitting together on the
veranda, and Johannes, like his brother, sits dreaming with his head
hidden in the foliage, he suddenly feels a round, indefinable something
hit his head and then drop to the ground. "Perhaps it was a cock-chafer,"
he thinks to himself, but the attack is renewed two or three times.
Then he begins to suspect Trude, who sits like a perfect picture of
innocence, humming quite dolefully to herself, "In Yonder Verdant
Valley," while she works little bread pellets which evidently serve as
her missiles.
He suppresses a merry laugh, secretly gets hold of a branch of the vine
on which a few of last year's dried-up berries are still hanging, and
when she lets fly a new volley at him, he promptly dispatches his reply
at her little nose.
She flinches, looks at him quite amazed for a moment, and when he bends
towards her with the most serious face in the world, she bursts into a
loud, joyful laugh.
"What's the matter again now?" asks Martin, startled from his dreaming.
"He has withstood the test," she laughs, putting her arm around her
husband's neck.
"What test?"
"If I tell you, you will grumble, so I had better be silent."
Martin looks at Johannes questioningly.
"Oh, it's nothing," says he smiling; "it was only nonsense. We
were--bombarding each other."
"That's right, children--you bombard one another," Martin says, and
goes on smoking in silence. Johannes is ashamed of himself, while Trude
challenges her playfellow with mischievous glances. "Full of play,"
yes, that was it; that was what Martin Rockhammer had called his wife.
Henceforth there are to be no more of those peaceful silent hours in
the gloaming which Martin loves so well.
The quiet paths of the garden resound with song and laughter, across
the lawn figures dart, as quick as the wind, in pursuit of each
other;--they let loose the dogs and race with them;--they hunt the wild
cats that frequent the mill-yard--they play hide-and-seek behind the
haystacks and hedges.
Martin looks on at all these doings with kindly, fatherly indulgence.
At the bottom of his heart he would prefer to have his former quiet
restored, but they are both so happy in their youth and harmlessness;
their eyes sparkle so, their cheeks are so rosy: it would be a shame to
spoil their pleasure through grumbling and interference. Why, they are
but children! And are there not quieter hours? When Trude says, "Hans,
let us sing," they sit down demurely side by side on the veranda or
saunter slowly along the river, and when Martin has lighted his pipe
and is ready to listen, they warble forth their songs into the
gloaming. These are delightful, solemn moments. The birds in the trees
twitter in their slumber, a soft breeze wafts through the branches and
the mill-weir with its dull rushing sings the accompaniment. How
quickly their mood changes! They have begun so merrily, but the
melodies grow sadder and sadder, and the sound of their voices more and
more mournful. A few minutes ago they were planning nonsense, now they
have solemnly folded their hands and are gazing dreamily towards the
sunset. Johannes' clear tenor tones well with her full deep contralto,
and his ear never fails him when he is singing seconds in some new
song.
It is strange that they cannot sing when they are alone together. If
Martin happens to be called away on business during their song, their
voices at once begin to waver, they look at each other and smile, turn
away and smile again; then generally one of them makes a mistake and
they stop singing. If Martin is not at home in the evening, or if, as
is his wont once or twice a week, he has locked himself up in his
"office," they are both silent as if by a mutual understanding, and
neither of them would dare to invite the other to sing. Instead of
singing they have other more fascinating occupations which are only
possible when they are sure no third person is listening. While serving
in the army Johannes had acquired an "Album of Lyrics," in which he had
made a collection of everything in the way of merry or sentimental
songs that took his fancy. The sentimental kind, however, greatly
predominate. Love ditties, dirges, ballads about child murderers or
innocently convicted criminals, side by side with poetical meditations
on the vanity of life in general--and the gem of the whole collection
is Kotzebue's "Outburst of Despair," that sentimental effusion which
was for half a century the most popular of all German poems. This
collection just suits Trude's taste in poetry, and as soon as she is
alone with Johannes she whispers entreatingly, "Fetch the Lyrics!" Then
they crouch in some quiet corner, put their heads together--for Trude
insists on looking into the book too--and enjoy the delicious feeling
of awe which thrills them as they read.