Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
Transcriber's Note:
1. Page scan source:
http://books.google.com/books?id=7DYoAAAAYAAJ&pg=PP1&dq=Landolin&output
=text
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EASTERN QUESTION.
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_HENRY HOLT & CO., Publishers, 25 Bond St., N. Y._
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
(_Leisure-Hour Series_)
ON THE HEIGHTS. 2 vols.
THE VILLA ON THE RHINE. 2 vols.
BLACK FOREST VILLAGE STORIES.
LITTLE BAREFOOT.
JOSEPH IN THE SNOW.
EDELWEISS.
GERMAN TALES.
WALDFRIED.
THE CONVICTS AND THEIR CHILDREN.
LORLEY AND REINHARD.
ALOYS.
POET AND MERCHANT.
LANDOLIN.
LEISURE HOUR SERIES. No. 44.
* * * * *
LANDOLIN
BY
BERTHOLD AUERBACH
_Author of "On the Heights," "Waldfried," "Villa on the Rhine," etc._
TRANSLATED BY
ANNIE B. IRISH
NEW YORK:
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1878
Copyright
1878
By HENRY HOLT.
LANDOLIN.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
The spring has come again to the hills and valleys of our home. The day
awakes, a breeze moves strongly through the forest, as if its task were
to carry away the lingering night; the birds begin to twitter, and here
and there an early lark utters his note. Among the pine-trees, with
their fresh green needles, a whispering and rustling is heard. The sun
has risen above the mountaintop, and shines upon the valley; the fields
and meadows are glittering with dew. From the cherry-trees comes a
stream of fragrance, and the hawthorn hedges that blossomed in the
night are rejoicing in the first sunbeams, which penetrate to the very
heart of each floweret.
Down in the valley, where the logmen's rafts are floating rapidly--down
by the saw-mill, where the water dashes over the wheel, and the saw
sounds shrill--a young man with white forehead and sunburnt cheeks
opens a window, looks out, and nods gayly, as if greeting the awakening
day. Presently he appears on the doorstep; he opens his arms wide, as
if to embrace something; he smiles, as though looking at a happy, loved
face. Taking his soldier's cap from his head, and holding it in his
hand, he leaves the house; his step is firm, his bearing erect, and
sincere honesty and candor look from his eyes. He goes through the
meadows toward the forest-crowned hill, not stopping till he reaches
its summit. Pausing there, he looks far into the distance, where a
column of smoke ascends to the cloudless sky.
"Good morning, Thoma! Are you still sleeping? Awake! our own day is
here!" he said in a deep, manly voice.
And now he joyously bounded down the hill, but soon moderated his step,
and sang a yodel until the birds joined with him, and the echo repeated
the song. Before long he reached the house; by the door stood his
father, scattering bread crumbs to the chickens.
"Good morning, father!" cried the young man. The father, a tall, thin
man, looked up with surprise, and answered:
"What, up already, Anton? Where have you been?"
"I? where? Everywhere. In heaven, and in this beautiful world below. O
father! it has often seemed to me that I should not live to see this
day; that I should die before it came, or that something else would
happen. But now the day is here. And such a day!"
The old man drew the palm of his hand twice, three times, over his
mouth; for he would have liked to say: "Your mother was just so, so
faint-hearted, and again so confident;" but he kept back the words; he
would not mar his son's happiness; and at last he said:
"Yes, yes, so it is; that's what it is to be young. Tell me, Anton,
were you so uneasy in the war, and so----?"
"No, father, that was quite another thing. Father, I'm afraid you are
not entirely satisfied with Thoma."
"It's true, I'm not in love with her, as you are."
"No, but that's not all."
"There's nothing else, but for me she is almost too----"
"Too rich, you mean."
"I didn't mean that. No girl is too rich for an honest lad. I only
meant she is too beautiful. Yes, laugh if you choose; but a wife as
beautiful as she, is a troublesome possession. I think, however, it
will come out all right; she certainly seems more like her mother than
like Landolin. To be sure, she has some of his pride, but I hope not
his ungovernable temper. In old stories we read of wicked giants;
Landolin might have been one of them. It's well that we live in other
times."
"But, father, you make too much of this; my Thoma----"
"Yes, yes, she has her mother's good disposition. I have been thinking
it over, and I believe that, all told, I have been fifteen times at
Rotterdam. There are no such violent men as Landolin in Holland."
"Father, perhaps it's because they have no mountain streams in Holland,
only quiet canals."
"Well, well! Is there anything that the young people nowadays do not
know all about? However, I did not mean to say anything bad of Thoma."
"That you can never do, father. There is one thing about her that will
please you especially; an untruth has never escaped her lips, and never
will."
"The world doesn't set much store by that now, but it's a great thing,
after all. But enough of this. You are a man that can be master. I have
only said this that your mind might be prepared. Enough now. It is a
glorious day, thank God!"
"Yes, glorious indeed," replied Anton; but he did not mean the weather,
for to-day was to take place, at the spring fair in the city, the
betrothal of the miller's son, Anton, with Thoma (Thomasia), the
daughter of the farmer and former bailiff, Landolin of Reutershoefen.