The farmer's wife had often visited her husband in the presence of the
examining magistrate. Peter had several times accompanied his mother,
but Thoma did not come. Her father was too high-spirited to inquire for
her, or ask why she staid away. Perhaps she disapproved of his
obstinacy in staying in prison; perhaps she approved of his pride, for
Landolin had told the judge, "I will not go out with a halter round my
neck, for people to make sport of me; one to pull it tight, so as to
choke me a little, and another to graciously loosen it. I will only go
as a free man. And didn't you say that I am to appear in court next
week?"
So he staid in prison, and was not obliged to see any one but his wife,
his son, the examining magistrate, and his attorney. But one pair of
eyes he saw, that looked more friendly at him than the eyes of a child
or a sister. The district judge's wife had obtained permission to visit
the prisoners.
And the hearts must indeed have been hard that were not gladdened when
that lady entered the cell, while the guards waited at the open door.
Madame Pfann--for by this simple title did the judge's wife allow
herself to be called--Madame Pfann was exceedingly happy in her
marriage. Although her husband could not forbear occasionally laughing
at her missionary zeal, nevertheless he willingly allowed her her own
way in everything. He delighted in the many successes she achieved, but
above all other things, in the unwavering faithfulness with which she
fulfilled the duty she had taken upon herself.
They had an only son, who in July, 1870, entered the army as a
volunteer, was promoted to a lieutenancy on the field of battle, and
had remained in the service. Madame Pfann had not waited for some great
event before she set herself to work. Years before she had commenced
the work of philanthropy, and carried it out with a zeal that was
universally acknowledged. She was the daughter of a plain professor in
the gymnasium at the capital; and she took pleasure in saying that she
owed her capacity for her work to her father's simple and noble
character.
She was aware that people called her conduct eccentric and sentimental;
but she cared nothing for that.
An old-time saying tells us that on the path of heroic deeds a man has
to battle with giants and monsters. Madame Pfann had had to battle with
a great and noble intellect. She remembered Goethe's cynical words,
that finally the world would be bereft of all beauty, and each one
would be only his neighbor's benevolent brother.
Veneration for our great poet was an heir-loom in her girlhood's home.
Fierce was the conflict before she overcame the mighty coercion of the
master mind, but she gained at last that liberty which shakes off the
fetters of an undue veneration. She was convinced that even a Goethe
cannot give precepts for all time. Our age has made the unity of human
interests its law, and no longer tolerates a mere aesthetically selfish
life. Yes, out of a life devoted to the common welfare, springs a new
beauty of being.
Madame Pfann often met with rudeness and thoughtlessness where she
least expected it, so that her experiences were sometimes painful; but
she remained steadfast.
In her visits to the prisons, she refused to interfere in the least
degree with the course of the law. She only desired to comfort the
prisoners; to make them at peace with themselves; and above all things
she wished to help their friends who were left destitute at home. Here,
too, she had sorry experiences. Rascals imposed upon her, and amused
themselves in sending her on fruitless missions, and would even give
her directions whose baseness she could not suspect.
She knew that baseness and uncleanness existed, and yet clung to her
faith in greatness, nobility, and purity.
In the course of time she settled upon a regular method of talking with
the prisoners. She sought to learn of their early life, but she found
that they distrusted her motive, suspecting that she was seeking to
discover some crime which they might have committed, and she had to
contend with their cunning, which led them to tell her falsehoods.
Often, however, she succeeded in bringing the most hardened to better
thoughts and feelings, so that they spoke with tremulous voice of the
paradise of youthful innocence.
When Madame Pfann visited Landolin in prison, she found her task easier
than usual, for she had long known him and his family. He quickly gave
her to understand that he did not value her visit very highly, as she
honored the commonest prisoner in the same way.
He listened attentively for her answer, and was not surprised when she
replied, with a smile:
"I cannot double myself when I visit you; but I will come oftener if
you like."
It now happened, as it often had before with prisoners, that Landolin
looked for her visit as a diversion, and that was something gained.
"Has Titus been here, and taken a look at the tower where I shut am up?
Or perhaps he has not wanted to see me. I'll say beforehand I won't see
him," said Landolin, angrily.
Madame Pfann saw that his thoughts were occupied with his rival, so she
said that no one should rejoice in another's misfortune, for every one
has his own secret sorrow.
"Has he? Has anything happened to him?" asked Landolin, eagerly.
The lady said: "No!" and then turned the conversation to his childhood.
He related his boyish pranks, and laughed heartily over them; but still
he censured his father for having yielded to him in everything, except
once when he wanted to marry the Galloping Cooper's sister, for whom he
had had a fancy. He even complained of his wife for having always
yielded to him. He said he was the most grateful of men when any one
kept him from his wild pranks, even though at first he rebelled against
the restraint. Then he stopped short. He was afraid he had betrayed
himself, and protested solemnly that he was innocent of Vetturi's
death.
Madame Pfann asked, "Would you like me to have some flowering plants
brought here?"
Landolin laughed aloud and said: "I don't want anything with me except
my dog."
She promised to see that he should have it. She soon found that it
really was a very deep grief and trouble, that Thoma did not come to
see him.
Madame Pfann went to Reutershoefen, and listened patiently to his wife's
lament that her life was changed since her husband's hat hung no longer
on its accustomed nail. When Thoma came in after a long delay, the
kind-hearted lady was touched by her appearance, and told her that she
could well imagine her grief, in having been plunged in one day from
the highest joy to the deepest sorrow.
Thoma trembled. She had never before placed the two events so close
together. Madame Pfann felt the awkwardness of her remark, and
endeavored to reassure her by saying that she had no doubt that she
could adjust the difficulty with Anton, for he had great confidence in
her. Thoma soon became more composed, but she was still silent.
Madame Pfann urged her strongly to lighten her father's imprisonment by
visiting him.
"You mean it well, I know," replied Thoma, "you are very good, but I
cannot; I cannot go down the road, and up the prison stairs, and I
should be no comfort to my father, quite the contrary. It is better as
it is."
"It is not better, only more comfortable, more easy for you; you will
not conquer yourself."
Thoma was silent.
Madame Pfann arranged for Tobias to take the dog to its master.
She then went to see Cushion-Kate, who called out:
"You went to Landolin's first. I'll not let you into my house."
She bolted the door and Madame Pfann went quietly homeward.