Only a few months ago a strong man had crossed this threshold. He was
now changed, and the world was changed, particularly his own household.
During his absence he had constantly thought how merry it was at home.
And yet there was nothing merrier there than quiet, uninterrupted work;
and he himself had always been a stern, morose man, before whom every
one in the house, save Thoma, trembled. To be sure Thoma had always
been light-hearted, and perhaps that was why he thought the whole
household merry.
With downcast gaze Landolin went up the road. His present frame of mind
was the most injurious a man could be in, and highly improper for a
farmer. He was irritable, and, as is always the case with irritable
people, he was weak and helpless, and trusted to external causes to
bring him new energy and incitement.
As he raised his eyes he saw, at some distance, a woman with a red
kerchief approaching him. Is that "Cushion-Kate?" Should he turn back?
He called the dog nearer to him; but it was not "Cushion-Kate;" it was
a stranger.
See! There comes the "Galloping-Cooper." He was walking faster than
usual, and as he hurried by he said "Good evening" carelessly, and
without waiting for a response. Landolin stood still, looked back after
him, and shrugged his shoulders contemptuously at the beggarly man, who
once, if he wanted to borrow a log of wood for barrel staves, could not
find submissive words enough. "Not another chip shall you have from
me," said Landolin to himself as he walked on. He had now reached the
bailiff's farm. The watch-dog rushed out at Racker; but as soon as he
saw the spiked collar he fled. Racker started in pursuit of the coward;
but Landolin called him back. The bailiff, who was sitting astride a
block of wood, mending a scythe, must certainly have heard him, but he
did not look up; and not until Landolin stood in front of him and
spoke, did he stop hammering. Then, running his fingers along the edge
of the scythe, to see if there were any notches left, he said:
"Back again, eh?"
"As you see. Down! Racker." The dog had been standing perfectly still
beside him; and it seemed as though he visited upon the dog a fit of
anger which something else had provoked. It galled him that the bailiff
should speak so disrespectfully, neither offering to shake hands, nor
rising; but he said with a forced smile:
"I only came to tell you, and you may announce it generally, that I
shall not be a candidate for councilman for this district at the
election; and that I resign my office of judge of the orphans' court."
"All right. I'll attend to it."
Landolin stared at the young bailiff. Is that the way to speak to him?
Must he put up with that? And not dare to get angry and give blow for
blow? Yes, Landolin; you are no longer feared. Curb your passions, and
learn to rule yourself.
After a long pause, during which Landolin struggled against his
indignation, he said abruptly:
"Good by."
"Good by," was the dry answer.
Landolin walked away, and the bailiff went on hammering his scythe. But
the strokes fell faster and faster; for he thought exultingly that he
had treated Landolin as he deserved, for having brought scandal and
dishonor upon the whole district. Had not Landolin acted as though he
could still lay claim to something? "Now, I think, he'll know what his
standing is."
But Landolin only knew that the whole world was hostile to him, and
begrudged him his life.
"Good evening, Mr. Ex-bailiff." Thus he was suddenly accosted.
He looked up and saw a rough-looking young man of sinewy make standing
before him, and taking off his hat. Disordered, bristly hair fell over
his forehead into the unquiet, black eyes, that wandered restlessly
here and there.
"Who are you?"
"The ex-bailiff does not remember me? I am Engelbert, the shepherd of
Gerlachseck. I have been waiting for you."
"For me?"
"You'll surely take me into service now."
"Where do you come from?"
"From down there."
The vagrant made a motion toward the plain. "I had three years. If my
master had been good to me, and had not prosecuted me----"
"So you are just out of the Penitentiary?"
The man nodded, and smiled in a confidential way.
"And why should I, in particular, take you?"
"Well, just because it is so. Of course, after this, your servants will
have an easy time. You'll get a new set throughout, and you'd better
have me to watch the rest."
The veins swelled on Landolin's forehead, but he concealed his
annoyance, laughed aloud, and called out in a commanding tone:
"March! How dare you speak to me so? Off with you, or----"
"Oho! So you want to murder another man. You can't finish me as quickly
as you did Vetturi."
He put on his hat and clenched his fists.
Without speaking another word, Landolin went on, while the vagrant
called after him with threats and insult.
The evening bells began ringing. Landolin nodded, as if greeting the
sound, or as though he felt they were calling him. He took a roundabout
way, so as not to pass through the church-yard where Vetturi's grave
was.
The church stood open. Landolin took off his hat, ordered the dog to
lie down and wait for him, and was just putting his foot on the
threshold, when Cushion-Kate came out. She gave him a look that made
him blench; then she caught the heavy church-door, and dashed it to
with such force that it fairly groaned. And louder yet the terrible
woman cried:
"For you the church is closed. Raise your hand! Here, at the church
door, kill me! You are equal to anything. You are rejected by God, cast
out by men. You----"
The dog had sprung up. His master quieted him, and the old woman went
away.
Landolin opened the door and entered the church. All was silent within,
save the pendulum's measured tick, far up in the tower. A bird had
flown through the open window. It fluttered about, affrighted, until it
found the opening again, and Landolin was alone in the vast edifice,
where the ever-burning lamp alone shed its light. No prayer escaped his
lips. Rather, in imagination he gathered in the whole congregation, men
and women, one by one, to their places. In imagination he took hold of
each one, looked him in the face, and shook him--but what good did that
do? They still hated him. Cast out, as a dead body, by the stream! Cast
out. All the empty benches repeated Cushion-Kate's words.
Hate of the God of whose compassion he had been taught in his
childhood, grew within him. It is not true, and if it were, what good
does it do for God to be pitiful, if he does not force men to be
pitiful too?
A sudden terror seized him, as though the roof were falling, and he
left the church and went home.
"Has no one been here?" he asked his wife when he reached home. She
said, "No;" but he did not answer her question as to where he had been
and with whom he had spoken. His wife's curiosity and idle questioning
were disagreeable to him. She saw that he did not value her love and
care, but she was patient. For she thought she was not wise and clever
enough for him, and resolved to be very careful in everything she did
or said. But in the goodness of her heart, the very next moment, she
tried to talk to him and cheer him, and that annoyed him. For it showed
that the past was still in her thoughts; and that he did not like. She
took special pains with his supper, and said: "Eat heartily, now that
you are at home again."
"It does no good to wish that," he replied, "if it doesn't taste good
of itself."
He waited and waited for a kind word from Thoma, but her strict and
cruel truthfulness forbade her to give him one. She was dissatisfied
that her father, in his weariness, and the humility which he had gained
by a violent effort, should be so indulgent with Peter. Day after day
she saw him taking upon himself the sole control of affairs, and her
father permitting it. Yes, he even worked like a servant, and seemed to
take satisfaction in being tyrannized over by his son. Everything was
transformed and changed.