TANNHAGEN.
It was not until after several unsuccessful attempts that Otto had
completed this epistle. Johanna's proposal had terrified him. The mere
idea of the storm which she would so boldly have called down upon both
their heads was intolerable to him. In spite of all he had said, he had
not had the remotest intention of offering any opposition to his
grandfather's plans. Still, he certainly might be permitted to grumble
at them, especially to Johanna. Her taking everything so seriously was
awkward, and she must learn to do so no longer; she must certainly give
up her unlucky scheme of interference, which would only serve to anger
the Freiherr afresh against his grandson. Johanna, indeed, did not know
how often he had forgiven him, how often he had afforded him new
openings in life; but Otto sometimes remembered this, and never without
a certain annoying sense of shame.
He tried to rid himself of this to-day by registering a vow that his
grandfather should never again have cause for displeasure with him. If
the Freiherr liked Tannhagen, let him buy it. A life in such seclusion
was not, indeed, what Otto had desired, but he must not forget that his
task in the future would be to make Johanna happy, and she really had a
preference for solitude. Moreover, his garrison life had not been all
sunshine, and he was uncomfortable enough at present at Klausenburg.
He concluded then that even for himself acquiescence in his
grandfather's scheme was best,--at least for the present. If hereafter
he should become weary of farming, why, the Freiherr could not live
forever; and with regard to Johanna, whose happiness was now to be his
chief duty, he was consoled by something which just now occurred to him
that Red Jakob had once said.
A few weeks before, Otto had been overtaken by a shower on the
mountains, and had taken shelter from it in the Forest Hermitage, where
he had asked, in the kind manner which he always adopted towards his
inferiors, after the welfare of the newly-married pair. Red Jakob, in
his bitter way, had congratulated himself on the accident that had
procured him a subsistence, while Christine, who was still tasting to
the full the sweetness of her honeymoon, could not sufficiently extol
the delights of her forest life. Otto had told her in jest that she
would not talk so in the winter when she might be kept in-doors by
storms and snow; then she would wish herself back again in the pleasant
village streets, with the neighbours' houses near, and the
spinning-rooms in the evening. Jakob would have too much to do to
comfort her; she might even run away some fine day. The little wife
eagerly contradicted him, and Jakob interrupted her with, "Never mind,
Christine; Squire Otto does not understand it yet, but he'll learn by
and by." And turning to Otto, he said, with his ugly smile, "When the
wife is in love with the husband and he understands whistling, he can
play the Piper of Hamelin with her. I mean, she must follow him wherever
he chooses. However hard it may be for her, she'll always thank him for
taking her with him."
Otto went to Doenninghausen very gay of mood, and at his request,
immediately after the second breakfast, all drove, even Aunt Thekla, to
Tannhagen.
The road led at first through Klausenburg, then turned to the left, and
continued by an easy ascent up the mountain through a magnificent
forest. Far up they crossed the road to the Forest Hermitage, then
descended a short distance, and upon reaching the edge of the woodland,
descried, through the gray veil of the falling rain, a long valley with
a little village, and at the farther end a large farm.
"That is Tannhagen," said the Freiherr.
Johanna was disappointed; from the name she had expected a woodland
nook. But her grandfather praised the meadows and fields through which
they drove, the sheltered position of the valley, which made it possible
and profitable to grow fruit even here among the mountains, and Otto
seemed to agree with all he said.
The farm-buildings, too, the barns and stables, the farm-yard, with its
well-built walls and green gates, made the best possible impression; but
the old two-storied mansion that formed one side of the farm-yard
looked, with its gray walls, its projecting tiled roof, and its small
windows, like a peasant's habitation. In summer its ugliness might be
partly concealed by the two tall chestnuts before the door, but now
their bare boughs, dripping with rain, made the melancholy picture still
more melancholy.
The carriage stopped, but not a human being appeared. The house-dog, who
rattled his chain, barking loudly, a flock of chickens that had taken
refuge from the rain beneath the projecting roof of a carriage-house,
and the cows, lowing loudly in the stables, were apparently the only
inmates of the place.
Otto opened the carriage-door, while the coachman cracked his whip
impatiently. The Freiherr and Aunt Thekla slowly alighted, Johanna
followed them curiously,--and still no one was to be seen.
Without more ado, the Freiherr ascended the three worn steps of the
entrance-hall.
"Come, I know the custom of the country," he said. And, turning to a
door on the left of the long dim hall, hung around beneath the ceiling
with the faded wreaths of many a harvest-home, he opened it without
knocking.
A hot current of air from a stove made itself felt, and a cat ran past
them.
"Who's there?" a sharp voice asked, and from the other end of the room
there approached the haggard, bent figure of a woman in the dress of a
peasant, leaning upon a crutch.
The Freiherr bade her good-day, and then shouted into her ear an inquiry
for the farmer.
"My son is away in town at the yearly market," she yelled back. "And he
has taken his two daughters and the house-maid with him. No one is at
home, and I am too old. I do not know about anything." And as she spoke
she turned her deep-set evil little eyes from one to another of the
strange faces.
The Freiherr stooped to shout again into her ear: "We want to see the
house, but we will not trouble you; send one of the servants with us."
"Servants!" she repeated. "Do you know where to find the lazy things?
When my son is away there is nothing done."
"Well, then, we'll go alone," the Freiherr interrupted her, impatiently.
"You know who I am,--I was here before."
"Yes, yes; you are the old lord from down there at Doenninghausen, who
wants to buy Tannhagen," the old woman replied, and her little brown
eyes twinkled more maliciously than before. "You'd better let it alone;
you'll have no joy of it."
"Come, why should we stand listening to the old witch?" said the
Freiherr. "We will look first at the upper rooms; they are not in as
poor repair as these down here."
As he spoke, he went out into the hall; the rest followed him, with the
old woman hobbling behind. "Of course you can buy Tannhagen," she went
on, eagerly. "My son says that the last lord of Tannhagen is dead, and
there must be some one to own it. But why do you not leave it as it has
been? To turn out my son, who has always paid his rent punctually in bad
years as well as in good ones, is a sin and a shame; yes, it is a sin
and a shame!"
The Freiherr looked angrily round, and, without speaking, offered his
sister his arm to mount the narrow wooden staircase that creaked at
every step.
Otto and Johanna tried to appease the old woman, who, however, did not,
or would not, understand what they said.
"Oh, let the strangers come!" she croaked. "They'll have no joy of it.
We Brinkmeyers belong to Tannhagen. My husband's father and grandfather,
and heaven knows how many before them, have held this farm, and they
were all known for sober, industrious folks, who knew what they were
about. And my son is just the same, and whoever turns him out from
here,"--she raised her clinched fist and shook it at the
lovers,--"whoever turns him out from here will be punished for it, and
will have as little peace, living and dying, as they have left to me,
poor old woman that I am."
Involuntarily Johanna recoiled. At the last words she grasped Otto's
arm, and while the old woman struck her crutch upon the hall floor and
sent shrill menaces after them, she hurried him up the stairs and into
the first room that opened upon the corridor, closing the door after
them. They heard their grandfather and Aunt Thekla talking in the next
apartment; but instead of following them Johanna stood still. "What a
terrible reception!" she said, and she repeated in an undertone the old
woman's words, "Let the strangers come. They'll have no joy of it!"
"Johanna, surely you are not superstitious?" Otto exclaimed.
She had gone to the window, and was looking gloomily out into the
dripping rain.
"No, it is not superstition," she replied; "but it impresses me
painfully to hear that old woman give utterance to what I have been
thinking all through our drive. I know, Otto, that you will have no joy
here. Why this haste? Why not discuss other plans?"
"Because there is nothing else to be discussed, dear heart," he replied.
"You really must not take my passing moods so seriously."
"But when you spoke of being forced to relinquish your calling you were
not in a passing mood," Johanna persisted; "you were really unhappy."
"You are mistaken," he made reply; "remember, I spoke only of my career.
I cannot aver that I have a particular fancy, or calling, as you phrase
it, for parade and drill, and you cannot think that I have. I am really
rather of grandpapa's opinion, that there is nothing better for a
nobleman to do in times of peace than to live upon his own soil and
cultivate cabbages."
Johanna's eyes grew brighter. "Are you sure? Did I misunderstand you
yesterday?" she asked, when Otto had finished. "And you have no distaste
for farming, but can be content to live in the country year out, year
in----"
"If I always have you with me. But you I must have; I cannot live any
longer without you!" he cried, clasping her in his arms and kissing her.
At this moment a faint ray of sunshine broke through the clouds which a
sudden east wind was driving away from the mountains. "Oh, look; the
skies bid us welcome!" exclaimed Johanna; and, looking across the large
fruit-garden extending below the gable-window to the mountains, she went
on: "And it is very pretty on this side, with the forest so near; and
how fragrant those meadows must be in summer! And that old building down
there among the willows and alders seems to be a mill. See the shady
attractive nook whence the mill-stream rushes. Dear Otto, if you like
it, I should not object to build our cottage here."
"Johanna!" he exclaimed, rapturously, taking her hands and pressing them
to his lips. But the next moment he dropped them, and said, looking
round him reflectively, "If the house were only not so miserable. How
can I condemn you to such discomfort?"
Johanna cast a rapid glance around the low-ceiled room, with its
whitewashed walls, small windows, gaudy carpet, and spindle-legged
furniture standing stiffly in the corners. "It is certainly not all that
could be desired," she said, "but it need not always look like this.
Picture to yourself the outer walls wreathed with wild grape, clematis,
and climbing roses, the interior of the house clean and airy, this
balcony the natural colour of the wood, hangings on the walls, the
windows turned into casements with round leaded panes, a tall green
porcelain stove in that corner, a clock against the wall, and
high-backed chairs, old carved cabinets and tables, and
corner-cupboards----"
"Stop, stop, child, or you'll have it a perfect museum!" laughingly
broke in the Freiherr, who had been listening for a few moments. "But I
really think you have shown that you could choose the best furniture for
this owl's-nest. If we buy Tannhagen, we will do our best to have it
arranged according to your fancy. Now let us go seriously to work to
find what the house is and what it lacks."
They did so. Her conversation with Otto had made Johanna so happy that
she saw everything from garret to cellar in the rosiest light. She found
a remedy for every defect which Aunt Thekla discovered; and even Otto,
carried away by her cheerful gayety, was well pleased with everything.
At last they had explored every nook and corner, had bidden adieu to the
old woman, who now contented herself with eying them malevolently, and
were walking through the wide, dark hall to the closed front door.
"It really is uncanny here," Aunt Thekla whispered. "It seems to be
raining in all these dark corners. And listen how the wind howls!"
"Nonsense!" exclaimed the Freiherr. "Do you think it sings a special
song to this old barracks? As for the corners, they will be light and
commonplace enough as soon as Otto succeeds in opening the door for us."
Otto had been shaking at the old latch for a while. The door now sprang
open. A blast of wind drove it back against the wall with a crash. It
was answered by another crash, probably produced by the blowing to of
some window. There was a rustling in the air, and a dark something fell
from above and lay between Aunt Thekla and Johanna, who recoiled with a
slight scream.
Otto sprang to pick it up. "It is the homage paid by the old barracks to
its future mistress," he said, laughing, holding out to Johanna one of
the withered harvest-wreaths.
"Or an evil omen," Aunt Thekla whispered, and then hoped that no one had
heard her. The lovers looked laughing into each other's eyes, and the
Freiherr, standing at the carriage-door, bade them make haste and get
in.
Johanna fortunately attached no importance to the trifle. The Freiherr
was so interested in the prospect of founding a new nest of
Doenninghausens in the neighbourhood of the cradle of the race that all
through the homeward drive he discussed the pros and cons of the
purchase, and the pros came to be more and more in the ascendant. At
Doenninghausen he laid before the lovers all the documents that he had
been able to procure with regard to the estate, and met with an
unqualified assent to his plans and wishes. Otto was even more zealous
than the Freiherr; the fourteen days for consideration which his
grandfather proposed seemed to him too long, and as he left he
whispered to Johanna, "Darling, do what you can to have us established
_soon_ at Tannhagen."
It was late, and the Freiherr was about to retire. When Johanna bade him
'good-night,' he took both her hands in his. "My child," he said,
drawing her towards him, "you must reflect seriously upon the purchase
of Tannhagen. Do not forget that the comfort of your future life is at
stake, and leave out of the question my wishes and Otto's impatience.
Will you do this, and tell me frankly the conclusion at which you
arrive? We might look farther and find something better."
"Not for me, dear grandpapa. I have fallen in love with the old house,"
she said. And, kissing his hand, she added, "If I could only tell you
how your kindness touches me!"
As she spoke, there was something in the sound of her voice that
reminded the old man more than ever of her mother. To ward off his own
emotion, he exclaimed, "Kindness, dear child! It is obstinacy. I can
hardly wait to have you bear the name of Doenninghausen." And, as if to
himself, he added, "Doenninghausen-Tannhagen. God grant that name a fair
fame!"
"Doenninghausen-Tannhagen!" Johanna, too, whispered to herself soon
afterwards, as in her own room she stood at the window and looked out
into the dark rainy night. Doenninghausen-Tannhagen! What was there in
the name to move her so strangely? Was it the thought of the old house
that was to be the home of her young happiness? She saw it distinctly in
imagination, not only as it was, but as it should be, and as it surely
one day would be. And not only the rooms did she see, but the stir of
human life within them. Forms came and went, grouped themselves,
vanished, and were replaced by others. They spoke, and Johanna
understood them without actually hearing their words. It was all
dream-like, shadowy, and Johanna felt it to be so.
"I must be dreaming already; the day has over-fatigued me," she said to
herself. But, whereas she usually fell asleep with her mind dwelling
upon Otto, to-night, when she extinguished her candle, she was
surrounded anew by these images from Tannhagen. From room to room, up
and down the stairs, through court-yard and garden, she passed, always
surrounded by changing forms and faces, among them was the angry old
woman upon her crutch. She was transformed, she looked young, gay, and
happy, and Johanna knew that she had secretly stolen forth from her
father's mill among the alders to spend a few minutes with the handsome
son of the Tannhagen farmer, whom she loved and could not yet marry.
Suddenly she was old again, and, striking her crutch on the floor,
repeated that no one who bought Tannhagen should have any joy of it, and
the faded harvest-wreaths beneath the ceiling rustled and whispered, as
if to say, 'Ah, we have seen much, and could tell much!'
This swarm of creatures of her fancy was not new to Johanna, only she
had grown unaccustomed to them. As a child, and even as a young girl at
Lindenbad, they had continually crowded about her; but then they came in
the day-time, often in the midst of tedious lessons and tasks. Sometimes
they were mere fleeting, misty phantoms; sometimes they were distinct,
brightly-colored figures, playing their parts in the wildest dramas,
which the girl would go on weaving for days and weeks. Not until she
took occasion to tell these tales did they leave her,--sometimes before
she wished them to do so. Then the fantastic swarm would vanish as at
the word of a magician. Therefore she could not be depended upon by an
audience. Only among the small children at her _pension_ she now and
then found a story-loving creature who would listen eagerly to her
fragments. The 'big girls' ridiculed her, and Johanna, ashamed, put a
check upon her fancy, till at last the 'stupid images' troubled her no
more. Why should they now suddenly appear again? Was it to lure her to
Tannhagen, or to scare her from it?
For a while Johanna let them come and go, then she tried to rid herself
of them, but she could not. At last she arose, lit a candle, wrapped
herself in a dressing-gown, and sat down at her writing-table. Perhaps
writing would be as effective as narrating by word of mouth.
"Dear Otto," she began, and then passed her pen through the words. He
would not understand her; he would laugh at her as the 'big girls' had
done at the _pension_. Moreover, he did not want letters from her, and
did not like to have her tire her eyes and snatch any time from her
night's rest. Formerly she had gone to Ludwig with her narratives; but
to tell him what she withheld from Otto would be simply impossible.
For a while she sat undecided, then she dipped her pen in the ink again.
"I will try it," she whispered to herself, and began to write. To whom?
Out into space. And what? She herself did not know.