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JOSEPH IN THE SNOW,
AND
THE CLOCKMAKER.
BY AUERBACH.
TRANSLATED BY LADY WALLACE.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
SAUNDERS, OTLEY, AND CO.,
66, BROOK STREET, HANOVER SQUARE.
1861.
LONDON: PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET,
AND CHARING CROSS.
JOSEPH IN THE SNOW.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
Epitaph
CHAPTER I.
Is it not yet Morning?
CHAPTER II.
A Duet interrupted, and resumed
CHAPTER III.
A fierce Family
CHAPTER IV.
Martina's return Home
CHAPTER V.
A Day of Trouble
CHAPTER VI.
How a village Pastor was summoned to Court
CHAPTER VII.
The Home of Schilder-David
CHAPTER VIII.
Warm and snug in the Parsonage
CHAPTER IX.
Betrothal and Flight
CHAPTER X.
A Father in search of his Son
CHAPTER XI.
The Village Church deserted
CHAPTER XII.
Where is Joseph?
CHAPTER XIII.
A Troop of Hobgoblins
CHAPTER XIV.
Lost in the Forest
CHAPTER XV.
A Child seeking his Father
CHAPTER XVI.
Asleep and awake again in the Forest Mill
CHAPTER XVII.
A great Event in a small House
CHAPTER XVIII.
For the sake of the Child
CHAPTER XIX.
A Voice at Midnight
CHAPTER XX.
Daylight
EPITAPH.
"Here lies a little child, lost in the forest deeps.--
At midnight from the slumbering fold he strayed;
But the lost lamb was found by One who never sleeps,
And to his everlasting Father's fold conveyed."
* * * * *
These lines are written on a small cross, in the churchyard of the
village where the scene of the following simple story is laid. This
mournful inscription would have been applicable once more, if a
merciful Providence had not watched over Joseph. He retained however
through life the appellation of "Joseph in the Snow," for being lost in
the storm was the cause of his eventual good fortune, and of his rescue
from destitution and misery.
JOSEPH IN THE SNOW.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
IS IT NOT YET MORNING?
"Mother, is it morning yet?" asked the child, sitting up in bed.
"No, not nearly--why do you ask? Lie still, and go to sleep."
The child was quiet for a short time, but then repeated in a low
voice:--
"Mother, is it morning yet?"
"What is the matter, Joseph? do be quiet--don't disturb me, and go to
sleep. Say your prayers again, and then you will fall asleep."
The mother repeated the child's night prayers along with him, and then
said, "Now, good night, Joseph."
The boy was silent for a while; but on hearing his mother turn in bed,
he called to her in a whisper, "Mother!"
No answer.
"Mother! mother! mother!"
"What is it? what do you want?"
"Mother, is it not daylight yet?"
"You are a naughty child; very naughty; why do you persist in
disturbing my night's rest? I am weary enough, for I have been three
times in the forest to-day. If you wake me up again, the Holy Child
will bring you nothing to-morrow but a birch rod."
The boy sighed deeply, and said, "Good-night, then, till to-morrow,"
and wrapped himself up in the bed-clothes.
The room where this dialogue took place, was small and dark; an attic
under a thatched roof. The panes of glass in the little window were
frozen over, so that the bright moonlight could not penetrate through
them. The mother rose, and bent over the child; he was sleeping sound,
and lying quiet. The mother, however, could not go to sleep again,
though she had once more laid down and closed her eyes; for we can hear
her saying distinctly, "Even if he some day asks me to share his
home--and in spite of everything I firmly believe he will one day do
so--he cannot do otherwise--he must--but even then, how cruelly he has
slighted both me and our child! The years that are passed come no more:
we can have them but once in life. Oh! if I could but begin life again;
if I could only awake, and feel that it was not true, and that I had
never sinned so heavily! but the weight of one sin is a burden for
ever; no one can bear it for another. Can it be true that I was once so
gay and happy as people say? What could the child mean by calling out
three times, Is it morning yet? What is to happen in the course of this
day? Oh, Adam! Adam! you don't know all I suffer; if you did, you could
not sleep either."
The stream that ran past the house was frozen over, but in the silence
of the night, the gurgling of the water was heard, under the covering
of ice.
The thoughts of the wakeful woman followed the current of the brook, in
its distant flow, when, after traversing pathless valleys and deep
ravines, its course was checked by the forest mill; the waters rushing,
and foaming, and revolving over the mill wheels, just as the thoughts
of this watchful mother revolved dizzily on her sorrows at dead of
night. For within that mill dwells the dreaded object on whom the eyes
of Adam's parents were fixed. The forest miller's Tony had always been
thought a good-hearted, excellent girl, and yet now she seemed so
cruel:--what has the forest miller's daughter Tony to do with you? you
have no claim on her--but on him? on Adam? The sleepless girl clenched
her hands convulsively; she felt a stab in her heart, and said, in a
voice of anguish, "Can he ever be faithless to me? No, he could not;
but if he dared to desert me, I would not suffer it; I would go to
church with my little Joseph--but no--I would not take him with me--I
would go alone, and call out Adam's name. I could not endure it, and
then we should see if the clergyman would marry them."
The brook once more flows tranquilly through a quiet meadow; on its
banks some oaks and beeches droop their branches; but the hills are
covered thickly with lofty pines; the stream rushes again over rocks
into deep ravines: now it runs rapidly along. There lies the boundary
stone. "Now we are at home," had Adam once said, and yet this stone is
fully two miles from the Roettmannshof. In the Otterzwanger wood
belonging to it, lies a peaceful nook beside the river, overshadowed by
a spreading beech. The girl passes her cold hand over her feverish
cheek. There, under that leafy beech, she had first been noticed by
Adam. No one in the world would have believed that he could be so merry
and talkative, so kind and so gentle. It was a lovely summer's day: on
the previous evening there had been a violent storm; the thunder and
lightning had been so tremendous, that it seemed as if no tree in the
forest could escape scatheless. Just so is it here below: without in
the woods, and within in the houses, noise, strife, and wrangling, till
even murder seems not improbable; and yet the very next day everything
is as peaceful as before. It is indeed a charming summer morning that
we allude to; streams are flowing in their various channels with a
merry noise, hurrying on their course, as if knowing that they have
only a day to live, and are to be seen no more on the morrow. The birds
are singing cheerfully, and the girl washing at the brook can't help
doing the same; she must sing also, and why not? She is still quite
young, and free from care. She knows a variety of songs; she learned
them from her father, who was once the best and sweetest singer in the
village. Some men are descending the stream, as there is now water
enough to float a raft; and see, how skilfully they manage it! here is
Adam, the only son of the Roettmanns, on a solitary raft, which whirls
round and round with the current; but Adam knows what he is about, and
stands firm and erect; and when he comes close to the girl washing her
linen in the brook, he lets the raft swim away alone, and, placing the
oar firmly in the bed of the stream, he raises himself into the air,
and jumps on shore by one bold spring. The girl laughs, when she sees
the tall, powerful young man, with his high fisherman's boots, dangling
in the air, and yet her heart quails, when he alights close beside her.
"I have long wished to tell you how much I feel obliged to you," said
Adam.
"Why? for what?"
"For staying so long with my mother, and enduring so much."
"I am a servant, and receive wages, so I ought in return to bear a good
deal, and your mother has her own burden to bear, for she is angry with
our Heavenly Father, because your brother was killed by a falling tree.
She has no love either for God or her fellow-creatures, but she only
makes herself miserable."
Adam looked at her kindly; but suddenly he lifted up his oar abruptly,
exclaiming, "I must be off: good bye!" He sprang into the brook, making
the water splash above his head, pushing the raft, which had been
stopped by a bend in the stream, vigorously forward into the centre of
the current. Martina looked after him in astonishment. What is the
matter with Adam? He is quickly out of sight, and is presently heard
shouting at a distance, with the other bargemen, and then all is still
again.
For weeks Adam never spoke one word to Martina, indeed he scarcely
seemed to notice her--but in autumn--both cows and oxen pasture at that
season in the meadows--Martina was passing along, and descending the
hill--there being no spring close to the house on the level ground, the
water for drinking must be fetched from half way down the hill--when,
suddenly, she saw a bull erect its head and begin to paw the ground. It
was a fine sight to see the heavy animal tossing its horns, but the
herdboy called out, "Save yourself, Martina, or you will be tossed by
the bull."
Martina uttered a shrill scream, and turned to run away, hiding her
face, but fell down. She could hear the snorting animal close to her,
when, all at once, he lay stretched on the ground, bellowing. Adam had
rushed up, seized the animal by the horns, and held down his head, till
some of the farm-servants came up, and helped to bind him.
Martina is saved, but Adam only said, "The next time that you go
through the meadow, don't wear a scarlet handkerchief on your head."
Adam was covered with blood, and Martina asked, "For heaven's sake tell
me, have you been hurt by the bull?"
"Oh, pray make no fuss, it is nothing; the bull was bleeding at the
mouth, and so he sprinkled me with blood. Go now, and fetch the water;"
so saying, he turned away, and went to a pond to wash off the blood.
Not till she had reached the well did Martina become fully alive to the
danger she had escaped. She felt the deadly peril she had been in, and
from which Adam had rescued her. As she wept, admiration mingled with
her tears, and heartfelt gratitude to the bold and intrepid young man.
At dinner-time she heard his mother say to Adam, "You are the most
silly, good-for-nothing creature in the world, to go and risk your
life, to save that of a stupid maid."
"I'll never do it again," answered Adam.
"I rather think," said his father, with a smile, "that you are not
likely to do such a thing twice, as to hold down a bull by the horns
and yet to escape alive; it's a pity no one saw you, for it is a feat
the whole neighbourhood would have talked about."
From this period Adam always noticed Martina by a kind nod, but never
spoke a single word to her. He seemed only to be pleased, that she had
given him an opportunity to perform a genuine Roettmann's exploit.
Shortly after, Martina was again washing at the brook, when Adam once
more stood before her: "Are you quite recovered from your fright?" said
he.
"No; my limbs still tremble from the terrible fear I felt, but as long
as I live I will thank you for having----"
"Pray don't talk about it. The animal was not vicious--no animal
is naturally so, neither horse nor ox, if not persecuted when
young by being foolishly hunted and cruelly goaded, and thus made
bad-tempered--then, at last, they are so with a vengeance--but--tell
me--don't you know all, and--don't you like me as much as I like you?"
He could not say much, but there was infinite tenderness in his eyes,
and subdued but deep love, as he looked at Martina and laid his hand on
her shoulder; and no man would have believed that the rough stalwart
Adam could have been so loving and gentle.
They were standing silently under the spreading beech, and Martina
gazing up at the bright rays of sunshine darting through the leaves--
"Look how beautiful this tree is!" said she.
"A very useless one," said Adam; "a vast number of branches, but a poor
trunk."
"I was not thinking of that, but see how it shines and glitters all
green and gold."
"You are right; it is beautiful," said Adam, and his glance was
unusually mild as the rays of the sun sportively flickered on his stern
embrowned features.
For the first time it seemed to occur to him, that a tree could be
looked at in any other light than that of its marketable value.
And as often as Martina thought of the bright sunshine she had seen
through the foliage of the beech, she felt as if these sunny rays were
still shining on her, and were never to cease shining.
Adam, seizing Martina's hand, said, as if he intended a solemn
asseveration:--
"This tree shall never be cut down; it shall never be felled by me till
our wedding; or rather, it shall always remain where it is, and listen
to the merry music of our bridal procession as it passes along.
Martina, give me something; have you nothing you could give me?"
"I am poor and have nothing to give away."
"I see something I should like to have--will you give it to me?"
"Yes! what is it? whatever you like."
"I see your name embroidered on your neckerchief; tear out the piece
and give it to me."
"Gladly!" she turned away, and tore out the piece of muslin where her
name was marked, and gave it to him.
"I give you nothing," said he, "but look round, so far as you can see,
all, all, is yours."
At this speech, proving how rich Adam was, and how poor Martina, she
felt very sorrowful, but Adam still grasped her hand, so every other
feeling was absorbed in love for him.
The love which had taken possession of both, was an overpowering,
headlong, wild passion and quickly succeeded by grief and misery.
For the first time in his life, Adam was sent with a raft, down the
Rhine, to Holland, and during his absence Martina was driven out of the
house in shame and disgrace....
These were the joyous and sorrowful events of the past, that once more
floated before the eyes of Martina in her garret.
She hid her face in the pillow--the cocks in the village began to crow,
as it was now past midnight.
"That is the new-fashioned bird crowing, that Haespele lately bought.
How hoarse and loud the long-legged creature crows! Our own home birds
have a much more cheerful cry: but Haespele is an excellent man, and so
kind and good to my boy;--he meant to do me a kindness when he once
said to me, 'Martina, in my eyes you are a widow, and a worthy
woman'--Yes, said I, but my husband is not dead; I grieve that you like
me, as I cannot marry you--no! such a thought is far from my heart."
Martina could not close her eyes, but lay anxiously awaiting the dawn
of day--sometimes sleep seemed about to take compassion on her, but
scarcely had she closed her eyes, than she started up again--she
thought she heard the voice of Adam's mother, the stormy Roettmaennin,
and saw her sharp sarcastic face, and Martina whispered sadly to
herself:--"Oh! when will it be light!"