A TROOP OF HOBGOBLINS.
"Let me carry the clothes; give me his clothes," said Adam, as they
went along.
"No, I cannot part with them, they are all I now have belonging to him,
and I have the new boots in the bundle, that he never wore, and in my
hurry I brought his little wooden horse, too."
"Does he like horses? then he will like me also."
"Oh! do not speak so lightly; remember that he may be dead."
"The child may have lost himself in the wood, and yet not be dead; and
who knows whether he may not be at home at this moment, having gone of
his own accord, or some one have brought him home."
As a token of gratitude for these consoling words, Martina placed the
bundle of clothes on Adam's arm, saying, "Carry them for me." When they
passed by a weeping willow close to the road, which looked very
singular, its drooping branches all hung with snow and glittering in
the torchlight, Martina continued: "Do you see that tree? When our
Joseph was not quite three years old, I was walking here with him, and
on seeing the leaves hanging down, he said, 'Mother! that tree is
raining leaves.' He often spoke such strange things, that it was quite
puzzling to know whether one was on earth or in heaven, and what one
could do, or ought to do with him; and he is grown so strong, so very
strong; I was obliged to use all my strength when I wished to hold
him--and now to die such a death! it is too dreadful. Joseph! Joseph!
my darling Joseph! Oh! where are you now? I am here, your mother and
your father too. Joseph! Joseph! oh come! Call him, Adam, can't you
shout out his name?"
"Joseph! Joseph!" called Adam with his powerful voice, "My child! come
to me; Joseph! Joseph!" and Adam, who once trembled to pronounce the
child's name even secretly, now shouted it loudly in the wood. Soon,
however, he desisted, and said, "It is no use, Martina; try to be
quiet, or you will make yourself ill."
"If my Joseph is dead, I don't care to live either; I care for nothing
more in this world."
"I cannot believe that, Martina; surely you have some love for me
still."
"Oh heavens! don't wrangle with me just now," said Martina sorrowfully.
For a long time neither spoke a word. Haespele proved a good mediator,
for he came up to Martina and begged her to take a mouthful of the
Kirschwasser that he had most thoughtfully brought for Joseph.
"No, no, I need nothing. I cannot take what the child may require."
"Do take a single mouthful," entreated Adam, as tenderly as his rough
voice could be modulated. "Remember, our Joseph cannot drink it all if
we find him."
"If we find him? Why do you say that? You know something, and are
keeping it from me; I feel sure that you know he is dead."
"I know nothing whatever--as little as you do yourself. I do beg you
will take one mouthful of the Kirschwasser."
"Ah! if my Joseph had it, it might restore him to life. I need
nothing--leave me in peace." But Adam persisted till Martina took some,
and this was a good opportunity for him to get hold of her hand again,
and then they pursued their way hand in hand.
Martina spoke very low, and told Adam what a singularly reserved boy
Joseph was; and that he had often whispered things to her, that he
might have quite well said loud out before everybody; but his
peculiarity was, to prefer saying things secretly; and no doubt he had
something secret to tell his father, and then he would have been able
to discern how it made you creep, when Joseph with his warm breath said
something close to your ear. "His warm breath is now frozen," added
she, wringing her hands.
Soon she suddenly seized Adam's arm, saying passionately, "Look! there
is the very rock, where once on a time I wished to die along with him,
when Leegart found me. If we had died together then, before he came
into the world, it might have been better for both of us. Oh! where is
he now? perhaps he is lying two steps from us, and yet we cannot see
him, and he cannot hear us. I will go from hill to hill, to the top of
every rock, and down into every valley, to seek my boy."
"Try to be more composed," said Adam, kindly; but Martina's excitement
every instant increased, and she turned hastily to him saying:--
"You are to blame! a father can deny his child, and pass him by as if
he were nothing to him in this world--but a mother--never! You did
this!"
"Why do you reproach me at such a moment as this?"
"I do not reproach you. Why are you so cruel?"
"I am neither unkind nor cruel--only do try to command your feelings;
from this day forth all your sorrows shall cease. Come closer to me, my
Martina!"
"No, no, I cannot rest!" cried Martina, suddenly, after having leant on
Adam for a few minutes--"I cannot--Oh, gracious Father! do with me what
thou wilt, only do not deprive me of my child, my Joseph; he is
innocent; I alone am guilty--this man and I."
She went some steps from Adam, as if she could not bear his vicinity;
she no longer shed tears, but she sobbed convulsively with dry eyes, as
if her heart would break.
The scene in the wood was like the procession of the "Wild Huntsman;"
the men with torches and lanterns, and their eager shouts and cries,
and cracking of whips, and ringing of bells; and the dogs, too,
carrying lanterns round their necks, and rushing along the ravines
barking, and then galloping up the hills, still barking and pressing
forwards, till recalled by the voice of their masters. It was fortunate
that such good order was maintained. No one could recognise his
neighbour, for each man was a moving mass of snow, and the hills and
rocks looked down by the torchlight in amazement, at the men who had
come there to shout out, and seek a young child.
"See, how all the village loved him!" said Martina to Adam, relating to
him how the boy had wakened her on the previous night, three times, to
ask which way his father would come; and she reproached herself
severely for having listened to Leegart, and sent him out of the house
alone; she might have known that something dreadful was sure to occur
on this day.
Adam was sadly perplexed, and did not know what to say; and he was more
sad than ever when he thought of the Forest Mill, where they were all
sitting waiting for him, and remembered the treachery towards Martina
he had been persuaded to commit this very day.
Suddenly a cry of joy was heard--"What is it? what is it?" "God be
praised, they have found him!" "Where? where?" The smith came up, out
of breath, to Adam and Martina. "Here is his cap; we shall find him
now, sure enough."
Martina seized the dripping cap, and shed scalding tears over it.
"Heavens! he is now without a cap, and the snow is lying on his head,
if he is still in life."
Martina passed her hand over her face, and stared at the smith, who
certainly looked a strange monster. He had not taken time to wash his
sooty face, and now the snow had drawn all sorts of strange figures on
it, and his red beard was hanging full of icicles.
"You must remain on the straight road, that we may be able to find you
immediately," said the smith, and turning to go away, he added, "I
think this night we have earned from you the right to be well supplied
with good liquor at your wedding."
It must certainly be a set of hobgoblins dispersed in the forest;
and there was a man in the wood who saw them, as large as life.
Speidel-Roettmann, who had followed his son, had made a false step, and
rolled down the precipice. When he reached the bottom he became sober
all at once. He had received no injury whatever. He went on a long way
on the frozen stream, and the rocks and trees towered above him like
gigantic monsters. Fresh snow fell thickly on him every instant, and at
last he became so confused, that he did not know whether he was going
up or down the stream. He tried to break the ice with a stone, to find
out in what direction the current of the stream was flowing, so that he
might know which way to proceed, but he could not loosen one of the
stones. The whole world seemed iron-bound, and no help near. Well! here
at last is an opening, here is a path in the forest. He climbs up,
often slipping backwards, and almost entirely hidden by masses of snow;
but he does not lose heart. Speidel-Roettmann's strength is now to be
put to the proof. He succeeds in getting to the top of the rising
ground--he is right: here is a path. As he grasps the ground for the
last time, he stumbles over something; it is a pipe--it is Adam's pipe.
So he must have gone this way; now he will come up with him--which way
is he gone? right, or left? The traces of his footsteps have been
already effaced by the falling snow. Speidel-Roettmann takes the path to
the right; then it suddenly seems to him that the left must certainly
be the best way, so he turns back; and then goes forward again, up and
down, as if a will-o'-the-wisp were leading him hither and thither.
Hark! a sound of horns, and whips, and barking of dogs;--what can it
be? Heavenly powers! it is the Wild Huntsman! It is himself, on his
gallant grey, with his spectre followers, shouting, and yelling, and
blowing the horn; and in the midst of the hubbub there are screams as
if from thousands of little children; and if any unlucky being were to
look up at him as he dashes past, he would cut his head as clean off as
if it were a turnip. All the terrors of the infernal regions assail
Speidel-Roettmann. He had, indeed, often boasted that the talk about
witches, and spectres, and hobgoblins, was only lies and nonsense; but
now every hair on his head stands on end; he remembers that in bygone
days men were quite as wise as at present, and they believed it all.
"Here he comes! Forgive me for not believing a word of it till now. I
will--" Speidel-Roettmann rushes along the path into the wood, and
throws himself down on the ground on his face, that the Wild Huntsman
may gallop over him without throttling him. So he lies still and hears
the fiends rush past. He clutches the snowy moss with his hand, and the
moss does not give way. It is a comfort that something in the world
still holds fast. Hold on! hold on! or you may be in a moment lifted up
in the air, and placed on the top of a tree, or who knows where? and
your face twisted entirely round, and you must go about with it in that
fashion as long as you live. And he feels as if he were mocked, and
some one said to him, "Is not this wood your own property? but in spite
of all your foresters, and all your keepers, you cannot prevent the
Wild Huntsman galloping through it. Do you hear a child's voice? do you
know that voice?"
Speidel-Roettmann has entirely lost his head--the snow in which he had
buried his face melts from the warmth of his breath, but something
melts also in his hard heart; and face to face with death, he calls out
from the snowy moss, "Joseph!" as if that word had the power to save
him. "I solemnly vow I will," he goes on muttering to himself. It has
suddenly flashed across his thoughts, that there lived a child on earth
to whom he had been guilty of great injustice, and that it is for this
he hears such groans and cries in the air. He wishes to call back his
son, who is in turn striving to recall his son. This is like a chain
attached to another chain, and so the links go on.
"I yield! set me free! keep the child!" With these words he at last
ventured to raise his head a little. The noise and shouts and cries
sounded now further away.
"Who are you? who are you?" cries suddenly a figure, seizing him
roughly, not like a man, but like an evil spirit, or the claws of a
wild beast, so savage is the grasp.
"I am a miserable sinner! I am the Roettmann--let me go; be merciful!"
"So, I have got hold of you at last!" exclaimed the figure, and knelt
down on his breast. "You shall die, for you have killed my grandson,
and disowned him, and left him to want and misery."
"How? what? is it you, David?"
"Yes, you shall know first who is going to split your head with this
axe--it is I, Schilder-David. Yes, accursed Goliah, I have got you down
on the ground, and you shall die."
Speidel Roettmann's strength and courage revived, after a very short
deliberation. "Oh, ho! not much fear of him!" and his hand speedily
followed his thoughts. He seized with one hand the man who was kneeling
on him, and with the other drew forth the sharp knife he always carried
on him, and cried out, "Let go, David! let go: or I'll stab you to the
heart!"
"Your evil deeds are come to an end," cried David, snatching the knife
out of his hand; but Roettmann succeeded in getting on his feet, and
David quickly lay under him on the ground.
"Now, do you see!" exclaimed Roettmann, triumphantly, "I can give you
the finishing stroke."
"Do so, root out the whole family--you have killed my Joseph, kill me
too."
"Stand up! I will do you no harm," answered Roettmann; "I don't know
whether it is you that are bewitched, or myself, or the whole world.
What on earth brings you here?--who are those in the forest?"
David, breathing hard all the time, told what had occurred; but adding,
"I have no business to talk to you at all; both you and your son
deserve to die. I will not say another word to you; one of us shall
remain on this spot; stab me if you like, I shall be glad to leave this
wicked world for I have nothing left to care for now in it." With these
words Schilder-David rushed on Speidel-Roettmann, but the latter seized
the old man's arms with such a powerful grasp, that they were as
immoveable as if fastened into a vice.
"I pity you," said Roettmann.
"I don't want your pity; you are not worthy to be spoken to by an
honest man, you hard-hearted villain! you carry your head high enough;
and why not? for the door into Hell is so high, that you need not stoop
to get through it."
"Abuse me as much as you please, I am stronger than you; but now listen
to what I am about to say. You see that no one can force me to do a
thing; no man in the world can do that; but I wish to tell you this. I
need not stick to what I said, for no mortal man heard me, and as for
the Wild Huntsman and the hobgoblins, it is all nonsense and
superstition, and if I don't choose, I shall be none the worse. It is
no one's business but my own, and you have no right to know why, and
how, and where, I made the promise. This is my wood, and I am master
here, and if I find you here at night with your axe I can seize you, or
shoot you down if you try to escape--just as I think fit; but--this is
not what I wished to say; only once more remember that no one can force
my will, but I give in of my own accord, so that is settled; and here
is my hand on it; if the child is still alive, if we find him indeed at
all, either living or dead, you have my hand on it, I have nothing to
say against it."
"Against what!"
"You have my consent. When I reflect on the matter, I never was so
opposed to it; I was obliged to agree with my wife. I was wandering
here in the wood for I don't know how long, and when I fell down the
ravine, I thought the rocks covered with snow would fall on me to crush
me, and all at once I seemed to hear a child's voice calling 'Father!
father!' Now I know what it was, and I can't tell you how that voice
went to my heart, and I said to myself, if ever I can, I will; my Adam
shall marry his Martina. I promise faithfully he shall."
"It is too late to shut the stable door when the horse is stolen. There
is no more happiness or luck in the world. If you had but known the
child! he was an angel from Heaven! but alas! he is dead by this time,
and who knows where he is? There was a time when I thought I could not
bear to look any one in the face on account of the child, and now I
wish to leave this world because the boy is no longer in it. If I was
not worthy of such a grandson, you are far less so. I will have no
peace between us, you or I must die. Kill me on the spot I say, for
then I shall see my Joseph again in the next world."
David once more rushed on Roettmann, who, however, again held his arms
in such a fierce gripe that he could not stir. It seemed as if a
miracle must have occurred to soften Speidel-Roettmann's heart, for he
contrived at last to persuade David to go along with him to look for
Joseph.
"Joseph! your grandfather calls!" shouted David. Speidel-Roettmann
echoed the cry, and David looked round in astonishment several times to
see if it was really true that Speidel-Roettmann was calling to his
grandchild. David was the only person, who, contrary to orders, had
gone alone; now he had found a companion, and such a strange one!
The horn sounded from the hill, the torches and lanterns wandered in
all directions, the dogs barked, and rushed up and down the hill, the
herd bells rung, and the two grandfathers both went along, as if they
had walked all their lives together in peace and amity; at last they
saw a light shining at a distance; the light did not move, it must be
in some house; so they directed their steps towards it.