THE SISTER OF CHARITY.
Farmer Rodel’s house was once more full of life. “Barefoot,” for so
they continued to call Amrie, was helpful everywhere, and soon made
herself beloved by all in the family. She could tell the young wife,
who was a stranger in the village, what had been the customs of the
house, and taught her to conform to the peculiarities of her nearest
relatives. She knew how to render little services to the old farmer,
who grumbled all day, and could not forgive himself, for having so
early given up the farm. She represented to him, how much better his
daughter-in-law really was, than she knew how to show; and then, when
scarcely at the end of a year, the first child came, Amrie showed so
much joy, and so much cleverness, in every emergency, that all in the
house were full of her praise; but, after the manner of people, who are
always more ready to find fault, with the smallest mistake, than to
give praise for goodness.
But Amrie expected nothing, and she knew so well when to take the
child to its grandfather, and when to take it away again, that he
should have only pleasure therein. When she took it to show him its
first tooth, the old farmer said,--
“I would make you a present of a sixpence, for the pleasure you have
given me. But stay, the one you stole from me on the wedding-day,--now,
you may honestly keep it.”
In the mean time, Mariann was not forgotten, although it was very
difficult to soften, and bring her round again. She said she would have
nothing more to do with Barefoot, whose new master would not allow her
to continue the intercourse with Mariann, especially to take the child
there, fearing, as they said, “that the witch might do him an injury.”
It needed great skill and patience, to overcome this aversion. But at
last, it succeeded. Yes, little Barefoot knew how to bring it about, so
that at last, Farmer Rodel visited Mariann many times. This was looked
upon as a real miracle by the whole village. The visits were soon again
stopped, for Mariann on one occasion said,--
“I am now near seventy years old, and have done very well, without the
friendship of any great farmer. It is not worth while for me to change
now.”
Dami also wished, very naturally, to be often with his sister; but this
the young farmer would not suffer, for he said, not without justice,--
“That he should have to feed this big, growing youth. In such a house,
he could not prevent the servants from sometimes giving him something
to eat.” He also forbade his coming on Sunday afternoons to visit his
sister. Dami had, in the mean time, anticipated the comfort of being
in so well-stored a home, and his mouth watered to be there, if only
as a servant. The stone-mason’s was a hungry life. Barefoot had much
to overcome. “He must remember,” she said, “that this was his second
craft, and that he must persevere; it was a mistake to think he would
gain any thing by changing. If good fortune came, it would come where
he was, or not at all.” Dami was for a time silenced, and so great
was the influence of Amrie, and so natural the care she took of her
brother, that he was always called, “Little Barefoot’s Dami,” as though
he were her son, rather than her brother, although a whole head taller
than his sister. Meantime, he did not appear to be subject to her.
Indeed, he often fretted about it, that he was not esteemed as much as
his sister, because he had not her tongue. This dissatisfaction with
himself and his position, was always poured out first upon Amrie. She
bore it patiently, and while he, outwardly and ostentatiously, showed
that she must submit to him, she evidently gained still more respect
and consideration. Every one said, “how good it was of Barefoot to do
so much for her brother, and to put up with his bad treatment, while
she worked for him as a mother would for her child.” In fact, she
washed and sewed for him during the night, so that he was always the
neatest-dressed boy in the village. The two pairs of welted shoes that
she received every half-year, as a part of her wages, she exchanged
with the shoemaker for a pair for Dami, and went barefoot herself.
On Sunday, only, was she seen going to church with shoes. Barefoot
was much grieved that Dami had become, they knew not how, the common
centre for all the jokes and ridicule of the village. She blamed him
severely, and told him he should not suffer it. But, he answered, “she
might prevent it, he could not.” This was impossible, and it did not
seriously displease Dami to be so treated. It wounded him, sometimes,
when all in the village laughed at him, and those younger than himself
took liberties with him, but it vexed him much more not to be noticed
by any one, and this led him to make a fool of himself, and expose
himself to perpetual ridicule.
With Barefoot, on the contrary, the danger was that she would become
the Hermit that Mariann had always predicted she would be. She had
once a solitary playmate and confidante, the daughter of Mathew the
coal-burner; but this girl had for some years worked in a factory in
Alsatia, and nothing more was heard of her. Barefoot lived so much
within herself, that she was not reckoned among the young people of the
village. She was friendly and talkative with those of her own age, but
Brown Mariann was her only confidante. Thus because Amrie lived so
apart from others, she had no influence upon the relation which Dami
held to others, who, however much he was joked and laughed at, must
always cling to companions, and could never bear to be alone like his
sister.
At this time, Dami suddenly made himself quite free, and one pleasant
Sunday showed his sister the earnest money he had received. He had
hired himself as farm-servant to Scheckennarr of Hirlingen.
“Had you told me,” said Barefoot, “I had found a better service for
you. I would have given you a letter to Farmer Landfried’s wife, of
Allgäu, and they would have treated you like a son of the house.”
“Oh! say nothing about that,” said Dami. “It is now nearly thirteen
years that she has owed me a pair of leather breeches she promised
me. Don’t you recollect it,--when we were little, and thought if we
knocked, father and mother would open the door? Do not speak of the
farmer’s wife,--who knows whether reminded with a word, she would
remember us? Who knows whether she is alive?”
“Yes, she lives yet. She is a relation of our family, and is often
mentioned there. She has married all her children, except one son, who
will have the farm.”
“Now, you would disgust me with my new service,” complained Dami, “and
tell me I could have had a better. Is that right?” His voice trembled.
“Oh! do not be so tender-hearted,” said Barefoot. “What have I said
against your good fortune? You remind me of the time when the geese
bit you. I will only say, keep to that which thou hast, and take care
that you remain in one place. It will not do to be like the cuckoo, and
sleep every night upon a different tree. I could have another place.
But I will not change. I have succeeded in making this one comfortable.
Look,--he who is every minute changing, is treated like a stranger.
They do not make him a home, because they know that to-morrow morning
he will be gone.”
“I do not need your sermons,” said Dami, turning angrily away. “To me
you are always harsh, but to all the rest of the world gentle.”
“Because you are my brother,” said Amrie laughing; and now she coaxed
the obstinate boy.
There was, indeed, a strange difference between the brother and sister.
Dami was sometimes humble as a beggar, and then suddenly proud, while
Barefoot, though always good-natured and obliging, was sustained by
an inward pride, that with all her readiness to serve, she never laid
aside.
She succeeded in pacifying her brother, and said,--
“Look, something has just occurred to me; but you must first promise
to be good, for upon a bad heart that coat must not lie. Farmer Rodel
has yet the clothes of our father. You are so large, that they will
just suit, and give you a respectable appearance when you enter the
farm-yard with the other servants; they will see that you have had
honest parents.”
Dami was consoled, and in spite of many obstacles, for old Rodel would
not at first give up the clothes, Barefoot brought him at length
to comply. Then she took Dami into her own chamber, where he must
immediately put on the coat and waistcoat. He struggled against it, but
what she had once decided upon must be done! The hat only, he would not
have, but when the coat was on, she laid her hand upon his shoulder and
said,--
“So, now thou art my brother and my father--and now the coat goes, as
at first, over the field; but there is a new man within it. See, Dami!
Thou hast the noblest Sunday dress in the world. Hold it in honor. Be
therein as honest as was our blessed father!”
She could say no more, but laying her head upon the shoulder of her
brother, her tears fell upon the newly recovered dress of the father.
“You say that I am tender-hearted,” complained Dami--“but you are far
more so.”
In fact, Barefoot was quickly and deeply affected by every thing;
her heart was of the tenderest emotion, but she was at the same time
strong, and light-hearted as a child. She was, as Mariann had remarked
at her first sleeping under the roof, of the quickest sensibility.
Waking and sleeping, laughing and weeping, went hand in hand. Every
experience and every emotion was deeply felt, but it was quickly over;
and she was herself again.
She continued to weep.
“You give me a heavy heart,” whimpered Dami, “and it was heavy enough
before, that I must go to find a home among strangers. You should have
cheered me--instead of so----so----”
“Honest thinking is the best cheering,” said Barefoot--“that does not
make one sad. But you are right. You have enough to bear, and a single
pound laid upon a heavy load may break one down. I have been stupid;
but come, I will see what the sun has to say, when the father stands
again before it. No, that was not what I meant to say. Come--now you
shall know where we must go to take leave. If you were only going a
very short distance, you must still go to this place to take leave. I
am also sad enough, that I shall have you no longer with me. No--I mean
that I shall be no longer with you. I would not govern you as people
say. Yes, yes! old Mariann is right. Alone is a terrible word. We do
not at first learn its full meaning. So long as you were there, across
the street,--even if I was a whole week without seeing you,--what did
that matter? I could see you at any moment, and that was as well as
though we had been together,--but now? Ah! well; you will not be out
of the world. But I pray thee take care of thyself. Do not come to any
harm. And if you tear your clothes, send them to me; I will still sew
and mend for you. Now come,--now we will go to the--to the churchyard!”
Dami opposed this, and again, with the excuse that he was sad enough
already, and that it would only make him worse, Barefoot yielded this
point also. He took off his father’s clothes, and she packed them in
the sack that she had once worn as a mantle when she took care of the
geese, and upon which remained the name of her father. She charged Dami
to send it back to her by the first opportunity.
The brother and sister walked on together, till a Hirlingen wagon came
through the village. Dami hailed it, and packed his bundle upon it.
Then he went hand in hand with his sister out of the village, while
Barefoot sought to cheer him.
“Do you remember the riddle I gave you about the oven?”
“No!”
“Think,--what is the best thing about an oven? Try to remember.”
“No!”
“The best thing about an oven is, that it does not eat its own bread.”
“Yes, yes, you can be merry, you can stay at home.”
“It is your own wish. You can also be merry if you do right.” She went
with her brother, till she came to Holder Common. There, by the wild
pear-tree, she said,--
“Here we will take leave. God protect thee--and fear no devil.”
They shook hands heartily. Then Dami went on to Hirlingen, and Barefoot
turned back to the village. Not till she got to the foot of the hill,
where Dami could not see her, did she venture to raise her apron to
her eyes, to dry the tears that rolled down her cheeks. Then she cried
aloud, “God forgive me for saying what I did, about being alone. I
thank thee, O God! that thou hast given me a brother. Leave him only to
me as long as I live!”
As she came into the village, how empty it seemed to her, and in the
twilight when she rocked the Rodel children to sleep, she could not
bring a single song to her lips, although she usually sang like the
lark. She could not help thinking, “Where now is my brother; what are
they saying to him; how do they receive him;” and yet she could not
imagine how it was. She would have hastened after him to tell them all
how good he was, and that they must be good to him. Then she consoled
herself with thinking that no one could entirely, and at all times,
protect another, and she hoped it would be good for Dami to have to
take care of himself.
It was already night. She went into her chamber, bathed herself anew,
braided her hair, and dressed herself freshly, as though it were
morning, and with this extraordinary renewing of the day, it seemed as
though she began a fresh morning.
When all in the house were asleep, she went over to Mariann, and sat
long hours by her bed, in the dark room. They talked to each other of
the feeling of having one away in the wide world, who was yet a part
of one’s self. Not till Mariann was asleep did Barefoot slip away. But
first she took the pail, and brought water for the old woman, and laid
the wood in order upon the hearth, so that in the morning she would
only need to kindle the fire. Then she went home.
What is that generosity which consists in spending money? It is a
power given into our hands to be again diffused, and afterwards
abdicated. It is far otherwise with that original faculty which is a
part of ourselves. To part with this, is to give a part of our life,
and perhaps a part of all that remains to us. The hours of rest, and
the freedom of Sunday, were all that Barefoot could call her own, and
these she sacrificed to Mariann. She permitted herself to be blamed
and scolded if any thing crossed the old woman’s peculiarities, never
allowing herself to think or to say,--
“How can you scold me when I give you all I possess?” Indeed she
was not conscious that she was making a sacrifice, only on Sunday
evenings, when she sat in the solitude before the house, and heard
for the thousandth time, “What a brave young fellow John had been
on Sunday;” and when the young men and girls of the village went by
singing all manner of songs, then would she become aware that she was
sacrificing her own amusement, and she would sing softly to herself
the songs the others were singing in earnest. But when she looked at
Mariann she was silent, and thought to herself that it was well Dami
was not in the village. He was no longer the butt of their scorn, and
when he returned he would certainly be a young fellow whom all would
respect.
On winter evenings, when, at Farmer Rodel’s, there was spinning and
singing, Barefoot would venture to sing with them, and although she
had a clear, high voice, she always took the second part. Rose, the
farmer’s unmarried sister, who was a year older than Barefoot, sang
always the first part, and it was understood, as a matter of course,
that Barefoot’s voice must help hers. Rose was a proud, imperious
person, who looked upon and treated Amrie almost like a beast of
burden, but less before people than in secret; and as, in the whole
village, Amrie was considered of the greatest service,--the person who
kept every thing in the farmer’s establishment in complete order,--it
was the principal concern of Rose to glorify herself by telling people
how much patience was necessary to get along with Barefoot; how the
goose-girl in every thing imitated her; and how she bore with her
merely out of compassion, and that she might not expose herself to
others.
One great object of banter, and of not always well-chosen jokes, was
Barefoot’s shoes. She continued to go barefoot, or in winter only
she wore low-cut peasant’s boots; yet she took every half-year the
customary addition to her wages, of two pairs of welted shoes. They
stood upon a shelf in her chamber, while Amrie bore herself as proudly
as though she wore them all at the same time. Her shoes numbered six
pairs, since Dami left her. They were filled with straw, and from time
to time oiled to keep them soft.
Barefoot was now completely grown up; not very tall, but
well-proportioned, strong, and active. She always dressed herself in
poor materials, but neatly and gracefully, for taste is the ornament
of poverty, that costs nothing, and that cannot be purchased. But
as Farmer Rodel held it for the honor of his family, he insisted,
on Sundays, that she should put on a better dress to be seen by the
village. After church, Amrie quickly changed it again, and went to
sit with Mariann in her every-day working-dress, or she stood over
her flowers, which she cherished in pots at her garret-window, where
pinks and the Rose Mariè flourished admirably. Although she had taken
from them many grafts to plant upon the graves of her parents, they
always doubled their growth afterwards. The pinks, indeed, hung down
in pretty spiral tufts to the arbor-walk that went round the whole
house. The wide, inclined, straw-roof of the house, formed an excellent
protection for the flowers. Barefoot never failed, when a warm summer
shower fell, to carry her flower-pots into the garden and leave them
near the rain-softened, motherly earth; in particular a little Rose
Mariè, that grew in an extremely graceful manner, like a little tree.
Barefoot would close her right hand, and strike the palm of the other
hand over it, and say to herself,--“when the wedding of my nearest
friend comes,--yes, when my Dami is married, then I will lay thee out.”
Another thought, one at which she would have blushed in her sleep, sent
the red blood to her cheeks as she bent over the Rose Mariè. She drew
in her breath as though there met her a faint perfume from the future.
But she would not suffer the thought to dwell a moment; wildly and
hastily thrusting the rose behind the other larger plants, so that she
could not see it, she closed the window.
An alarm-bell sounded! “FIRE! at Schecken’s in Hirlingen!” they soon
cried. The fire-engine was drawn out, and Barefoot went upon it, and
the firemen following.
“My Dami! my Dami!” she cried inwardly, all the way; but it was day,
and people are not burnt in the day-time. And, in fact, as they reached
Hirlingen, the house was already burnt to the ground. At some distance
from the house stood Dami, in an orchard, fastening two beautiful
well-formed horses to a tree; while all around were collected horses,
oxen, cows, and heifers.
Barefoot got down, exclaiming, “Thank God, thou art safe.” She ran to
her brother, but he would not speak to her, and with both hands laid
upon the neck of the horse, he concealed his face.
“What is the matter? Why do you not speak? Have you met with any
injury?”
“Not I--but the fire!”
“What has happened, then?”
“All my things are burnt; my clothes and the little money I had saved.
I have nothing now but the clothes I have on.”
“And our father’s clothes, are they burnt?”
“Were they fire-proof?” asked Dami angrily. “How can you ask such
foolish questions?”
Barefoot could scarcely help weeping at her brother’s unkindness, but
she felt quickly that misfortunes naturally make one harsh and bitter,
and she merely said,--
“Well, thank God that your life is spared. The loss of our father’s
clothes can never be repaired, but they would at length have been worn
out--then, so--or so--” and she wept.
“All thy tattle is a cat’s-paw,” said Dami, and kept stroking the
horses. “Here I stand as God made me. If the horses could speak, they
would tell a different story. But I was born to ill luck, however
well I do, it is of no use, and yet--” He could say no more--his voice
failed him.
“What then has happened?” asked Amrie.
“The horses, cows, and oxen--yes, all, not a hoof of them has been
burnt--the swine alone we could not save. Look! the horse there above
tore my shirt as I drew him out of the stall; the near-handed horse
would not have hurt me--he knows me! Ei! thou knowest me, Humple? Ei!
we know each other.” The horse thus spoken to, laid his head over the
neck of the other, and looked earnestly at Dami, who continued,--
“When I went joyfully to inform the farmer that I had saved all the
animals, he said, ‘That was nothing to him; they were all insured, and
he should have been paid more than their worth.’ Then I thought to
myself, ‘Is it nothing that the innocent animals should all be burnt?
Is life nothing when one is paid?’ The farmer must have guessed my
thoughts, for he asked, ‘You have, of course, saved your clothes and
things?’ ‘No!’ I answered, ‘not a thread, for I sprang into the stable
first.’”
“The more fool you,” he said.
“‘How?’ I asked, ‘for if you were insured, and the animals would have
been paid for, my clothes must also be paid for; the clothes also of my
late father, fourteen florins, my watch, and my pipe.’”
“Your pipe is smoked out,” he said; “my things were insured, but not
those of my servants.”
“I answered, ‘That is to be seen; I will try what the law can do.’”
“Oh!” said he, “if that is your sort, you may go at once. He who begins
a lawsuit, has given warning. I would have given you a couple of
florins, but now not a penny. Now be off!”
“And here I am; now I think I might take this near-handed horse with
me. I saved his life, and he would willingly come with me. But I have
not learnt to steal, and I cannot help myself thus. The best thing I
can do is to spring into that water and drown myself. I can never come
to any thing, and can never help myself again.”
“But I have something, and I will help you,” said Barefoot.
“No, that I’ll do no longer--no longer live upon you. You also have to
work hard.”
Barefoot succeeded in consoling her brother, so that he consented to
go home with her. But scarcely had they gone a hundred steps, when the
favorite horse, having broken loose, came trotting after them. Dami had
to drive the animal he loved so much back with stones.
Dami was so ashamed of his ill luck, that he was unwilling to see
any one; for it is the peculiarity of weak natures that they cannot
feel any strength in themselves; when outwardly overcome, they are
conquered inwardly--they look upon ill success as a sign of their own
weakness, and if they cannot conceal that, they conceal themselves.
At the first houses of the village Dami stopped. Mariann sent
him a coat of her husband’s, who had been shot; but Dami felt an
unconquerable repugnance to putting it on. Barefoot, who had praised
her father’s coat as something sacred and holy, now found good reasons
to prove that there was nothing in a coat--that nothing could adhere to
it from its former wearer.
Mathew, the charcoal-burner, who lived not far from Mariann, took
Dami to help him in his wood-splitting and coal-burning. To Dami this
secluded life was most welcome; he was waiting only till he could be
drafted for a soldier; then he would enlist for life, and remain always
a soldier. “In the army,” he said, “is justice and order, and no man
has trouble from his own family; food and clothing are provided, and
when war comes, a soldier’s sudden death is always the best.”
This was the way he talked when Barefoot came on Sundays to the
charcoal kiln to see him, and brought him food, and tobacco for his
pipe. She would often teach him how he could cook better food at the
wood-coals, and little puddings, that he could himself prepare. But
Dami would only have things just as they happened, and insisted,
although he might have improved his housekeeping, upon living
wretchedly, till the time when he would shine out as a soldier.
Barefoot opposed this eternal looking forward to a coming time, and
letting the present slip away. She knew that Dami indulged that secret
idleness which consisted in self-pity, and this she thought would end
in his becoming good-for-nothing. Only with the utmost exertion could
she induce him to buy himself an axe out of his own earnings. This was
his father’s, which Mathew had bought at the sale of Josenhans’ effects.
Barefoot often returned almost despairing from the forest. This did
not last long. The inward trust, and native courageous gayety, which
belonged to her disposition, expressed itself voluntarily in cheerful
songs forever upon her lips; and those who did not know her history
would never have remarked that Barefoot had now or ever a single
sorrow. The cheerfulness that arose from an involuntary consciousness
that her duty was well performed, and all her leisure devoted to the
comfort of Mariann and Dami, impressed upon her countenance a constant
joyousness. None in the house laughed as gayly as Barefoot. Old Rodel
said her laugh was just like the song of the quail. She was always so
helpful and respectful to him, that he gave her to understand that he
should remember her in his will. Barefoot did not trouble herself nor
expect much from this. She relied upon nothing but the wages, which
were justly hers, and whatever she performed beyond this for others,
she did from benevolence and a generous disposition. Was not this to be
a true Sister of Charity?
[Illustration]
[Illustration]