AN UNBIDDEN GUEST.
Praised be America! cried the night-watch, when he called the hour of
the night, to the amusement of the village, many nights after Dami
went, instead of the usual “Praised be God!”
Raven Zacky, who was not well off himself, and always scolding about
the poor, said at going out of church on Sunday, and also when sitting
on the long bench before the village inn,--“Columbus was a true savior
for us. Yes, America is the slop-pail for the Old World. We shake
into it what cannot be used in the kitchen. Cabbage and turnip--all
will answer for those who dwell in the castle behind the house, and
understand French, _oui! oui!_ It makes good food for them.”
Through poverty of other materials, the departure of Dami was for a
long time the subject of conversation in the village, and those who
belonged to the village council praised its wisdom in freeing itself of
one who would certainly have become a charge to the parish. For he who
drives many trades will certainly at last drive to ruin.
There were naturally many good-natured people who repeated all they
said of her brother, and their ill-natured jokes to Barefoot. But she
only laughed, and when there came from Bremen a beautiful letter from
Dami (they could not believe he could have written it so correctly),
she had her triumph in the eyes of all, and read her letter many
times over to them. In her heart she was sad at having lost such a
brother, perhaps forever. She also reproached herself that she had
not put him more forward, as now he showed what a brave fellow he
was, and, moreover, so good. Now, he who would have taken leave of
the whole village as he would of the sign-post, filled a whole page
with greetings for every one. He called them the “dear,” the “good,”
the “brave.” Barefoot gained much praise whenever she showed these
greetings. She always pointed to the place, with “See, there it stands
in black and white.”
Amrie was for a long time quiet and reserved; she appeared to repent
that she had let her brother go, or that she had not gone with him.
Formerly, whether in the house or the barn, in the kitchen or the
chamber, she was always singing, and when she went out with the scythe
on her shoulder, she was still singing. Now they heard no sound from
her lips. Some burthen held back her melody. Yet there was a time when
her songs were heard again; when she put the Rodel children to sleep,
she sang softly; and long after they were asleep, her voice was heard
in tender melodies. Then she would hasten to Mariann, and fetch her
wood and water, and all else that she needed.
On Sunday afternoons, when all were seeking amusement, Barefoot
remained still and motionless at the house door, looking far into the
wide space, and into the sky. She saw where the birds were flying, and
lost herself in dreams,--sometimes of Dami, where he was, and how it
was with him; then she would fix her glance upon an over-turned plough,
or upon a hen that buried itself in the sand. When a carriage passed
through the village, she would look up and say, as to herself,--“They
are going to some one; but upon all the streets of the wide world there
is nobody coming to me--nobody thinks of me. Could I not hear them even
here?” And then it seemed as though she expected something. Her heart
beat quicker, as though somebody was coming, and involuntarily came
from her lips,--
“The little brooks, they freely take
Their courses to the sea;
But ah! no friend upon the earth
Can share his heart with me.”
“I would I were as old as you are,” she said one day, when, dreaming
thus, she entered Mariann’s cottage.
“Be glad that your wish is not the truth,” said the other. “When I
was of your age, I was merry, and weighed down at the Plaster Mill a
hundred and thirty-two pounds.”
“You are always the same, always cheerful. It is not so with me.”
“Ah, simpleton! Do not fret away your youth; no one can give it back to
you. Age comes of itself.”
Mariann easily succeeded in consoling Barefoot. Only when she was alone
an unwonted timidity oppressed her. What could it be?
Strange rumors were in the village. For some days it had been said,
that in Endringen there was to be a wedding, such as there had not been
in the memory of man. The eldest daughter of Dominic and Amelia was to
marry a rich timber-merchant of Murgthal, they said, and there were to
be gay doings, such as they never had before.
The day came ever nearer. When two girls met, one would draw the
other behind the hedge, or the haystack, and there was no end to the
talk, although they were both in a prodigious hurry. They said people
were coming from Oberland and from Murgthal, and from thirty leagues
distant, for the family had extensive connections. At the village
fountain there was lively excitement. No young girl would acknowledge
that she was going to have a new dress, that she might enjoy the
surprise the next day when it appeared. In the hurry of question and
answer, they forgot to draw their water, and Barefoot, who came last,
went first away, bearing her full bucket. What was the dance to her?
And yet she seemed to hear music in the air all around her.
The next day she had much to do in the house, and constant running,
for she had to dress Rose. Rose had a quantity of hair, and the most
was to be made of it. To-day she would try something new; something in
the Maria Theresa style, as here in the country they called a braid of
fourteen strands. Barefoot succeeded in accomplishing this difficult
work of art; but scarcely was it finished, when Rose, in a rage, tore
it down, and looked wildly out from the hair hanging over her face.
Still, she was beautiful and stately in this disorder, and she knew
it. “I will never marry into a family where they keep less than four
horses,” she said, haughtily. In fact, she had many suitors among
the farmers’ sons, but she seemed not inclined to choose among them.
She now decided upon the country custom of two braids down her back,
ornamented with red ribbons reaching to the ground. She stood there
ready dressed, and wanted only a nosegay to complete her adornment.
She had allowed her own flowers to wither; and, spite of all Barefoot
could say, she must rob all the blossoms from the beautifully cherished
flowers in the window. At length she also demanded the little dwarf
Rose-Mariè; but Barefoot would be torn to pieces before she would cut
that. Rose scoffed and laughed, scolded, and called her “only a simple
Goose-girl, who was now so selfish, though they had taken her into the
family through charity.” Barefoot said not a word, but she gave Rose
a look which made her cast down her eyes. Just then a red rosette had
become loose upon her left shoe, and Amrie knelt down to fasten it;
when partly in joke, and partly through repentance of her ill-nature,
Rose exclaimed, “I have taken a fancy, Barefoot, that you shall also go
to the dance to-day.”
“Do not laugh at me,” said Barefoot. “What have I done?”
“I am not laughing,” Rose declared. “Once in a life you shall dance,
for you are also a young girl, and there will be some of your condition
there. Our stable-boy is going, and some peasant’s son will dance with
you. I will see that you have a partner.”
“Leave me in peace,” said Amrie, still kneeling, “or I will prick you.”
“Rose is right,” exclaimed the farmer’s wife, who had till now been
silent; “I will never say a good word for you again, if you do not
consent to go to this dance. Come, sit down, and I, for once, will be
your dressing-maid.”
Crimson blushes succeeded each other over Barefoot’s face, as she sat
there, served by her mistress; and when she turned her hair back from
her forehead, she felt as though she should sink down for shame. Her
mistress said, “I will dress your hair as the Algäuer girls wear it.
That will be very becoming to you, for you look like an Algäuer--so
plump and brown. Yes, you look like one of the daughters of Farmer
Landfried of Zusmarshofen.”
“Why so! How like her?” asked Barefoot; and her whole frame trembled.
Why was it that she should just now be reminded of this friend that,
from a child, she had never forgotten; and who, from that time, had
remained in her memory like a benevolent fairy in a fairy tale. She had
no ring that she could turn to make her appear. In her mind only could
she conjure her hither, and that only involuntarily.
“Keep quiet, or I shall pull thy hair,” said her mistress. Barefoot
sat motionless,--scarcely breathing. As she sat there with her hands
pressed together, and her mistress sometimes bending over her, she felt
her warm breath on her face--she seemed to herself as though she were
suddenly enchanted. She said not a word, and sank her glances humbly to
the ground, lest she should scare away the enchantment.
“Would that I could dress you thus for your own wedding,” said her
mistress, who to-day overflowed with benevolence. “I would give thee
a right honest farmer, and no one would be taken in by thee. But
now-a-days things do not happen thus. Money runs after money. However,
do not be discouraged; as long as I live, you shall want for nothing;
and if I should die--for I have sad thoughts when I think of my heavy
hour--promise that you will never leave my children, but be a mother to
them.”
“Oh, Heavens! how can you have such thoughts?” cried Barefoot, and
tears ran down her cheeks. “It is a sin! for it is sinful to allow bad
thoughts to come into one’s mind.”
“Yes, yes! you are right,” said her mistress. “But wait--sit still! I
will fetch my necklace. You must wear that on your neck.”
“Oh, no, no! I can wear nothing which is not my own. I should sink to
the earth with shame.”
“Yes! but you cannot go thus. Perhaps you have something of your own
that you can wear.”
Barefoot related that she had once a necklace which she received
when a child, from Madam Landfried; but to provide funds for Dami’s
emigration, she had pledged it to the Sacristan’s widow.
Her mistress exacted a promise that she would not move, nor look at
herself in the glass, till she came back, and hastened forth to reclaim
the ornament, and herself became surety for the payment.
What timidity ran through the soul of Barefoot, as she sat there
waiting. She, the servant, so humbly served--and, in fact, she sat as
though enchanted. When she thought of the dance she trembled--she was
treated so kindly; and who could tell that she might not be thrust out
of the dance, with none to care for her, and all her outward ornaments
and her inward pleasure be in vain. “No,” she said to herself, “if
I have only that which I now enjoy, it is sufficient. If I must
immediately undress and remain at home, I have still had the pleasure.”
Her mistress came in with the necklace in her hand. Praise of the
ornament, and blame of the Sacristan’s widow, who could take such
shameful interest from a poor girl, were strangely blended together.
She promised herself to pay the pledge, and gradually deduct it from
Barefoot’s wages.
Now, at last, she was permitted to look at herself. Her mistress held
the glass before her, and from the expression of both there shone, as
it were, a mutual hymn of joy.
“I do not know myself! I do not know myself!” cried Barefoot, pressing
both hands upon her face. “Oh, that my mother could see me thus! But
she will certainly bless you for being so good to me. Yes, from Heaven
she will support you in your heavy hour. You need fear nothing.”
“Ah, a different face, not that melancholy one, must go to the dance,”
said her mistress. “But it will come when you hear the music.”
“I think I hear it now,” said Barefoot. “Yes--listen--there it is.” In
fact, there now came on through the village the leading wagon, covered
with green branches, in which sat all the musicians. Raven Zacky stood
up in the midst and blew a trumpet.
It was time to go, and all the village hastened after. Bernese
chaises, with one horse and with two, from this village and from the
neighborhood, passing through, were driven as though running for a
wager. Rose sat on the front seat with her brother, while Barefoot went
in the basket behind. As long as they were in the village she kept
her eyes cast down; only when passing the house of her parents she
looked up, as Mariann stood there to greet her. The old cock upon the
wood-pile crowed, and the service-tree nodded a “God bless you, on the
way.”
Now they pass through the valley where old Manz was breaking stones,
and now over the Holder Common, where an old woman took care of the
geese. Barefoot gave her a friendly nod. “Oh, Heavens,” she thought,
“how did I come to this--that I can sit here so proud and well dressed.
It is but an hour’s ride to Endringen. It seems as though we had but
just started, and we must already alight.”
Rose was immediately surrounded and greeted by friends. “Is that a
sister of your brother’s wife that you have brought with you?” her
friends asked.
“No! it is only our maid,” said Rose. Some beggars from Holdenbrunn,
who were there, looked astonished; and after observing her a long time,
cried “Ei! yes; that is Barefoot.”
These little words, “only our maid,” sunk deeply into Barefoot’s mind;
but she recovered herself, and smiling, said to herself, “Let not a
little word spoil thy pleasure. If you begin so, you will continually
tread upon thorns.”
Rose took her aside and said, “Go now upon the dancing-platform, or
wherever you find acquaintance. By and by when the music begins, I will
see you again.”
Yes, there stood Barefoot, as though deserted. It seemed to her as
though she had stolen her clothes, and had no right to be there. She
was an intruder. “What was I thinking of,” she asked herself, “when
I consented to come to a marriage-feast?” and she gladly would have
returned home. She went in and out through the village, and passed the
beautiful house that was built for the Brosis, and where there was much
life to-day; for the mother of the Brosis, with her sons and daughters,
had their summer residence there. Barefoot went again into the village,
walked about, but would not look round, though she longed to have some
one call her, that she might find a companion.
At the end of the village she met a genteel horseman upon a white
horse, who was riding into the village. He wore the dress of a farmer
of another part of the country, and sat on his horse proudly. He
stopped, and while he held out his riding-whip in his right hand, he
patted with the left the neck of his horse. “Good-morning, pretty
maiden,” he said. “Already tired of the dance?”
“Of unnecessary questions I am already tired,” she answered.
The horseman rode on, and Amrie sat a long time behind a hazel-hedge,
where thoughts crowded upon her, and her cheeks crimsoned with shame
and anger at the petulant answer she had given to a harmless question.
Perplexity, and an incomprehensible internal agitation came over her.
Involuntarily the song of the lovers came to her lips:
“There were two lovers in Allgäu,
They were to each other so dear.”
Full of joy she had begun the day, and now she wished herself dead.
“Here, behind this hedge,” she said, “to fall asleep and wake no more.
Oh, how delightful that would be. There is no more joy for me on earth.
Why strive to obtain it? How the crickets chirp in the grass, while a
warm perfume arises from it. The hedge-sparrows twitter continually as
though they strove to bring out deeper, and fresher, and more musical
warblings; as though they could not express or say what out of the
whole heart they had to say. Far above sing the larks. Every bird sings
for himself--none listen--no bird checks another, and yet, all----”
Never in her life before had she fallen asleep in the day-time--and
now, to sleep in the bright morning! She had drawn her handkerchief
over her eyes, but the sunbeams kissed her closed lips, that in sleep
were pressed poutingly together, and the light red upon her chin grew
deeper. She slept perhaps an hour, then starting, awoke. The horseman
upon the white horse had ridden back, and the horse was pressing with
both fore feet upon her breast.
It was only a dream. Amrie looked around as though she had suddenly
fallen from heaven. She scarcely knew where she was, but the sound of
the music quickly aroused all her faculties, and she went with new
strength back to the village where increased gayety inspired every
one. She had rested, and all was forgotten that had annoyed her in
the morning. Now should partners come, she could dance till morning,
without rest or weariness.
A fresh bloom, like that of a child, lay upon her cheeks, and every one
looked astonished at her beauty. She went to the dancing-platform. The
music sounded from an empty room. There were no dancers there, only the
girls that had come to wait upon the guests, were twirling round with
each other. Raven Zacky looked long at Amrie--then shook his head--he
appeared not to know her. She met Dominic, the farmer from the Ridge,
who that day was in his glory.
“Pardon me,” he said, “Does the maiden belong to the marriage-guests?”
“No, I am only a maid, and came with the daughter of the house, Rose,
from Rodel Farm.”
“Good. Go up then to the farm to my wife, and tell her that I sent you
to help her. They cannot have too many hands to-day.”
“As you please, willingly,” said Amrie, and went immediately. On
the way she could not help thinking that Dominic had once been a
servant--and now-- But such a thing does not happen once in a hundred
years. It cost much blood also, to elevate him to this rank.
Amelia welcomed the newly-arrived help, and drawing off Amrie’s gay
spencer, she gave her a great apron with a breast cover. She must
refresh herself with food before she began work. Amrie consented, and
with the first word, won the good will of Amelia. “I am hungry,” she
said, “and I will not give you trouble to press me to eat.”
Amrie remained in the kitchen, and gave such excellent assistance to
the waiters, and knew so well how all the dishes should be arranged,
that Dominic’s wife said, “You two Amries, you and my niece Amrie, can
now manage every thing so well, that I will repair to the guests.”
Amrie, from Siebenhöfen, the niece, who by all the neighborhood was
called proud and haughty, was so wonderfully friendly and condescending
to our Amrie, that Amelia said to her, “It is a pity you are not a
young man, for I believe Amrie would marry you at once, and not send
you off as she does all her other suitors.”
“I have a brother at her service,” said Amrie; “but he is in America.”
“There let him stay,” said the other Amrie. “It is a pity we could not
send all the young fellows there, and we remain by ourselves.”
Barefoot would not leave the kitchen till every thing was in its place.
When she drew off her apron, her dress was as clean and unwrinkled as
when she first put it on.
“You must be tired, and not able to dance,” said her friend, as, with a
present, Amrie took leave.
“Why tired? This is only play. Believe me, I am better for having
done something to-day. I could not be happy to pass a whole day in
amusement; this was certainly the reason I was so melancholy this
morning. Something was the matter; but now I am just in the humor for
gayety. I could dance all day, could I but find partners.”
Amelia thought she could show Barefoot no greater honor, than to take
her as an equal all over the house, and into the bride’s chamber,
where she showed her the large chest with the wedding-presents. Then
she opened the tall, blue painted presses, with the name and the year
marked upon them, all filled with the dowry of numerous pieces of
linen tied with gay ribbons, and with borders worked with pinks. In the
clothes-presses were at least thirty dresses, and beside the high beds,
the cradle, the distaff and beautiful spindles, it was hung round with
children’s playthings, presented by her young companions.
“Ah,” said Barefoot, “how happy is such a child, in such a house!”
“Art thou envious?” asked Amelia; then remembering that she was showing
all these things to a poor girl, she added, “Believe me, these things
do not make one happy. Many are happy who have not received even a
stocking from their parents.”
“Ah, yes, I know that. I am not envious of these riches, but rather
that your child has you and so many friends to thank for all these,
and for all she has received from them. Such garments, the gift of a
mother, must keep one doubly warm.”
Amelia showed her benevolence towards Barefoot, by going with her to
the door of the court-yard, and treating her with as much respect as
though she had eight horses in the stall.
All was lively confusion, when Amrie came again upon the
dancing-ground. She remained at first, standing timidly upon the
platform. Where now were the troops of children, who formerly enjoyed
here a foretaste of the joys that awaited them in after-life. Ah!
indeed, all that is now forbidden by the High States Government. The
Church and School Commission have banished the children. They dare not
turn in the waltz, as they did in Amrie’s childhood. This is also a
quiet sword thrust from the green-cloth.
Over the now empty floor, where a guest occasionally passed, walked up
and down a solitary policeman. When he saw Amrie coming, as it were,
beaming with light and joy, he went up to her, and said,--
“Good-evening, Amrie! so you are here also?”
Amrie trembled, and turned pale as death. Had she done any thing wrong?
Had she gone into the stable with a bare lighted candle? She examined
her whole life as far as she could remember, and yet he was as familiar
as though she were already a transported criminal. She stood trembling
as though her guilt were manifest. At last she said,--“Thank you, I
know nothing about it, or why we are so intimate. Do you want any
thing?”
“Oh, ho! How proud we are! I shall not eat you! Will you give me a
plain answer. Why are you so angry?”
“I am not angry. I would not hurt anybody. I am only a stupid girl.”
“Do not pretend to be so innocent.”
“How do you know any thing about me?”
“Because you flaunt round so with the light.”
“Where? When? How do I flaunt round with a light? I always take a
lantern when I go into the stable.”
The policeman laughed, and said,--“There! there, with your brown
sparklers. There you flaunt with the light--your eyes--they are like
two fire-balls.”
“Get out of the way then, lest I burn you. You may be blown up with the
powder in your pocket-flask.”
“There is nothing there,” said the policeman, embarrassed. “But you
have singed me already.”
“I do not see it. You are all whole. Enough of this. Let me go.”
“I do not keep you. You may live to torment some poor man yet.”
“No one need have me,” said Amrie, and escaped as though a chain
which held her had suddenly broken. She stood in the door where many
spectators had gathered, and as a new tune began, she rocked backward
and forward in harmony with the melody. The consciousness of having
trumped the policeman, made her contented with the whole world. He soon
appeared again, however, and placing himself behind Amrie, addressed
every word to her. She did not answer, and appeared not to hear him,
while she nodded to the dancers as they waltzed near her. At length he
said,--“When I make up my mind to marry, I will take thee.”
“How take me?” she answered. “If I give myself, it will not be to thee!”
The policeman was glad to get any answer, and he continued, “If I only
were allowed to dance, I would instantly dance with you.”
“I cannot dance,” said Amrie; and as the music ceased, she pressed
through to find a retired spot, where she could remain unseen. She
heard those behind her say, “She can dance, and better than any girl in
the country.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]