HE HAS COME.
Barefoot stood, one Sunday afternoon, at the house door, looking
dreamingly into the vague distance, when the grandson of Charcoal
Mathew came running down the village street, and nodding to her from a
distance, cried,--
“He has come, Barefoot; he has come!”
Barefoot’s knees sank beneath her, and with a trembling voice she
cried, “Where is he,--where?”
“At my grandfather’s, in Moosbrunnenwold.”
“Where? Who? Who sent thee?”
“Thy Dami. He is below in the forest.”
Barefoot was obliged to sit down upon the stone bench before the
house, but only for a minute; then recovering herself quickly with the
words,--“My Dami! My brother!”
“Yes, Barefoot’s Dami,” said the boy, good-humoredly, “and he promised
me you would give me a farthing if I brought the message to you. Now
give me one.”
“My Dami will give you three.”
“Oh, no,” said the boy, “he told my grandfather that he had not a
penny.”
“Neither have I any at present, but I will remember it.”
She went quickly back into the house, and asked one of the maids to
milk the cow in the evening, in case she did not get home in season,
for she had to go out directly.
With her heart beating, sometimes in contempt at Dami, sometimes in
sadness at his ill luck, then again in anger that he had come back;
and then she reproached herself that she could meet her only brother
with such emotions. She went through the fields and down the valley,
to the Moosbrunnenwold. The way to Charcoal Mathew’s could not be
missed, although it turned aside from the foot-path. The odor of the
kiln-burner led infallibly to it.
How merrily the birds sing in the trees, she thought, and a sorrowful
child of man wanders beneath them. How melancholy must it be for Dami
to see all this again, and how hard it must be for him, if he has no
other resource, to come home and depend upon me, and take all that I
have. Other sisters have help from their brothers, and I----. But I
will show thee, Dami, that thou must now remain where I place thee.
Full of such thoughts, Amrie at last reached the coal-burner’s. She saw
no one except Mathew, who sat by his hut and smoked a wooden pipe,
which he held with both hands. A coal-burner is like his kiln,--he is
always smoking.
“Has anybody made a fool of me?” Barefoot asked herself. “Oh, that were
a shame! What have I done to anybody, that they should put so miserable
a joke upon me?”
With clinched hands and a burning face, she now stood before Mathew. He
scarcely raised his eyes, much less did he utter a word. So long as the
sun shone he was perfectly dumb; at night only, when no one could look
him in the face, he began to speak.
Barefoot stared a moment in the face of the coal-burner, and then
asked,--
“Where is my Dami?”
The old man shook his head, as much as to say, “He did not know.”
Then Amrie asked again, stamping her foot,--
“Is Dami here with you?”
The old man opened his hands, pointing right and left, and shook his
head again, as though he could not be in either path.
“Who then sent for me,” said Barefoot, more vehemently. “Pray speak!”
The coal-burner pointed with his thumb to the side where the foot-path
led round the mountain.
“Oh, speak one word,” said Barefoot, now weeping violently, “only one
word. Is my Dami here, or where is he?”
At last the old man said, “He is there! He has gone up the foot-path
to meet you,” and then, as though he had said too much, he pressed his
lips together and went to his kiln.
There stood Amrie, and laughed in derision and sadness at the
simplicity of her poor brother. “He sends for me, and then cannot
remain in the spot where I could find him. How could he believe that I
should take the foot-path? It will occur to him now, and he will take
the other path; we shall be running away from each other as in a fog.”
She sat down upon the stump of a tree. Her heart throbbed and glowed.
The flame could not break out; it consumed her inwardly. The birds sang
sweetly. The branches in the forest rustled. Ah, what is all this, if
no clear note is returned in the heart? As if in a dream, Barefoot
remembered how she had once cherished thoughts of love. “How,” she
asked herself,--“how couldst thou suffer such wishes to arise? Hadst
thou not misery enough in thyself, and in thy brother?” The thought of
this love was to her now like the recollection of a warm sunny day, in
the midst of winter. We can believe that it was once warm and sunny,
but we can understand it no longer. She must now learn the misery of
waiting, of hope deferred, standing high upon a summit, where there
is scarcely a hand’s-breadth to support one. The old misery returns,
forever increasing.
She went into the stone hut of the coal-burner; there lay a sack
scarcely half full, with the name of her father upon it.
“Oh! how you have been dragged about,” she said, half aloud. She
checked her excitement. She wished to see what Dami had brought back
with him. “He has at least the good shirts that I made from the linen
I bought of Mariann, and perhaps there is a present from our uncle in
America; but if he had any thing decent, would he have gone first to
the coal-burner in the forest? Ah, no! he would have shown himself in
the village.”
Barefoot had time for these reflections, for the sack was truly
artistically knotted together. Her usual skill and patience alone
succeeded, at last, in loosening it. She took out all that was in the
sack, and with an angry glance said to herself,--
“Oh! thou good-for-nothing! There is not a whole shirt in the sack; and
now you can take your choice, to be called ‘Beggar-man,’ or ‘Rag-man.’”
This was not a good disposition in which, for the first time, to meet
her brother; and this Dami felt, for he stood waiting at the door
of the hut till she had put every thing back into the sack; then he
stepped up to her, and said, “God bless thee, Amrie! I bring you
nothing but dirty clothes; but you are neat, and will soon--”
“Oh! dear Dami, how you look!” shrieked Amrie, and lay upon his breast;
but quickly she tore herself away, and said,--“In heaven’s name, you
smell of brandy! Oh! have you come to that?”
“No! Mathew gave me a little spirit of juniper, for I could no longer
stand. It has gone ill with me, but I am not bad. This you may believe,
although I cannot prove it.”
“I believe you! You would not deceive the only person there is left
to believe you. Oh, how wild and miserable you look! What a beard you
have got. I cannot suffer that. That must come off. But you are well?
Nothing is the matter with you?”
“Yes, I am well--and will go for a soldier.”
“What you are, and what you will be, that we will not now consider. Now
tell me how it has fared with you?”
Dami thrust aside with his foot a half-burnt log, called a useless
brand, and said, “Look! exactly such am I; not wholly burnt to a coal,
and yet no longer sound wood.”
Barefoot reminded him, that he should tell his story without complaint;
and Dami entered upon a long, long history, amounting to this:--“That
he could not remain with his uncle, who was hard-hearted and selfish,
and his wife grudged every mouthful that he put into his mouth; that
he left him, and sought work elsewhere; but that he always experienced
more and more of the selfishness of men. In America they could see a
man fall into misery, and never look after him.”
Barefoot could not help smiling, as his relation always ended
in----“And then they threw me upon the street.” She could not help
saying,--
“Yes, that is like you. You always allow yourself to be thrust aside.
You were so as a child. When you stumbled a little, you let yourself
fall like a log of wood. ‘Out of a stumbler we must make a hopper.’
From this comes the Proverb.[B] Be cheerful! Do you know what you must
do when people would annoy you?”
“We must go out of the way.”
“No; we must annoy them if we can. It will always annoy them most, to
see us keep an upright position, and a bold face. You stand before the
world, and say,--‘Treat me well, if you please, or treat me ill. Kiss
me, or beat me, whichever you please.’ This is easy enough. You submit
to their treatment, and then you pity yourself. Would I allow any one
to send me here or there, if I did not choose it myself? You must stand
up like a man for yourself. You have been knocked about in the world
long enough. It is time to show yourself as master of yourself.”
Reproach and advice often appear to the unlucky like unjust severity.
Such appeared to Dami the words of his sister. It was horrible that
she could not look upon him as the most unfortunate of men. It is the
most difficult thing in the world to give a man confidence in himself.
Most people gain it only after they have been successful. Dami would
not relate another word to his heartless sister, and it was only
later that she succeeded in gaining a particular account of all his
adventures, and how at last he came back to the Old World as a stoker
on board a steam-vessel. And now, when she reproached him for his
self-tormenting susceptibility, was she secretly aware that she was not
free from it herself.
Through her almost exclusive intercourse with Mariann, she had been
betrayed into thinking and speaking too much of herself, and had become
too sad at heart. Now, that she had to raise and cheer her brother, she
unconsciously cheered herself; for there is this mysterious power in
sympathy, that when we help another, we also help ourselves.
“We have four strong, healthy hands,” she said, in conclusion; “and we
will see if we cannot force our way through the world; and to force
one’s way through, is a thousand times better than to beg one’s way
through. Come, Dami! now come home with me.”
Dami was very unwilling to show himself in the village; he shrank from
the ridicule which would break out on every side. He wished to remain
concealed. But Barefoot said, “Come, go with me through the village on
this bright Sunday afternoon, and let them have their laugh out. Let
them talk, and point, and laugh--then it will be all over; you will
have swallowed the bitter dose at once, and not drop by drop.”
After long and violent opposition, and when the silent Mathew had
joined his persuasions with Amrie’s, Dami consented to go; and, in
fact, coarse jokes rained from every side upon “Barefoot’s Dami,” who,
they said, “had taken a pleasure voyage to America at the expense of
the parish.” Mariann, alone, received him in a friendly manner; and at
the second word, asked him, “Hast thou heard any thing of my John?”
In the evening Barefoot brought the barber, who took off his wild
beard, and gave him the smooth face customary in that place.
Early the next morning Dami was summoned to appear in the Public Hall,
and as he trembled, he knew not why, Amrie promised to follow him
there, although she could not much help him.
The Council gave him notice, that he was expelled from the place.
He had no right to remain longer where he might become a burthen.
How astonished were the councillors, when Barefoot arose and said,
“Yes, well! you may expel him, but when? When you can go out to your
churchyard, where our father and our mother lie, and say to their
buried bones, ‘Arise, and go forth with your child.’ Then you may expel
him. You cannot turn a child away from the place where his parents are
buried. There he is more than at home. If it is written a thousand and
a thousand times in your books,” pointing to the bound Registers upon
the table, “it cannot happen; you cannot do it.”
One of the Council whispered to the schoolmaster,--“Barefoot has learnt
this from dark Mariann;” and the Sacristan nodded to the Mayor, and
said, “Why do you suffer this? Ring for the policeman, and send her to
the madhouse.”
But the Mayor only smiled, and explained to Barefoot, that the
community had bought itself free from all expense for Dami, by paying
the greater part of the passage-money for his voyage to America.
“Yes,” said Barefoot. “But where is he then at home?”
“Where they will take him; but not here. And for the present nowhere.”
“Nowhere have I a home!” said Dami. He was almost pleased to be always
and still more unfortunate. Now no one could deny that he was the most
unhappy man in the world. Barefoot would have striven longer, but she
saw that it would be of no use. The law was against her. She declared
she would work the nails off her fingers, rather than receive any thing
for her brother or herself from the Parish. And she promised to pay
back what Dami had already received.
“Shall I make a record of that also?” asked the Secretary of the
Council.
“Yes,” said Barefoot, “write it down; for only what is written has any
value here.” She signed the record. In the mean time Dami was told,
that, as a stranger, he had permission to remain three days in the
village; at the end of that time, if he had not found some means of
support, he would be expelled; and, if necessary, he would be carried
by force beyond the limits.
Without another word Barefoot left the hall, taking Dami with her,
who wept because she had constrained him to bear this unnecessary
humiliation. It would have been better to remain in the forest, and to
have been spared the mortification of being expelled as a stranger from
his birthplace.
Barefoot would have answered, that it was better to know distinctly the
worst that could happen, but she felt that she needed all her strength
to keep herself firm. She, also, was expelled with her brother, and
stood alone before a world that supported itself by might and law,
while she had nothing to oppose to it but her empty hands.
She held herself firmer than ever. Dami’s unhappiness and misfortune
did not weigh her down, for thus we are made; when an all-absorbing
sorrow fills the heart, another, however heavy, is more easily borne,
than if it had come alone; and as Barefoot was oppressed by a secret
grief, against which she could make no resistance, she bore herself
more proudly against that which was known. She gave not a single minute
to reverie, but with strong arms and clinched hands, she asked, “Where
then is the work, even if it be the heaviest, I will undertake it, if
it will only save me and my brother from dependence and indigence.” She
often thought of going with Dami to Alsatia, to work in a factory. It
was terrible to her, that they should be obliged to do this, but she
would accustom herself to the thought, and when the summer was over
they would go, and then, “Farewell, home! We shall be at home with
strangers!”
The nearest advocate that both the orphans had in the place was now
powerless. Old Farmer Rodel was lying dangerously ill, and the night
after the stormy meeting of the Council, he died. Barefoot and Mariann
were those who wept the most genuine tears at his funeral. On their
return home, the old woman mentioned as especial reason for her
tears,--“He was the last among the living, who danced with me in my
youthful days. My last partner is now dead.”
Soon after she held a different opinion of him, for it appeared that
Rodel, who for long years had consoled Barefoot with the promise of
remembering her in his will, so far from leaving her any thing, he
did not even mention her. As Mariann would not cease scolding about
it, Amrie said to her,--“It is all the same, misfortunes never come
single. They hail now from every side upon me, but the sun will surely
shine again.”
The heirs of Farmer Rodel presented Barefoot with some of his old
clothes. She would gladly have refused them. But could she now venture
to show more pride? Dami, also, refused the old clothes, but was
obliged to yield. It seemed to be his fate, to spend his life in the
clothes of the departed.
Dami found a home with Mathew. The wood-carrier told him that he should
begin a process, for as he had no home, his silence would be giving
up all right to one. The people made themselves merry, that the poor
orphans had neither time nor money to begin a lawsuit. Dami was quite
happy in the solitude of the forest. It suited him exactly, not to be
obliged to dress or undress. It was with the utmost difficulty that
Barefoot could make him wash and dress himself on Sunday afternoons,
when she would sit with him and Mathew. Little was said by either of
them. She could not prevent her thoughts from wandering about the
world, in search of him who had once, for a whole long day, made her so
happy; indeed, had lifted her into heaven. “Did he, then, never think
of that, or of her? Can a man forget another, one with whom he has been
so happy?”
One Sunday morning, towards the end of May, every one had gone to
church. It had rained the day before, and a cool refreshing breath
came from mountain and valley, while the sun shone brightly. Barefoot
intended to go to church as usual, but she sat at the window, listening
to the church-bells, till it was too late. This had seldom or never
happened before. But as it was too late for church, she would remain in
her room and read her hymn-book. She looked over her drawers, and was
surprised at the quantity of things she possessed. Then she sat upon
the floor, and read a hymn, then sang it, softly. Something moved at
the window. She looked around, and there was a white dove standing upon
the sill, and looking at her. When the glances of the maiden and the
dove met, the latter flew away, and as Amrie looked after him, she saw
him soar away far over the fields before he descended to alight.
This little occurrence, which was indeed so natural, made her instantly
happy. Her thoughts went out over mountain, fields and woods, and the
whole day she was cheerful. She could not say why, but it seemed as
though a new joy opened in her soul, she knew not whence it came. At
noon, when she leaned against the door, she shook her head, as she
thought of this strange occurrence. “It must be,” she thought, “it must
surely be, that some one has had good thoughts of me; and why may it
not happen, that a dove should be the silent messenger to bring them
to me? Animals live in the same world where the thoughts of men are
floating about, and who knows whether they are not the bearers of them
all?”
Little could the people who saw Amrie, as she leaned on the door,
imagine the strange life passing within her.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]