FRAU MORGENROTH.
Dear me, and I wonder what the banquet will be like? Do you remember
that joint eight weeks ago? It was horribly burned.
FRAU BRENDEL.
And how she looks! what will she put on?
FRAU MORGENROTH.
Not much choice. She has but three gowns.
FRAU BRENDEL.
To be sure, the brown one----
FRAU MORGENROTH.
And the white one----
FRAU BRENDEL.
And her stuff gown.
FRAU MORGENROTH.
She had that made for the first christening at the burgomaster’s.
FRAU BRENDEL.
Begging your pardon, Dame Cousin, it was made when the
Vice-Church-Superintendent married his second wife.
FRAU MORGENROTH.
Who was another such fool.
FRAU BRENDEL.
You’re right there, quite right there.
(_Enter Frau Staar with two children, the latter eating enormous slices
of bread and butter._)
[Illustration: ENTER FRAU STAAR WITH TWO CHILDREN.]
FRAU STAAR.
There are the children.
SPERLING.
Come along then!
FRAU STAAR.
Drop a curtsey to your dear Dame Cousin first, there’s a good child!
Now shake hands; that’s right!
FRAU BRENDEL (_wiping the butter from her fingers_).
Enchanting little creatures. God bless them!
FRAU MORGENROTH.
The very pictures of our dear Dame Cousin.
FRAU BRENDEL.
I trust they have had the pox!
FRAU STAAR.
Not yet. My son wished to have them inoculated, but I will never give
my consent. I would not forestall the Almighty.
SPERLING.
Children, lay your bread and butter aside.
CHILDREN.
No, no.
SPERLING.
Well, then, take the flowers in the other hand.
(_Enter Herr Staar and the Burgomaster._)
HERR STAAR (_hastily_).
They are just driving in through the gate. The street is full of boys.
They are running along by the carriage, and yelling at the top of their
voice.
BURGOMASTER (_hastily_).
He comes, he comes! The watchman is standing ready with his trumpet.
SPERLING.
Goodness gracious! The children are so awkward----
HERR STAAR.
All you have to do is to strew your flowers and fling them in his face.
(_The blast of a trumpet very much out of tune._)
BURGOMASTER.
Quick, quick! All go to meet him!
HERR STAAR.
The children lead the way!
SPERLING (_snatches the bread and butter out of their hands and throws
it on the table_).
Leave your bread and butter here.
HERR STAAR (_urging the children toward the door_).
Quick, quick!
CHILDREN (_crying_).
I want my bread and butter! My bread and butter!
BURGOMASTER (_following them_).
Will you hold your tongues?
FRAU STAAR.
Frau Chief-Raft-and-Fishery-Master, you will have the kindness to
precede me.
FRAU BRENDEL.
Never, Frau Town-Excise-Treasury-Secretary. I most urgently beg you----
FRAU MORGENROTH.
Frau Under-Tax-Receiver, the honour is due to you.
FRAU STAAR.
The heavens preserve me! I am at home in this house.
FRAU BRENDEL.
I know my place----
FRAU MORGENROTH.
I will not stir a step.
(_The three begin to bow and curtsey, and all talk at the same time._)
(THE CURTAIN DROPS.)
_August von Kotzebue_ (1761-1819).
_HOW THE VICAR CAME AROUND._
THE Frau Obersteuerrätin was “auntie” to the whole world; and indeed
she deserved the name, for she was a motherly friend, counsellor, and
helper to all who came within her domain; she was the best and most
charitable of women, judging mildly of the weaknesses of others so
long as her own little weaknesses were respected. She over-looked the
eccentricities of her clerical brother, which he committed in a state
of absent-mindedness, and she did not raise any objections to Susie’s
marvellous _naïveté_, though often enough it caused her bitter dilemmas.
It was a warm May day on which the Vicar entered the room with his
usual greeting: “Good morning, Auntie--good morning, Susie.”
Auntie nodded pleasantly. Susie, who was sitting by her on the sofa,
knitting a white stocking, arose, dropped a little familiar curtsey,
and said: “_Votre servante_, Uncle.”
“But, Heaven preserve us, what is the matter with you to-day, Vicar?”
said Aunt Rosmarin.
“How so?” queried the Vicar, putting his hands in all of his pockets in
a vain search for a handkerchief with which to wipe the perspiration
from his brow.
“It’s very likely you have your wig in your pocket,” said Auntie, “for
your handkerchief is on your head.”
“On my head,” exclaimed the Vicar in surprise, and putting his hand
there he found it. “I shouldn’t be greatly surprised if you were right,
Auntie; it’s a hot, hot day; the sun was burning, my back was burning;
I came from town, so I took off my wig to cool my head, spread my
handkerchief over the latter, and lay down in a corn-field.”
Again he began to search his pockets, while Susie made room for him
on the sofa, and went out to get him a refreshing drink of water and
raspberry syrup.
“What are you looking for, Vicar?” asked Auntie.
“If I mistake not, I brought a letter for you from town; but what
has become of it is more than I can tell. I think it is from the
Burgomaster. Seek and ye shall find.”
“But, Vicar, first of all, put on your wig--this is very indecent. It
is an insult to your congregation to walk about bald-headed.”
“I should hope not. But in that case I trust that there would be bears
to obey me, like the prophet Elisha, and devour all bad boys who would
make bold to have a laugh at me. But, _ad vocem_, my wig, Auntie; what
did you do with it?”
“What did I do with it? You did not entrust it to my keeping. Perhaps
you lost it on the way!”
“Heaven preserve us! It was my best wig. You are right, Auntie; it is
lying in the grass, together with the Burgomaster’s letter, precisely
on the spot where I myself lay a quarter of an hour ago, in the shadow
of the corn.”
Auntie seized her bell. The maid appeared; the Inspector was called,
and ordered to send for the wig and the letter--as quick as possible.
Auntie was quite as impatient to hide the Vicar’s baldness as to read
the Burgomaster’s letter. The shape of the wig, as well as colour and
address of the letter, were explicitly described to the Inspector, and
he forthwith sent two grooms, four threshers, and one dairy-boy out
upon all roads, footpaths, and byways that run between Nieder-Fahren
and Waiblingen. He stationed himself upon the hill by the wind-mill and
reconnoitred the field of action through a telescope. Such excellent
arrangements could not fail to bring about the desired result. In
half-an-hour the seven messengers returned to the house led by the wig,
the letter, and the Inspector.
Sure enough the letter was from the Burgomaster. It contained nothing
less than a formal invitation to the Frau Obersteuerrätin, together
with her brother and Fräulein Susie and the Inspector Säblein, to the
wedding of the Burgomaster’s eldest daughter.
Although Auntie felt very much flattered by this attention of the
Burgomaster, with whom she was but slightly acquainted, there were some
difficulties in the way which must needs be talked over in a family
council.
Auntie was very much averse to bringing Susie into contact in any
way with the young gentlemen of Waiblingen. First of all, Susie was
seventeen years old--a fact which did not seem at all portentous to
the child, but all the more so to her cautious aunt. Second, Susie was
beautiful as any Susanna, not excepting the one in the Old Testament.
Thirdly, she had the prospect of inheriting a considerable fortune,
and Auntie had no notion of giving up her darling to the first-comer.
Fourthly, Susie was exceedingly inexperienced, though she was not
wanting in the usual measure of laudable curiosity.
The young men of Waiblingen were in no way suited to be the companions
of such a girl. First, because a great many of them were handsome,
which is a very bad thing; and secondly, they were all great lovers of
comedies and novels; they kept up an amateur stage; and at Waiblingen
two booksellers made their living with circulating libraries--a bad
sign of our times! Thirdly, even though one might have forgiven them
their sleek faces and romantic tendencies, few of them had a fortune
that would weigh in the scales against Aunt Rosmarin’s possessions, nor
were they of a rank to be compared with the title of Obersteuerrat.
Auntie had pondered this question long since in the silence of her own
heart, and she had come to the conclusion that it was best to take
defensive measures against the elegant world of Waiblingen. Susie
seldom went there, and still seldomer were there any young guests
invited to Nieder-Fahren.
After ripe consideration it was decided in the family council, in
which the Inspector also took part, to go to the wedding at the
Burgomaster’s, but not without the utmost caution.
Auntie undertook to call Susie’s attention to the dangers arising out
of the affections. The Vicar was to add spiritual admonition, and
the Inspector--who had the reputation of having been a good waltzer
in his younger years, while now he was unfortunately a bachelor of
fifty-six--promised to renew Susie’s dancing-lessons. At the wedding
all three pledged each other to do their best, and not lose the damsel
out of sight.
Hereupon tailors, shoemakers, and milliners were put in a fair way of
getting a living. Auntie was desirous of doing whatever was due to her
rank, and she also had the pardonable pride of showing off Susie’s
beauty to the best advantage.
Susie was delighted with the elaborate preparations--all this was a
new experience. She put her dancing-master quite out of breath, and
her only regret was that his feet being fifty-six years old were not
as flexible as hers being seventeen. Joy and nature taught her to
dance; but Säblein took it all upon his account. He was nothing loath
to practise his noble half-forgotten art, the less so as the family
council had decreed that he alone should be Susie’s partner at the
wedding.
Unfortunately this plan miscarried, and the reason was this. The day
before the wedding all the dances were to be reviewed once more under
the supervision of the Vicar and Auntie. Before the spectators came,
Säblein exerted himself more than was good for him to dance at least
no worse than his clever pupil. She floated about like a butterfly,
and in her rapture took many a step which was no less graceful for
not coming under any rule. Säblein, in an ecstasy of delight, rashly
undertook to show her the acme of his art. Years ago he could dance
_entrechats_,--ambition pricked him to make a trial once more. His
first attempt was half a failure, his second was a whole one. His
lank, thin-whittled legs, which had never been a cause of reproach to
him, got so hopelessly and abnormally entangled that, the rest of his
body keeping in motion, a disaster was inevitable. The unfortunate
dancing-master fell in a most _un_masterly manner upon the floor, and
as a falling pine uproots all blooming bushes that surround it, so he
pulled down the little sylph that was frolicking about him.
The Vicar, just about to open the door from without, heard the fall
which shook the very foundations of the house, and entered hastily. It
was partly this haste and partly the Vicar’s near-sightedness, which
he was wont to forget in his absent-mindedness, which became the cause
of a second accident. He stepped upon the dancing-master’s leg, which
the latter drew back with pardonable abruptness, thereby robbing the
Vicar of his equilibrium. Before he had time to beg pardon he lay upon
the floor along with the others. While his powdered wig was propelled
by the rapid motion far under the sofa, his short legs performed some
wonderful antics, and at last turned up their soles toward Heaven, as
if imploring its aid.
The whole occurrence was a very short one. The Vicar was the first to
gather himself up, and, mistaking Susie’s snowy, befrilled cap for
his escaped wig, he seized it without more ado, and covered his head
therewith because he heard the Obersteuerrätin at the door. Susie was
on her feet too before Auntie entered. But Säblein sat upon the floor
making horrible faces, for he had hurt his hip.
“Great heavens!” cried Aunt Rosmarin, clapping her hands together, and
looking now at the Inspector’s painful grimaces, now at her brother’s
head in a woman’s cap. “Are you playing a farce? Are you forgetful
of all decency? Do you call this good breeding? and especially you,
Vicar?” ...
“And pray, why is it especially I?” he asked with a touch of
sensitiveness, for he did not greatly like his sister’s sermons.
Here Susie gained a hearing, and quickly restored peace by giving
her perplexed aunt the explanation to this riddle, and laughingly
exchanging her cap for the wig.
[Illustration: THE VICAR HASTENING TO COVER HIS BALDNESS.]
This apparently unimportant occurrence was the firs cause to all
following misfortunes; for Säblein went limping about for many days,
and consequently could not dance at the wedding.
* * * * *
Aunt Rosmarin had her suspicions when she saw Susie, now swimming
in bliss, now abject and mournful, or when she heard how Susie went
walking in the park evening after evening, and when she herself,
putting aside her dread of rheumatism, secretly followed her there, but
always found Susie alone.
Auntie shook her head, and said to her brother: “I believe, Vicar, our
little baroness is in love.” She had hit it, but wise Auntie never
thought of the baron. “We must keep our eyes on this marvellously
mysterious child, for she will confess nothing to me. It is a delicate
task, I know, and I myself am too old to run after her in the park
every day the Lord makes. And, of course, Vicar, it is not a matter to
be entrusted to the domestics; that were contrary to all dignity and
order. But at the same time she must be watched, for these constant
visits to the park for the last fortnight must have some good reason.”
“Trust me, Auntie,” said the Vicar--“trust me; I will guard the park
like a spy. Murder shall out. This is just the sort of thing that suits
me.”
The plans were laid with great subtlety. The Vicar looked unconcerned
in Susie’s presence, and the following day at sunset he started upon
his errand.
He was indeed very lucky, for the Baron was really in the park. He was
twice lucky, for it so happened that he entered the park from the side
where it touched the woods, and where the Baron was wont to enter it.
He was in the habit of leaving his horse there, and giving it to the
servant to hold.
The servant, finding his task decidedly dull, had to-day tied the
Baron’s horse to a young birch-tree and gone about his own affairs. The
Vicar looked at the elegantly-equipped noble steed from all sides, and
nodding his head thoughtfully, unfastened it, saying to himself, “I’ll
take it home to our stable; the owner will no doubt apply for it, and
all the rest will follow. In truth, it’s a shrewd plan!”
But there was an unfavourable circumstance. There seemed to be a secret
understanding between the horse and his master. He most decidedly
objected to being pulled along by the bridle; no amount of patting and
caressing had any effect; he planted his fore-legs firmly on the ground
and pulled his head back.
“Friend,” said the Vicar, “at best you are but a beast, and you have no
eyes behind your ears. I’ll wager you will go willingly.” With that he
climbed upon the noble animal’s back, which stood as patient as a lamb.
To be sure it was thirty years or more since the good Vicar had been
on horseback, and, moreover, his legs were about two inches too short
for the stirrups; but then it was to be but a few moments’ ride, and it
was well to show Aunt Rosmarin that he had not forgotten the chivalrous
arts over his theology. Over and above all this there was danger in
delay.
So he belaboured the horse’s shanks with his boots, and the steed,
taken aback by such ill-treatment, at once began to canter along the
woody path, across the field into the open road, having for weeks
past traversed no other way than this with the Baron. The Vicar, in
danger of losing his balance, with laudable precaution clasped his
fingers in the mane of his Pegasus. Finding himself upon the road,
however, instead of parading under Auntie’s window, he tried to grasp
the bridle. Over this attempt he came very near losing both stirrups.
Making sure of these once more, he let the bridle alone. For a while
these two purposes warred with each other, and between times he
admonished the fiery horse with many caresses to stand still. But it
was all in vain; and when in his despair he pulled the line too tight,
at the same time clasping the horse’s sides firmly with his legs, it
forthwith rose upon its hind feet, and, to his inexpressible horror,
began to walk about like a human being, and perform tricks which were
positively not to the Vicar’s taste just at that moment.
He now succumbed to fate and to his horse, clinging to the latter with
hands and feet while it sped along at a full gallop till the poor
Vicar was deaf and blind with dizziness.
“Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee,” he sighed. “If this isn’t
the very devil himself! Had I but left the beast standing where I was
how happy should I be!”
It so happened that right here the road had been barred by peasants in
honour of the grazing cattle.
[Illustration: “FELT THE WAVES PENETRATE HIS BLACK SILK STOCKINGS.”]
“Te Deum laudamus!” cried the Vicar. “Here surely this rascal of a
horse will come to a stand.” But the steed leaped over as if he had
wings, so that the horseman’s hair stood on end, and his hat and wig
took flight in horror. “I have learned to ride better than you, for I
still hold my seat,” said the good Vicar in Christian tranquillity to
the truants, not venturing to turn and look after them.
“Whither, in the Lord’s name? Twice four-and-twenty hours at this rate
and we shall have spanned this terrestrial globe and come out on the
other side at Nieder-Fahren.” As he was saying this they approached a
bridge. The Vicar, in terror lest the horse in its blind rage might
miss the bridge and leap into the stream, tugged frantically at the
line on the side nearest to the bridge. But he tugged too long; the
provoking animal thereupon left the bridge lying at the right, and
jumped into the water. The Vicar came very near fainting away when he
became aware of floating between heaven and water, and felt the waves
penetrate his black silk stockings, and soon after his velvet breeches,
until they played about his hips.
The horse, which was a capital swimmer, reached the opposite shore in
safety, regained the road, and jauntily continued its journey until it
reached Schloss Malzen, where it darted joyfully with the Vicar into
the open door of the stable, standing still at last in its own familiar
stall.
The servants in the courtyard ran in after him, helped the rider out of
the saddle, and anxiously inquired how he had come into possession of
the Baron’s horse.
An unspeakable sense of blissful security seized the much-tried
clergyman as once more he felt _terra-firma_ beneath his feet. Deprived
of his hat and his wig, to be sure, and the lower half of his body
dripping with water, far from home, the approaching night before him,
and upon the domain of the arch-enemy of Nieder-Fahren--all these
circumstances served to make the situation not altogether agreeable.
But what cared he so long as his life was saved?
While the servants were storming the breathless gentleman with
questions the Baron’s steward appeared upon the scene, and hospitably
urged him to come into the house. As upon his request a carriage
was promised him to take him back to Nieder-Fahren, he consented
to enter and rest before his departure. Meanwhile nearly two hours
passed; no carriage appeared, and the Vicar began to wax suspicious
lest he was being treated as a prisoner for having run away with the
horse, although he had repeatedly affirmed that it was he who had
been run away with. He finally decided to take flight. He arose, and
was about to open the door, when Baron Pompeius von Malzen entered,
having arrived upon his lackey’s horse while the despairing lackey
was on a search for the Baron’s steed through the whole of Ober and
Nieder-Fahren.
The Baron, recognising the worthy uncle of his wife--the tale
concerning the arrival of the horse with a wigless and decidedly damp
clergyman had been related to him in the courtyard--at once escorted
him to a better room, ordered dry clothing, and gave the Vicar time to
change his garments. His departure was quite out of the question for
that night; the Baron would not let the opportunity escape him to heap
coals of fire upon the head of one of his adversaries, to entertain him
sumptuously, and overwhelm him with courtesies.
Susie’s uncle, surprised at the Baron’s cordial manner, soon felt very
comfortable behind smoking viands and bottles of Burgundy. Still,
however soft and firm he sat upon the luxurious cushions of his chair,
he could not for the whole evening rid himself of the notion, as he
said, of having “the hellish beast” between his legs.
“At the same time I am more grateful to my good horse than I can tell
you,” said the Baron, “for bringing me the uncle of my beloved wife. I
have long wished for the honour of your acquaintance, so that I might
beg for your kind intercession. I adore my wife, and a separation is
about to be forced upon us. My wife has forgiven me--nay, more, she
loves me; she does not desire a separation, and yet----”
“Loves you? Does not desire a separation?” cried the Vicar, shaking his
head, which was adorned with the Baron’s best cotton night-cap.
“Will you have proofs?” said the Baron. “Ah, I will be frank with
our dear uncle. You shall know all. This hour may decide our life’s
happiness.” He thereupon went and fetched Susie’s letters.
And indeed from his niece’s letters the Vicar saw that between her
and the Baron there was eternal peace, and a great deal more that is
eternal.
He seemed greatly touched as he laid the letters down; he stretched out
his hand across the table, and said--
“Baron, I for my part will make peace with you. Susie shall be yours,
and the law-suit may go to the dogs. But we must handle Aunt Rosmarin
carefully. She is a dear, good woman, but she has peculiar ideas about
some things. Up to this day I was a raging Saul, henceforth I shall be
a gentle Paul, and shall begin at once upon my work of conversion.”
The Baron jumped up, embracing and kissing brave Saul in a rapture of
delight.
* * * * *
Meanwhile Aunt Rosmarin had heard her brother relate the story of his
adventure. When he told her how he found the horse, her eyes sparkled
with pleasure at the discovery. The fact of his getting into the saddle
she accompanied with the remark: “You don’t know how to ride. Every
cobbler to his last!” When he came to his aerial flight across the
bar, and his swim through the stream, she jumped up, nervously seized
her brother’s two hands and cried, “For heaven’s sake, what dangers
were you subject to!” And she did not regain her composure until he
halted before the horse’s crib. Then, as the Baron came in, her face
lengthened; the warmer the Vicar grew in chanting his praises the
cooler was Aunt Rosmarin. And when he had the audacity to add, “Susie
does not seem to dislike the Baron; seems to me we had better let the
law-suit go, and let things take their course,” Auntie shook her head,
while she gazed at her brother from top to toe with wide open eyes.
“Well, I never!” said she. “I fear me the ride and the fright have done
you some injury. If the Baron did not turn you out into the pitch-dark
night, giving you lodging and food instead, he did no more than
heathens and barbarians would have done. You need not think I’ll give
him Susie for his roasts and his Burgundy. A weak sort of man you must
be to be willing to sacrifice your principles and all the disgrace and
sorrow our family has suffered through the Baron for one poor supper.”
Then did the Vicar arise in indignation and say, “Why, Aunt Rosmarin,
has all Christian charity gone out of you? I wish then that _you_ had
ridden the Baron’s horse in my stead; I wish _you_ had been called
upon to fly through the air, and to swim through the surging billows,
to make the acquaintance of an honourable man. Then you would think
different.”