The early darkness of a winter twilight had already set in, the
wind was blowing boisterously, and the snow rapidly descending,
when Herman the carpenter reached his cottage after a hard day's
toil, there to receive the fond caresses of his children. His wife
exchanged his wet clothes for such as were warm and dry, and little
Catherine drew his arm-chair to the side of the fire, while the
boys, anxious to do their part, brought his large pipe.
'Now, father,' said little Frank, when he saw a column of smoke
issuing forth, 'you are happy and comfortable; what shall we do
while mother gets supper ready? Tell us a tale.'
'Yes, tell us a story,' repeated the other children with delight.
They were on the point of clustering round, when something passing
caught little Catherine's eye. 'Oh,' said the child, 'here is such
a poor man in the street, all covered with snow, and who does not
seem to know where to go!'
'He is a compagnon' (journeyman), said Frank--'a whitesmith; I
see his tools in his bag. Why does he stop in the street in such
weather?'
'He plainly knows not his way,' Catherine replied. 'Shall I go and
ask him what he wants?'
'Do so, my child; and give him this small coin, for perhaps he is
poor, as I have been, and it will serve to pay for his bed, and
something to warm him. Show him the Compagnon's Inn at the end of
the street.'
When the child had returned, the clamour was again raised for the
story.
'What shall it be?'
'Daniel?'
'No.'
'Perhaps the Black Hunter?'
'Neither of these to-night, my children. I will tell you about the
"Return of the Compagnon."'
The children gladly drew round their father to hear his new story,
which was as follows:--
It was a beautiful spring morning: the sun had begun to show his
radiant face on the summits of the mountains; the little birds
cried for their food; the insects of every kind, shaking their
wings, began humming among the foliage; the sheep, penned up,
were bleating; and the labourers were preparing to resume their
toil. A young man, laden with a heavy bag, walked gaily along the
road leading to one of the little towns of Swissland, his dusty
feet showing that he had come from afar, and his sunburnt face
exhibiting the effects of more southern climes. He was a compagnon
carpenter returning to his country after years of absence, and
impatient to see his home again. He had walked all night, and now
a brilliant sun embellished each successive object that offered
itself to his anxious view. He had already seen the steeple of
the church of his beloved town, and his true Swiss heart bounded
with joy. 'Ha!' exclaimed he, 'how beautiful is the country where
we have lived from childhood to manhood! How clear and limpid its
waters, how pure its air, how smiling its meadows! My feet have
trodden the soil of France, where grows the grape, and Italy, the
land of figs and oranges: I have rested under groves of roses, and
the sweet lemon-tree has bent over my head, laden with its golden
fruits and perfumed flowers: I have, at the sound of the guitar and
the castanet, joined at night in the dance with people for whom
the middle of the day is the time for repose, and the absence of
the sun the signal for labour or pleasure--people whose life flows
on in cheerful contentment, because light work suffices for their
wants under so warm a sky, and possessed of a soil that nature
has covered with her choicest gifts, and does not desolate with
the north winds, frosts, and snows. Yes, the poor Swiss compagnon
has seen all these things, and has admired them, but never has he
wished to live and die among them. He has always sighed for the
pale rays of his northern sun, the steep rocks of his mountains,
the uniform colour of his dark pines, and the pointed roof of his
cottage, where he still hopes to receive his mother's blessing.'
While these thoughts, and many like them, were crowding into the
mind of the young workman, his steps became more and more rapid,
and his tired feet seemed to recover their swiftness. All on a
sudden, a turn of the road showed him the roofs of his native
village, from which curled some clouds of smoke. There was the
old church wall, there was the steeple stretching towards heaven.
At the sight of this the young traveller stopped short; the tears
trickled down his cheek; he exclaimed in a voice broken with
emotion, 'I thank thee, my God, for permitting my eyes once more to
see these things.' He pursued his walk, devouring with his eyes all
he saw. 'Ah, here,' said he, 'is the white wall marking the terrace
of the public walk where I used to play so joyfully! ah, there is
the arch of the little bridge where we have so often fished! Now
I can see the head of the old lime-tree which shades the church:
only twenty paces farther is the cottage in which I was born,
where I grew up, where I lost my poor father, and where I hope to
see my dear mother. It is not in vain I have laboured so long: I
have that with me which will comfort her old age.' As he spoke, a
small flower attracted his attention: it was a daisy. He stooped
down and gathered it, and commenced plucking its leaflets away one
after the other. 'It was thus,' he said smiling, 'the day before
my departure, that Gertrude gathered a daisy from the bank of the
river, and bending her pretty face over the flower to conceal the
emotion my departure occasioned, she pulled out the leaflets in
silence, and arriving at the last one, she said to me in a low
voice, "Adieu, Herman, I shall never marry till you return;" and
so saying, fled away, as if she feared having said too much. Soon
shall I see her little window with the blue curtain! Oh that I may
see my Gertrude there as I used, her eyes rejoicing at my return!
Happy the moment when I shall say to her, "Gertrude, here is Herman
returned, faithful to his promises, as you have been to yours. Come
and share the little wealth I have acquired: come and aid me in
rendering my aged mother happy."'
Under the influence of these thoughts the young workman rapidly
approached his native town. As he advanced, he interrogated the
countenances of those he met, hoping to meet with friendly looks, a
recollection of the past, or a few words of welcome, but in vain.
At last, as he passed the gates, he saw a man walking gravely to
and fro as he smoked his pipe: it was the toll-keeper. Herman,
looking at him closely, easily recognised Rodolphe, his playfellow,
his earliest friend. He was on the point of rushing into his arms,
and exclaiming, 'Here I am again!'--but the tollman looked coldly
at him as he passed, and left a cloud of tobacco-smoke behind him.
Poor compagnon! the sun of the south has shone too long on thy
face; he has made thee a stranger even to those who loved thee:
thy best friend knows thee not. Herman's heart sank within him,
and he resumed his journey with a sigh. A little farther on he saw
a new building in course of erection. An aged man was directing
the carpenters in their work, and at the sight of him Herman's
heart again rejoiced: it was his old master, whose advice and
kindness had made him an honest man and skilful mechanic. To him he
chiefly owed his success in life, and he was, moreover, Gertrude's
father. 'Ha,' said he, 'if Rodolphe so soon forgets the faces of
his friends, my old master will recollect me;' and so saying, he
approached him respectfully, hat in hand, and inquired whether
he could obtain work for him. The old man looked at him a while
before replying; and Herman's heart beat so quickly, that he could
scarce conceal his feelings. 'Come to me to-morrow,' at last said
the old man; 'I will then examine your certificates: work is not
scarce for good hands;' and turning towards his men, resumed his
occupations. 'What!' exclaimed the poor compagnon to himself as he
turned away, 'am I so changed that my features are not recognised
by my old master? What if Gertrude herself---- But no, that is
impossible! She who could distinguish me in a crowd a hundred paces
off, will surely know her Herman again, in spite of his sunburnt
face: besides, if her eyes failed her, her heart would prompt her
of my presence!' So thinking, he rapidly traversed the little town.
There was the old lime-tree, with the rustic seat beneath it; there
the fountain, where many women were washing; and there stood the
neat little cottage, upon which the young man's eyes now became
rivetted. The blue curtain and pots of carnations were there, as
they ever had been; and oh, joy, there sat a young woman spinning!
Herman's heart bounded with joy; he rushed forward, and then
stopped opposite the window, a few steps only separating him from
Gertrude. He remained immovable, so powerful were his emotions, and
admired the ripening of her charms which had taken place during his
absence: no longer the slender girl of fifteen, but a young woman
in all the fulness of her beauty; her whole appearance denoting
strength, health, and freshness. 'How beautiful she is!' exclaimed
Herman in a low voice. Gertrude did not catch the words, but the
voice struck her ear; and seeing a traveller but poorly clad with
his eyes fixed on her, said to herself with a sigh, 'Poor fellow,
he looks in want;' and throwing him a coin with Heaven's blessing,
she shut the window, and disappeared. Alas! the sun of the south
has too long shone on the face of the compagnon; his best friends
know him not, and his beloved regards him as a stranger! Had she
remained at the window, Gertrude must have remarked the expression
of the poignant grief Herman endured; and her heart would have
divined, that under those toilworn clothes and sunburnt face was
concealed him for whose advent she had so often prayed. After long
remaining on the same spot, as if his feet were rivetted to the
ground, the compagnon tore himself away, and turned towards his
home. But how changed in appearance! That buoyant step which, a few
moments before, had trod the ground so lightly, was now slow and
heavy; excessive fatigue overcame him. The weight of the bag he
carried--not felt before--now seemed excessive; his head hung down
on his chest, his hopes seemed blasted, and that native land which,
a few hours since, he saluted with such joy, now seemed indifferent
to him. In vain did the old lime-tree, with its majestic foliage,
meet his eyes; in vain did the antique fountain, with its grotesque
figures, that should have called to his mind so many childish
recollections, stand before him. He saw nothing; his wounded heart
felt nothing but sorrow. However, he still advanced towards his
home, and a few steps only separated him from the old churchyard
wall, near which he had passed so many happy days of boyhood, when
he saw an aged woman come tottering down the steps of the portico
of the church, supported by a stick. It was his mother returning
from offering her daily prayer for his return. 'Oh, how altered
is she!' he sorrowfully exclaimed: 'how can I hope her feeble
eyes should know her child, when mine can scarcely recognise her
timeworn frame!' But no sooner had she approached him, and raised
her head, than she fell into his arms, sobbing through her tears,
'My son, my beloved son!' Herman pressed her closely to his breast,
and falteringly exclaimed, 'My mother, thou at least hast not
forgotten me. Years of absence, the scorching sun, and toilsome
labour, conceal me not from you!'
Yes, if the sun of the south had rendered the face of the compagnon
a stranger to his dearest friends and his beloved, but one look
sufficed to make his mother exclaim, 'My son--my Herman! God be
praised that he has restored him to me!'
The narrator here seemed to have concluded his story, and remained
lost in the emotion he had depicted. Such a conclusion, however,
did not satisfy his listeners.
'But what became of the compagnon?' they demanded.
'Oh,' said the father, recollecting himself, 'he went home with his
mother, and said to her, "Here, mother, take what I have earned,
and live happily the rest of your days with your child," and to the
last breath the old woman blessed the return of her only son.' So
saying, he sorrowfully cast his eyes towards the corner of the room
where hung a distaff, surmounted by a crown of everlasting flowers.
The children followed their father's eyes, and long maintained a
respectful silence.
'So,' Frank at last suddenly exclaimed, 'Gertrude did not love the
beautiful things he brought for her?'
'Why did she shut the window then?' said another child.
'Perhaps,' added Catherine, 'she opened it again?'
'Yes, my Catherine,' said the carpenter smiling, 'she did open it
again: and it was with the compagnon and his Gertrude that their
old mother passed her days, blessing them both until she left this
world for a better.' At this moment his wife Gertrude, still in the
prime of life, entered with their homely supper.