About forty miles from the place where Hawermann had laid his wife
in her quiet grave, was the farm of which Joseph Nuessler, his
brother-in-law, was tenant. The offices were ill-built, had fallen a
good deal out of repair, and the yard had altogether a very untidy
appearance. There was a large manure-yard here, and a small one there,
and carting and agricultural implements were all mixed up together in
confused masses like people at a fair; the manure-cart said to the
carriage: how did you get here, brother? and the plough asked the
harrow to dance, but music was wanting, for there was dead silence in
the yard. Every one was busy hay-making in the meadow, for the weather
was lovely. No one was looking out of any of the small open windows in
the long, low, thatched farm-house, for it was in the afternoon, and
the cook had finished her kitchen-work, and the housemaid had done with
her sweeping and dusting, and both of them had gone down to the meadow.
Even the farmer's wife, who always kept such order in the house, had
gone there too, rake in hand, for the hay ought to be in cocks before
the evening-dews began to fall.
Still there was life in the house although it was so quiet. In the
sitting-room, to the right of the entrance-hall, where the blue-painted
cupboard stood--the bar as they called it--and the sofa covered with
the black-glazed linen, which was rubbed up with boot-polish every
Saturday till it shone again, and the oak chest with the yellow
mounting, well, in this room sat two little girls of three years old
with round flaxen heads, and round rosy cheeks, playing at making
cheeses in a sand-box with their mother's thimble and two penny jars,
which they filled with the damp sand, and pressed down as hard as they
could, laughing gleefully whenever the lump kept its shape when turned
out.
These children were Lina and Mina Nuessler, and with their rosy cheeks
and yellow hair they looked for all the world like two little round
apples, growing on one stalk. They were twins, and even people who knew
them well, found it impossible to say which was Lina and which Mina,
for their names were not written on their faces, and if their mother
had not given them different coloured ribbons there would have been
great mistakes made; even their father, Joseph Nuessler, could not
distinguish the one from the other, he called Lina, Mina, and Mina,
Lina. But now no such mistakes need be made, for their mother had tied
up Lina's flaxen plaits with blue ribbon, and Mina's with red; but if
any one had only taken the trouble to look closely at them he must have
seen clearly that Joseph Nuessler was wrong, for Lina was half an hour
older than Mina, and even when the difference in age is small, still
birth-right always makes itself known, and Lina had quite the
upper-hand of Mina, but she comforted her little sister whenever she
was unhappy.
Besides these unimportant little twins there was yet another set of
twins in the room, and they were an old, experienced and very important
couple, who were peering down on the children from the oak chest, and
shaking in the soft breeze that came in at the open window. These were
the grandfather's peruke and the grandmother's best cap, which were
hanging on a couple of cap-stands, all ready to play their part on the
next day, which was Sunday.--"Look, Lina," said Mina, "there's
grandfather's p'uke," she couldn't pronounce the letter "r" properly
yet.--"You shouldn't say p'uke, you should say p'uke," said Lina who
couldn't pronounce her "rs" a bit better, but being the eldest she had
of course to put her little sister on the right way.
The little twins now got up, and standing in front of the chest looked
at the old twins on the cap-stands, and Mina, who was still very
thoughtless, stretched out her hand, and took her grandfather's peruke
from the stand. Then putting it on her own head with a "just look at
me" sort of expression, placed herself before the looking-glass, and
arranged the wig exactly as her grandfather wore it on Sundays. Now
Lina ought to have had more sense, but she began to laugh, and allowing
herself to be carried away by the fun of the thing, took her
grandmother's mob-cap from the other stand, and put it on in the
same way as her grandmother did every Sunday. Then Mina laughed,
and then they both laughed, and taking hands began to dance
"Kringelkranz-Rosendanz," and then stopped and laughed, and after that
they went on dancing again.
But Mina was really too thoughtless, she had kept her toy-jar in
her hand, and now in the very midst of the fun she let it fall,
and--crash--it was destroyed, and so was the fun. Mina began to cry
bitterly over the broken jar, and Lina cried to keep her company, but
after this had gone on for a short time Lina began to try to comfort
her sister: "Never mind, Mina, the wheel-wright will mend it for
you."--"Yes," sobbed Mina, but more quietly than before, "the
wheel-wright must mend it."--And then the two sorrowful little
creatures went out of doors, quite forgetting that they still had their
grandfather's and grandmother's Sunday-finery on their heads.
Now many people would think that it was a silly fancy of Lina's that
the wheel-wright could mend the broken jar, but who ever has known a
real country wheel-wright is aware that such a man can do anything.
When a wether is to be killed, the wheelwright is sent for. When a pane
of glass is broken, the wheel-wright has to nail a board across the
window that the rain and wind may not get it. When an old chair has
lost a leg, he is the doctor who makes it stand steady again. When a
bullock is to be blistered, he acts apothecary; in short, he puts
everything right that has gone wrong, and so Lina was a very sensible
girl when she proposed to take the jar to the wheel-wright.
Just as the children entered the yard a little man came in at the gate.
And this little man had a red face, and a very imposing red nose which
he always held cocked up in the air. He wore a square cap of no
particular colour with a tassel in front, and a long-tailed, loose,
grey linen-coat. He always kept his feet turned out in an exaggerated
first position which made his short legs look as if they were fastened
to his body in the wrong way. He had striped trousers and long boots
with yellow tops. He was not stout, and yet he was by no means thin, in
fact his figure was beginning to lose its youthful proportions.
The children walked on, and when they had got near enough for the
farm-bailiff--for such was the calling of the little man--to see what
they were wearing, he stood still, and raised his bushy yellow
eye-brows till they were quite hidden under his pointed cap, treating
them as if they were the most beautiful part of his face, and must
therefore be put away in a safe place out of all danger: "Bless me!"
cried he. "What's the matter?--What on earth have you been about?--Why
you've got the whole of your old grandparent's Sunday-finery on your
heads!"--The two little girls allowed themselves to be deprived of
their borrowed plumes without remonstrance, and showing the broken jar,
said that the wheel-wright was to mend it.--"What!" exclaimed Mr.
farm-bailiff Braesig--that was the way he liked to be addressed--"is it
possible that there is such insummate folly in the world?--Lina, you
are the eldest and ought to have been wiser; and Mina, don't cry any
more, you are my little god-child, and so I'll give you a new jar at
the summer fair. And now get away with you into the house."--He drove
the little girls before him, and followed carrying the peruke in one
hand and the cap in the other.
When he found the sitting-room empty, he said to himself: "Of course,
every one's out at the hay.--Well I ought to be looking after my hay
too, but the little round-heads have made such a mess of these two bits
of grandeur, that they'd be sure to get into a scrape, if the old
people were to see what they've been after; I must stay and repair the
mischief that has been done."--With that he pulled out the pocket-comb
that he always carried about with him to comb his back-hair over to the
front of his head, and so cover the bald place that was beginning to
show. He then set to work at the peruke, and soon got that into good
order again. But how about the cap?--"What in the name of wonder have
you done to this, Lina?--It's morally impossible to get it back to the
proper _fassong_.--Ah--let me think.--What's the old lady like on
Sunday afternoons? She has a good bunch of silk curls on each side of
her face, then the front of the cap rises about three inches higher
than the curls; so the thing must be drawn more to the front. She
hasn't anything particular in the middle, for her bald head shows
through, but it always goes into a great bunch at the back where it
sticks out in a mass of frills. The child has crushed that part
frightfully, it must be ironed out."--He put his clenched fist into the
cap and pulled out the frills, but just as he thought he was getting
them into good order, the string that was run through a caser at the
back of the frilled mass gave way, and the whole erection flattened
out.--"Faugh!" he cried, sending his eye-brows right up in the air. "It
wasn't half strong enough to keep it firm. Only a bit of thread! And
the ends won't knot together again! God bless my soul! whatever induced
_me_ to meddle with a cap?--But, wait a bit, I'll manage it yet."--He
thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew out a quantity of string of
different sizes, for like every farm-bailiff who was worth anything he
always carried a good supply of such things about with him. He
searched amongst his store for some thing that would suit the case in
hand.--"Whip-cord is too thick--but this will do capitally," and then
he began to draw a piece of good strong pack-thread through the caser.
It was a work of time, and when he had got about half of it done, there
was a knock at the door; he threw his work on the nearest chair, and
called out: "Come in."
The door opened, and Hawermann entered with his little girl in his
arms. Braesig started up. "What in the," he began solemnly, then
interrupting himself, he went on eagerly: "Charles Hawermann, where
have you come from?"--"From a place, Braesig, where I have nothing more
to look for," said his friend. "Is my sister at home?"--"Everyone's out
at the hay; but what do you mean?"--"That it's all up with me. All the
goods that I possessed were sold by auction the day before yesterday,
and yesterday morning"--here he turned away to the window--"I buried my
wife."--"What? what?" cried the kind-hearted old farm-bailiff, "good
God! your wife. Your dear little wife?" and the tears ran down his red
face. "Dear old friend, tell me how it all happened."--"Ah, how it all
happened?" repeated Hawermann, and seating himself, he told the whole
story of his misfortunes as shortly as possible.
Meanwhile, Lina and Mina approached the strange child slowly and shyly,
stopping every now and then, and saying nothing, and then they went a
little nearer still. At last Lina summoned courage to touch the sleeve
of the stranger's frock, and Mina showed her the bits of her jar:
"Look, my jar is broken." But the little girl looked round the room
uneasily, till at last she fixed her great eyes on her father.
"Yes," said Hawermann, concluding his short story, "things have gone
badly with me, Braesig; I still owe you L 30, don't ask for it now, only
give me time, and if God spares my life. I'll pay you back every
farthing honestly."--"Charles Hawermann, Charles Hawermann," said
Braesig, wiping his eyes, and blowing his imposing nose, "you're--you're
an ass! Yes," he continued, shoving his handkerchief into his pocket
with an emphatic poke, and holding his nose even more in the air than
usual, "you're every bit as great an ass as you used to be!"--And then,
as if thinking that his friend's thoughts should be led into a new
channel, he caught Lina and Mina by the waist-band, and put them on
Hawermann's knee, saying: "There, little round heads, that's your
uncle."--Just as if Lina and Mina were playthings, and Hawermann were a
little child who could be comforted in his grief by a new toy. He,
himself, took Hawermann's little Louisa in his arms, and danced about
the room with her, his tears rolling down his cheeks the while. After a
short time he put the child down upon a chair, upon the very chair on
which he had thrown his unfinished work, and right on the top of it
too.
In the meanwhile the household had come back from the hay-field, and a
woman's clear voice could be heard outside calling to the maids to make
haste: "Quick get your hoop and pails, it'll soon be sunset, and
this year the fold's[3] rather far off. We must just milk the cows in
the evening.--Where's your wooden-platter, girl? Go and get it at
once.--Now be as quick as you can, I must just go, and have a look at
the children."--A tall stately woman of five-and-twenty came into the
room. She seemed full of life and energy, her cheeks were rosy with
health, work, and the summer air, her hair and eyes were bright, and
her forehead, where her chip-hat had sheltered it from the sun, was
white as snow. Anyone could see the likeness between her and Hawermann
at first sight; still there was a difference, she was well-off, and her
whole manner showed that she would work as hard from temperament, as he
did from honour and necessity.
To see her brother and to spring to him were one and the same action:
"Charles, brother Charles, my second father," she cried throwing her
arms round his neck, but on looking closer at him, she pushed him away
from her, saying: "What's the matter? You've had some misfortune!--What
is it?"
Before he had time to answer his sister's questions, her husband,
Joseph Nuessler, came in, and going up to Hawermann shook hands with
him, and said, taking as long to get out his words as dry weather does
to come: "Good-day, brother-in-law; won't you sit down?"--"Let him tell
us what's wrong," interrupted his wife impatiently.--"Yes," said
Joseph, "sit down and tell us what has happened.--Good-day, Braesig; be
seated, Braesig."--Then Joseph Nuessler, or as he was generally called,
young Joseph, sat down in his own peculiar corner beside the stove. He
was a tall, thin man, who never could hold himself erect, and whose
limbs bent in all sorts of odd places whenever he wanted to use them in
the ordinary manner. He was nearly forty years old, his face was pale,
and almost as long as his way of drawling out his words, his soft blond
hair, which had no brightness about it, hung down equally long over his
forehead and his coat collar. He had never attempted to divide or curl
it. When he was a child his mother had combed it straight down over his
brow, and so he had continued to do it, and whenever it had looked a
little rough and unkempt, his mother used to say: "Never mind, Josy,
the roughest colt often makes the finest horse."--Whether it was that
his eyes had always been accustomed to peer through the long hair that
overhung them, or whether it was merely his nature cannot be known with
any certainty, but there was something shy in his expression, as if he
never could look anything full in the face, or come to a decision on
any subject, and even when his hand went out to the right, his mouth
turned to the left. That, however, came from smoking, which was the
only occupation he carried out with the slightest perseverance, and as
he always kept his pipe in the left corner of his mouth, he, in course
of time, had pressed it out a little, and had drawn it down to the
left, so that the right side of his mouth looked as if he were
continually saying "prunes and prism," while the left side looked as if
he were in the habit of devouring children.
There he was now seated in his own particular corner by the stove, and
smoking out of his own particular corner of his mouth, and while his
lively wife wept in sympathy with her brother's sorrow, and kissed and
fondled him and his little daughter alternately, he kept quite still,
glancing every now and then from his wife and Hawermann at Braesig, and
muttering through a cloud of tobacco smoke: "It all depends upon what
it is. It all depends upon circumstances.--What's to be done now in a
case like this?"
Braesig had quite a different disposition from young Joseph, for instead
of sitting still like him, he walked rapidly up and down the room, then
seated himself upon the table, and in his excitement and restlessness
swung his short legs about like weaver's shuttles. When Mrs. Nuessler
kissed and stroked her brother, he did the same; and when Mrs. Nuessler
took the little child and rocked it in her arms, he took it from her
and walked two or three times up and down the room with it, and then
placed it on the chair again, and always right on the top of the
grandmother's best cap.
"Bless me!" cried Mrs. Nuessler at last, "I quite forgot.--Braesig, _you_
ought to have thought of it. You must all want something to eat and
drink!"--She went to the blue cupboard, and brought out a splendid loaf
of white household bread and some fresh butter, then she went out of
the room and soon returned with sausages, ham and cheese, a couple of
bottles of the strong beer that was brewed on purpose for old Mr.
Nuessler, and a jug of milk for the children. When everything was neatly
arranged on a white table cloth, she placed a seat for her brother, and
lifting her little niece, chair and all, put her beside her father.
Then she set to work and cut slices of bread, and poured out the beer,
and saw that there was enough for everybody.
"I'll be ready to give you something presently," she said, stroking her
little girls' flaxen heads fondly, "but I must see to your little
cousin first.--Here's so chair for you, Braesig--Come, Joseph."--"All
right," said Joseph, blowing a last long cloud of smoke out of the left
corner of his mouth, and then dragging his chair forward, half sitting
on it all the time.--"Charles," said Braesig, "I can recommend these
sausages. Your sister, Mrs. Nuessler, makes them most capitally, and
I've often told my housekeeper that she ought to ask for the receipt,
for you see the old woman mixes up all sorts of queer things that
oughtn't to go together at all; in short, the flavour is very
extraordinary and not in the least what it ought to be, although each
of the ingredients separately is excellent, and made of a pig properly
fattened on pease."--"Mother, give Braesig some more beer," said
Joseph.--"No more, thank you, Mrs. Nuessler. May I ask for a little
kuemmel instead?--Charles, since the time that I was learning farming at
old Knirkstaedt with you, and that rascal Pomuchelskopp, I've always
been accustomed to drink a tiny little glass of kuemmel at breakfast and
supper, and it agrees with me very well, I am thankful to say. But,
Charles, whatever induced you to have any business transactions with
such a rascal as Pomuchelskopp? I told you long ago that he was not to
be trusted, he's a regular old Venetian, he's a cunning dog, in short,
he's a--Jesuit."--"Ah, Braesig," said Hawermann, "we won't talk about
it. He might have treated me differently; but still it was my own
fault, I oughtn't to have agreed to his terms.--I'm thinking of
something else now. I wish I could get something to do!"--"Of course,
you must get a situation as soon as possible.--The Count, my master, is
looking out for a steward for his principal estate, but don't be angry
with me for saying so Charles, I don't think that it would do for
you.--You see, you'd have to go to the Count every morning with
laquered boots, and a cloth coat, and you'd have to speak High-German,
for he considers our provincial way of talking very rude and
uncultivated. And then you'd have all the women bothering you, for
they have a great say in all the arrangements. You might perhaps
manage with the boots, and the coat, and the High-German--though you're
rather out of practice--but you'd never get on with the women. The
Countess is always poking about to see that all's going on rightly in
the cattle-sheds and pig-sties,--in short--it's, it's as bad as Sodom
and Gomorrah."--"Bless me!" cried Mrs. Nuessler, "I remember now. The
farm-bailiff at Puempelhagen left at the midsummer-term, and that would
just be the place for you, Charles."--"Mrs. Nuessler is right as usual,"
said Braesig. "As for the _Counsellor_[4] at Puempelhagen"--he always
gave the squire of Puempelhagen his professional title, and laid such an
emphasis on the word counsellor that one might have thought that he and
Mr. von Rambow had served their time in the army together, or at least
had eaten their soup out of the same bowl with the same spoon--"As for
the _Counsellor_ at Puempelhagen, he is very kind to all his people,
gives a good salary, and is quite a gentleman of the old school. He
knows all about you too. It's just the very thing for you, Charles,
and I'll go with you to-morrow.--What do you say, young Joseph?"
--"Ah!" said Mr. Nuessler meditatively, "it all depends upon
circumstances."--"Good gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Nuessler with a look of
anxiety on her pretty face. "I'm forgetting everything to-day. If
grandfather and grandmother ever find out that we've been having a
supper-party here without their knowledge, they'll never forgive me as
long as I live.--Sit a little closer children.--You might have reminded
me, Joseph."--"What shall I do now?" asked Joseph, but she had already
left the room.
A few minutes later she came back, accompanied by the two old people.
There was an expression of anxious watchfulness and aimless attention
in both faces, such as deaf people often have, and which is apt to
degenerate into a look of inanity and distrust.--It is a very true
saying that when a husband and wife have lived many years together, and
have shared each other's thoughts and interests, they at last grow to
be like one another in appearance, and even when the features are
different the expression becomes the same. Old Mr. and Mrs. Nuessler
looked thoroughly soured, and as if they had never had the least bit of
happiness or enjoyment all their lives long, such things being too
expensive for them; their clothes were thread-bare and dirty, as if
they must always be save, saving, and even found water a luxury that
cost too much money. There was nothing comfortable about their old age,
not a single gleam of kindliness shone in their lack-lustre eyes, for
they had never had but _one_ joy, and that was their son Joseph, and
his getting on in the world. They were now worn out, and everything was
tiresome to them, even their one joy, their son Joseph, was tiresome,
but they were still anxious and troubled about his getting on in the
world, that was the only thing they cared for now. The old man had
become a little childish, but his wife had still all her wits about
her, and could spy and pry into every hole and corner, to see that
everything was going on as she wished.
Hawermann rose and shook hands with the old people, while his sister
stood close by looking at them anxiously, to see what they thought of
the visitor. She had already explained to them in a few words, why her
brother had come, and that may have been the reason that the old faces
looked even sourer than usual, but still it might be because she had
provided a better supper than she generally did. They seated themselves
at table. The old woman caught sight of Hawermann's little girl: "Is
that his child?" she asked.--Her daughter-in-law nodded.--"Is she going
to remain here?" she asked.--Her daughter-in-law nodded again.--"O--h!"
said the old woman, drawling out the word till it was long enough to
cover all the harm she thought the cost of the child's keep would bring
upon her Joseph. "Yes, these _are_ hard times," she continued, as
though she thought speaking of the times would best settle the
question, "_very_ hard times, and every man has enough to do to get on
in the world himself."--Meanwhile the old man had done nothing but
stare at the bottle of beer and at Braesig's glass: "Is that my beer?"
he asked.--"Yes," shouted Braesig in his ear, "and most excellent beer
it is that Mrs. Nuessler brews, it's a capital _rajeunissimang_ for a
weak stomach!"--"What extravagance! What extravagance!" grumbled the
old man.--His wife eat her supper, but never took her eyes off the oak
chest opposite.
Young Mrs. Nuessler, who must have studied the peculiarities of her
mother-in-law with great care, looked to see what was the matter, and
found to her horror and dismay that the cap was gone from its stand.
Good gracious! what had become of it? She had plaited it up that very
morning, and hung it on the stand.--"Where's my cap?" the old woman at
last enquired.--"Never mind, mother," said her daughter-in-law bending
towards her, "I'll get it directly."--"Is it done up yet?"--The young
woman nodded, and thought, surely grandmother will be satisfied now,
but the old woman glanced into every corner of the room to see what she
could find out. Braesig's countenance changed when he heard the cap
spoken of, and he looked about him hastily to see where the "beastly
thing" could have got to, but in another moment old Mrs. Nuessler
pointed at little Louisa Hawermann, and said with a venomous smile,
like a stale roll dipped in fly-poison: "It must be plaited all over
again."--"What's the matter?" cried her daughter-in-law, and starting
up as she spoke, she saw the ends of the cap ribbons hanging down below
the hem of the child's frock; she lifted her niece off the chair, and
was going to have picked up the cap, but the old woman was too quick
for her. She seized her crumpled head-gear, and when she saw the
flattened puffs, and Braesig's bit of pack-thread hanging half in and
half out of the caser, her wrath boiled over, and holding up her cap so
that everyone might see it, exclaimed: "Good for nothing chit!" and was
going to have struck the little girl over the head with her cap.
But Braesig caught her by the arm and said: "The child had nothing to do
with it," and then growled out in a half whisper: "the old cat!" At the
same moment loud crying was to be heard behind the grandmother's chair,
and Mina sobbed: "I'll never, never do it again," and Lina sobbed: "And
I'll never do it again."--"Bless me!" cried young Mrs. Nuessler, "it was
the little girls who did all the mischief.--Mother, it was our own
children that did it."--But the old woman had been too long accustomed
to turn everything to her own advantage, not to know how to make a
judicious use of her deafness; she never heard what she did not want to
hear; and she did not want to hear now. "Come," she shouted, and signed
to her husband.--"Mother, mother," cried her daughter-in-law, "give me
your cap, and I'll set it to rights."--"Who's at the fold?" asked the
old woman as she left the room with old Joseph.--Young Joseph lighted
his pipe again.--"Good gracious!" said Mrs. Nuessler, "she's quite right
there, I ought to be at the fold. Ah well, grandmother won't be civil
to me again for a month."--"Crusty," said Braesig, "was an old dog, and
Crusty had to give in at last."--"Don't cry any more, my pets," said
the mother, wiping her little girl's eyes. "You didn't know what harm
you were doing, you are such stupid little things. Now be good
children, and go and play with your cousin, I must go to my work.
Joseph, just keep an eye on the children, please," and then Mrs.
Nuessler put on her chip-hat, and set off to the fold where the cows
were milked.
"A mother-in-law's the very devil!" said Braesig. "But you, young
Joseph," he continued, turning to Mr. Nuessler, who was smoking as
calmly as if what had happened was nothing to him, "ought to be ashamed
of yourself for allowing your mother to bully your wife."--"But," said
young Joseph, "how can I interfere? I am her son."--"You needn't
actually _strike_ her," said Braesig, "because your parents are given
you by God, but you might give her a little filial advice now and then,
such as befits an obedient son, and so prevent the devil of dispeace
getting into the house.--And as for you, Charles Hawermann, don't take
a little tiff like this to heart, for your sister has a cheerful
disposition, and an affectionate nature, so she'll soon be on good
terms with the old skin-flints again, and they can't get on without
her, she's the mainstay of the household.--But now," and he pulled an
enormous watch out of his pocket, the kind of watch that is called a
warming-pan, "it's seven o'clock, and I must go and look after my
work-people."--"Wait," said Hawermann, "I'll go part of the way with
you. Good-bye for the present, Joseph."--"Good-bye, brother-in-law,"
said young Joseph from his corner.
As soon as they were out of doors Hawermann asked: "I say, Braesig,
how could you speak of the old people in such a way before their
son?"--"He's quite accustomed to it, Charles. No one has a good word
for the two old misers, they've quarrelled with all the neighbours, and
as for the servants, _they_ take very good care to keep out of the old
wretches' sight."--"My poor sister!" sighed Hawermann, "She used to be
such a merry light-hearted girl, and now, shut up in a house with such
people, and such a Nuss (slow) of a man."--"You're right enough there,
Charles, he is an old Nuss, and Nuessler (slow-coach) is his name; but
_he_ never bullies your sister, and although he is such an ass that he
can manage nothing himself, he has sense enough to see that your sister
is quite able to keep everything straight."--"Poor girl!--She married
that man for my sake, to make my way easier for me, she said; and for
our old mother's sake, to give her a comfortable home with one of her
children in her latter days."--"I know, I know, Charles.--I know
it from my own experience. Don't you remember it was during the
rye-harvest, and you said to me, Zachariah, you said, you must be in
love, for you're leading in your rye quite wet. And I said; how so? On
the Sunday before that we had had spruce-beer, and your sister was one
of the party, or else I shouldn't have led in the rye in such weather.
And then I told you that if I didn't change my mind your sister was the
only one of my three sweethearts that I'd marry.--Then you laughed
heartily, and said, she was too young.--What has being young to do with
it? I asked.--And then you said that my other two sweethearts came
first, and so they ought to have the preference. And then you laughed
again, and didn't seem to believe that I was in earnest. A short time
afterwards my lord the Count changed his mind, and said he wouldn't
have a married bailiff. And then a little more time passed, and it was
too late. Young Joseph made her an offer, and your mother begged her so
hard to take him, that she consented.--Ah well, that marriage ought
never to have been," and Braesig looked down gravely. After a moment's
silence he went on--"When I saw the twins I felt drawn to them, and
thought that they might have been my own, and I almost wished that the
old woman, old Joseph, and young Joseph were in their graves.--It was
indeed a happy day for the old Jesuits when your sister brought her
loving heart and cheerful nature into their house, if it had been any
one else there would have been murder done long ago."
While they were talking they had left the village behind them, and were
now beside the large garden. Suddenly Hawermann exclaimed: "Look there,
the two old people are on the top of the hill yonder."--"Yes," said
Braesig with a derisive chuckle, "there they are, the hypocritical old
Jesuits, standing in their hiding-place."--"Hiding-place?" asked
Hawermann, astonished. "Up there on the hill?"--"Even so, Charles, the
old creatures can trust no one, not even their own children, and when
they want to say anything to each other that they can't explain by
their usual signs, they always go to the very top of the hill where
they can see that there are no eavesdroppers, and shout their secrets
in one another's ears. Look at them cackling away, the old woman
has laid another dragon's egg, and now they're both going to hatch
it."--"How eagerly they're talking," said Hawermann. "Do you see how
the old woman is gesticulating? What can it all be about?"--"I know
what they are laying down the law about, for I know them well.--And
Charles," he continued after a short silence, "it is better that you
should understand the whole state of the case at once, and then
you'll know how to act. They're talking about you, and your little
girl."--"About me, and my little girl!" repeated Hawermann in
astonishment.--"Yes, Charles--don't you see. If you had come with a
great purse full of money, they would have received you with open arms,
for money is the only thing for which they have the slightest respect;
but as it is they regard you and the child in the light of beggarly
poor relations who will take the very bread out of the mouth of their
unfortunate son."--"Oh!" sighed Hawermann, "why didn't I leave the
child with the Rassows?--Who is to take care of her?--Can you advise me
what to do?--I can't leave her here in my sister's charge for my
sister's sake."--"Of course you'd like to have her near you. Well,
Charles, I'll tell you something. You must remain at the Nuesslers
to-night. To-morrow we'll go and see the _Counsellor_ at Puempelhagen:
if we succeed there we'll look out for a good place for the child in
the neighbourhood; and if we don't succeed, we'll go to the town and
board her for the present with Kurz, the shopkeeper. And now
good-night, Charles! Don't be down-hearted, everything will look
brighter soon."--And so he went away.
"Ah, if everybody was only like you," thought Hawermann as he was
returning to his sister's house, "I should soon get the better of my
difficulties.--And get the better of them I must and shall," he
continued with a look of determination, his courage rising and
dispelling his sadness, in like manner as the sun disperses the
rain-clouds, "my sister shall not be made unhappy through me. I will
work hard for my little girl." ........
Later in the evening, when the milk had been poured into the pans in
the dairy, Hawermann and his sister went out into the garden together,
and she talked to him about his affairs, and he to her about hers.
"Don't be so sorry for me, Charles," she said, "I am quite used to my
life. It's true that the old people are hard and disagreeable, but
though they sometimes sulk with me for weeks at a time, I soon forget
their crossness when I'm out of their sight, and as for Joseph, I must
say this for him, he is never unkind, and has never said a hard word to
me. If he were only a little more quick-sighted, and a better manager;
but that's not to be expected of him. I've plenty to do with the house
and dairy without having the farm on my hands too, and a woman can't
manage that sort of thing properly, indeed Braesig is the greatest
possible help to me in that respect. He goes over the fields and sees
what's being done about the place, and takes care that Joseph do'sn't
get behindhand with the work."--"How are you getting on upon the whole?
Does the farming pay well?" asked her brother.--"Not as well as it
might. There isn't enough spent on the land, and the old people won't
let us change the rotation of the crops, or try any new ways of
farming.--We've always made the two ends meet as yet, and had the rent
ready on the term-day; but now Joseph's two elder sisters, who are
married to Kurz, the general merchant, and to Baldrian, the rector of
the academy, are always dinning into the old people's and our ears that
they want their dowries paid. The rector doesn't actually require it,
but he is fond of money; Kurz would really be the better of his, for he
is in trade, and of course wishes to extend his business. Now the old
people want to make over nearly everything to Joseph at their death,
and they won't part with a single farthing of what is in their
possession just now, indeed grandmother has a hateful rhyme that she
always repeats when she hears of a case of this kind:
'Wer seinen Kindern giebt das Brod
Und leidet endlich selber Noth,
Den schlag man mit der Keule todt.'
But it's wrong, very wrong of them, and they can't expect a blessing on
it, for one child is as good as another, and so I told the old people
at the very beginning. My goodness, what a rage they were in! _They_
had made all the money, and what had _I_ brought to my husband they'd
like to know? I ought to go down on my knees, and thank God that they
were going to make a rich man of Joseph.--But I had a good talk with
Joseph, and now he has paid over nearly two hundred and twenty-five
pounds to Kurz in instalments. His mother soon had an inkling as to
what we were about, and was very curious to know all the ins and outs
of the affair, but as Joseph isn't a good manager and can't do accounts
well, I take care of the purse, and never give her the chance of
peeping into it. No, no, grandmother, I'm not quite so stupid as that
comes to!--That's the chief bone of contention between the old people
and myself. They still want to keep Joseph under their thumb; but
Joseph is nearly forty years old, and if he won't rule himself, _I_
will rule him, for I am his wife and therefore the 'nearest' to him, as
our parson's wife would say. Now, Charles, tell me, am I right or
wrong?"--"You are quite right, Dorothea," said Hawermann.--Then they
wished each other "good-night," and went to bed.