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COLLECTION
OF
GERMAN AUTHORS
VOL. 36.
* * * * *
AN OLD STORY
OF MY FARMING DAYS BY FRITZ REUTER.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
AN OLD STORY
OF MY FARMING DAYS
_(UT MINE STROMTID)_
BY
FRITZ REUTER,
AUTHOR OF "IN THE YEAR '13:"
FROM THE GERMAN
BY
M. W. MACDOWALL.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
_Authorized Edition_.
LEIPZIG 1878
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.
LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE & RIVINGTON.
CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET.
PARIS: C. REINWALD & CIE, 15, RUE DES SAINTS PERES.
AN OLD STORY
UT MINE STROMTID.
CHAPTER I.
The day after Christmas was passed very busily in Mrs. Behrens' house
in Rahnstaedt. Louisa was continually to be seen running up and down
stairs, for she was finishing the arrangement of her father's room.
Whenever she thought it was quite ready, and looked really nice, she
was sure to find something to improve, some alteration that must be
made to ensure perfection. Dinner-time came, but her father had not
arrived, though she had prepared some little dainties especially for
him. She laid a place for him, however, as perhaps he might come before
they had finished dinner.--"I don't know why it is," she said to
little Mrs. Behrens, "but I feel as if some misfortune were going to
happen."--"What?" cried Mrs. Behrens, "you've only lived in town for
three months, and you have presentiments already like a tea-drinking
town-lady! What has become of my light-hearted country-girl?" and as
she said this, she stroked her foster-child's cheek with a tender touch
and loving smile.--"No," answered Louisa, taking the kind hand, and
holding it tight between her own, "such indefinite presentiments never
trouble me. Unfortunately it is a very definite fear lest my father
should weary of the inactivity of a town-life, after what he has been
accustomed to in the country."--"Why, child, you talk as if Rahnstaedt
were a great city; no--thank God!--the geese go about bare-foot here
just the same as at Puempelhagen, and if your father likes to see
farming-operations going on around him, he has only to watch the two
manure-carts belonging to our neighbour on the right, and the three
belonging to our neighbour on the left. If he wants to talk about
farming he need only go to our landlord Mr. Kurz, who will be too
happy to harangue him about grazing fields and town-jails till he's as
sick of these subjects as we are."--Louisa laughed, and when the
dinner-things were cleared away, she said: "Now, mother, suppose you
lie down and have a little nap, while I go down the Guerlitz road, and
see if I can't meet my father."
She put on her cloak, and a warm hood, and set off down the road, which
had always been her favourite walk since she came to Rahnstaedt, for it
was the one that led to the place where she had been so happy. When she
had time she used to go to the hill from which she could see Guerlitz
village, t he church, the parsonage, and the church-yard, and when she
had a little more time she used to run down to the parsonage to see
Lina and Godfrey, and have a talk about the old days and the new. She
walked on and on; her father was not in sight; the east-wind blew in
her face, and made her cheeks bright and rosy, so that her lovely face,
framed in her dark cloth hood, looked for all the world like a sunny
springday which gives the promise of hope and joy to man. But her eyes
were full of tears. Was it because of the rude east-wind? Was it
because she was looking so keenly down the road in search of her
father? Was it because of her thoughts? It could not be the east-wind,
for she was now standing still, and gazing out into the west with her
eyes full of tears. It could not have been the keenness of her search
for her father, for she was now looking straight over at the place
where the sun was setting behind the black pines on the horizon like a
red ball of fire. It must have been her thoughts that made her weep.
Such thoughts as come to the young making their joy and sorrow, which
sometimes crown their brows with gladness unspeakable, and at others
make them weep in agony, when they suddenly feel the thorns in what
they had thought was only a garland of roses. Why was she gazing
towards the west? She knew that he whom she loved was there, and her
heart repeated the words of the poet:
"Haste westward, ever westward ho
Thou boat at my behest!
E'en dying, I should long to go
Where all my hope doth rest!"
She blushed, when she found what she was saying to herself, and how she
was dreaming of happy days to come.
She reached the place where her father had stood a couple of hours
before, and had drunk his cup of sorrow to the very dregs. She stood
still, and looked down upon Puempelhagen and Guerlitz, and let the
thought of all the love she had been blessed with overflow her heart.
Where the poor old father had stood and cursed those who had so cruelly
injured him, the daughter now stood and prayed, weeping tears of love
and gratitude, and her prayers and tears washed away the curse from the
tablet on which all human events are noted down.
The distance from Rahnstaedt to Guerlitz is five miles, and as the
winter-sun was setting, Louisa could linger no more, she had to go home
at once. But she saw a man coming towards her from Guerlitz, perhaps it
was her father. She waited a few minutes. No, it was not her father, so
she walked on a short way, and then looked round again. This time she
saw it was uncle Braesig, who was trying to overtake her.--"Bless me,
Louisa! What are you doing here? Do you find it a pleasant amusement
standing on the public road in a wind like this? Aren't you coming
down to the parsonage?"--"No, uncle Braesig, not to-day. I only came to
meet my father."--"He passed long ago. Preserve us all! Where can he
be?"--Braesig suddenly remembered Hawermann's strange manner, but when
he saw how anxious Louisa looked, he said to comfort her: "We farmers
have often to change our plans; we have to go here, there and
everywhere. Perhaps he turned to the right here and went to Guelzow, and
perhaps he has got to Rahnstaedt by this time and is seeing about some
business. But I," he added, "am going with you, childie, I have
something to do in Rahnstaedt, where I am going to spend the night. You
see I want to win the nine shillings back from that over-wise man,
Kurz, the shopkeeper, which he got out of me at that confounded game
Boston. This is club-night."
When they had gone a little further they met a dog-cart coming towards
them from Rahnstaedt. It was Christian Degel with Dr. Strump. The doctor
ordered Christian to stop: "Have you heard the news?" he asked. "Mr.
von Rambow has met with an accident with his fowling-piece; he has shot
himself in the arm. But I hav'n't time to wait, the coachman is late
enough as it is, for I was out when he came for me. Drive on."--"What
is the meaning of this?" cried Louisa. "My father leave Puempelhagen
when the family are in distress! He could never have done that."--"But
it may have happened after he left," said Braesig, though when he
remembered how Hawermann had looked in the morning, he did not believe
that it could have been the case. Louisa was more uneasy than before
and walked on quickly. She could not understand why her father was so
late, nor could she understand how he could have left Puempelhagen at
all, after such an accident, and yet she felt that the two strange
facts were somehow connected.
Meanwhile Hawermann had arrived at Mrs. Behrens' house in Rahnstaedt. He
had left the high road and had gone round by a field-path, that he
might have time to regain his composure before meeting his daughter.
When he reached Mrs. Behrens' house he had regained his self-command,
but the struggle had fatigued him so much that he looked ten years
older than usual when Mrs. Behrens saw him. She was making the coffee
when he entered the room, and was so startled by the change in his
appearance that she allowed the coffee to boil over, and sprang to meet
him, exclaiming: "Good God! Hawermann, what's the matter? Are you
ill?"--"No--Yes, I think so. Where's Louisa?"--"She went to meet
you, didn't you see her? But sit down, do. How very tired you
look!"--Hawermann seated himself and looked round the room as if to
make sure that he and Mrs. Behrens were alone.--"Hawermann, please tell
me what is the matter," she said, taking his nerveless hands between
her own.--"It is all over with me now. I must go through the world as a
useless, dishonoured man."--"Oh, don't! Don't! Don't say that!"--"I had
grown accustomed to the thought that my work was done, though it was
hard to bear at first. But the misery of losing my honest name is more
than I can endure; it crushes me."--"But who wants to deprive you of
that?" asked Mrs. Behrens looking at him affectionately.--"The people
who can do it most thoroughly, Mr. von Rambow and his wife," said the
old man, and then he began to tell her all that had happened in a weak,
broken voice; but when he got to the part when Mrs. von Rambow had also
deserted him, had turned her back upon him, and had let him be ordered
out of the room as a thief and a cheat, his anger broke out again; he
sprang to his feet and began to pace the room with flashing eyes and
clenched fists, as though he wanted to fight against the world. "Oh,"
he cried, "that is not all. They have hit me harder than they knew.
They have wrecked my child's life as well as mine. There, read that,
Mrs. Behrens," and he gave her Frank's letter.--She read it, the paper
trembling in her hands from nervous excitement, and while she read it,
he stood before her, his eyes fixed on her face the better to read her
thoughts. "Hawermann," she said, taking his hand, when she had
finished, "don't you see the finger of God in this. One cousin has
sinned against you, and the other makes it right."--"No, Mrs. Behrens,"
he replied sternly, "I should be the scoundrel the world will call me
from henceforth, if I were to let a good and trustful man take a wife
with a stained name into his house. Poor and honest, let me be that;
but dishonourable, never."--"Oh me!" cried Mrs. Behrens, "why isn't my
pastor here? If my pastor were only here, he could have told us what to
do."--"Indeed he could," said Hawermann sadly. "I _cannot_ do it," he
exclaimed, "Louisa must decide for herself, and you must help her. You
have been able to teach her to distinguish right from wrong as I never
had the chance of teaching her. If she thinks it right and honourable
to enter into this engagement in spite of what has happened, and you
agree with her, I will give my consent. I will not influence her in any
way, and will not even see her until she has decided. Here is Frank's
letter to her. Give it to her after you have told her what has
happened. It was all exactly as I told you. I'm going to my room now;
I'll have nothing to do with her decision." He left the room, but came
back again to say: "If you think it is for her happiness, never mind
me! Forget what I said about it's being impossible. I will do what I
can to hide my dishonoured name." He left the room once more, and as he
went upstairs, he said to himself: "I can't do otherwise, I can't do
otherwise." When he threw himself upon the sofa in his little room, and
saw how his daughter had arranged everything for his pleasure and
comfort, he covered his eyes with his hand and murmured: "And I must do
without all this perhaps." Then with a deep sigh: "And why not? Why
not? If it is for her happiness," he exclaimed aloud, "I'll never see
her again." The door-bell rang, he heard Braesig's voice, and then his
daughter's; then all was still; he listened intently for any sound,
Mrs. Behrens was telling about it, and Louisa was suffering the pain of
hearing the story. At last footsteps were to be heard coming slowly and
heavily upstairs. Braesig came in, he looked as calm and solemn as if he
had seen the dead rise from their graves and come to meet him; his
eyebrows, which were usually raised as high as his hair when he heard
of anything extraordinary, now hung low down over his eyes. He seated
himself beside his friend on the sofa, and merely said: "I know it,
Charles. I know all."
They sat for a long time silent in the half-darkness. At last Braesig
took Hawermann's hand in his, and said: "Charles, we have known each
other for fifty years. You remember at old Knirkstaedt's? What a happy
life we had when we were young, always contented with our lot and merry
hearted. And except for a few silly tricks I played with you, we have
nothing to reproach ourselves with. Charles, it is a pleasant thing in
one's old age, when one's conscience only reproaches one with follies,
and not with wickedness." Hawermann shivered and drew away his hand.
"Charles," said Braesig, "a good conscience is a great blessing in one's
old age, and it's a remarkable thing, a very remarkable thing, that
these good consciences always cling to each other in their old age, and
that nothing can divide them from each other. Charles, my dear old
boy!" and he fell upon his friend's neck and wept bitterly.--"Braesig,"
entreated Hawermann, "don't make me more miserable than I am, my
heart's heavy enough as it is."--"And why, Charles? What makes it
heavy? Your heart is as pure as Job's, and should be as light as a lark
which soars up to heaven, for the story about the confounded.... No, I
don't mean that; I was going to say.... Pshaw! what was it we were
talking about? Oh, to be sure, it was about the conscience. The
conscience is a very strange thing, Charles. For instance, take Kurz's,
for he has one as well as you or I, and I believe that it will enable
him to appear in the presence of God at the Last Day, and that it will
justify him, but still it doesn't justify him in my eyes, for he peeps
at the cards, when he's playing at Boston; he has what may be called a
penny-conscience, for in great things he's most scrup'lous; for
example; with Mrs. Behrens' house rent, but if he can take a hair's
breadth off a yard, or give just the least atom short weight, he's not
ashamed to do it, that's to say when he can manage it, which isn't
always. I wanted to say, Charles, that you'll have to see a good deal
of him, while you're here. You'll find the pleasure of his acquaintance
quite as so, so, as his conscience, for he will try to discuss farming
matters with you, and that's as unpleasant as driving in a cart without
springs. I'm afraid you'll find it a little dull, so I think that as
soon as I've got the young parson's spring sowing done, and everything
is in order, I'll come here to you, and then we'll be able to cheer
each other up. I can go out to Guerlitz again when the harvest begins,
that that poor boy, the parson, mayn't get into any difficulty. Indeed
I'm sure there's no danger of that, for, George, is a thoughtful sort
of fellow, and takes a good deal of the management upon himself--thank
God for that--and also that Lina backs him up when it's necessary. When
the first year is over you'll see that Godfrey will pitch all his
Methodistical trash overboard, but we must give him time to learn that
there are certain worldly matters which are better suited to man than
hymn-books are. And then I'll come to you, Charles, and we'll enjoy
life as much as if we were in Paris, and you'll see that the last
quarter of our life-time will be the best part of the whole ox."--Here
he threw his arm round his friend's shoulder and went on talking to
him, mixing up the past and the future, and making them into a regular
medley just as a mother does, when she tries to change the current of
her child's thoughts.
The moon shone in at the window, and what can better soothe a wounded
spirit than the soft light of the moon, and the love of an old friend
who clings to us through good and evil report. I have always thought
that the clear bright sunshine is most suited to lovers, while the calm
moonlight is best for friendship.
While they were sitting together the door opened, and a slender figure
came softly into the room and remained standing in the full light of
the moon. The girl's arms were crossed upon her breast, and her pale
face looked like that of a white marble statue against the dark wall:
What can have happened to thee, thou poor child?
Braesig went out of the room silently, and Hawermann covered his eyes
with his hand as if they pained him, pained him to the heart. The girl
threw herself down by his side, clasped him in her arms, and laid her
pale face against his. Not a word was said by either of them for a
long, long time, but at last the old man heard a low whisper at his
ear: "I know what you think it right to do; I am your child--am I
not?--your dear child?" Hawermann put his arm round his dear child and
drew her closer to him. "Father, father!" she cried, "we can never
part! My foster-father, who is now with God, told me how you wanted to
keep me with you when you were in such sorrow, although that good
woman, the labourer's wife, offered to take charge of me. Now that you
are again in sorrow do you really wish to part from me? Do you think
that I could let you go?" and pressing him in her arms, she said: "Your
name is my name, your honour is my honour, your life is my life."
They talked a long time together in the sweet moonlight, but what they
said no one else has a right to know, for when a father and child speak
to each other heart to heart and soul to soul, God is with them, and
what they say is between themselves, the world has no part in it.
Down stairs in the parlour it was very different. Mrs. Behrens was
sitting in her arm-chair weeping bitterly. The dear good woman was torn
in two by conflicting opinions, and her heart was sore for Hawermann
and his sorrows; but when she foresaw the terrible struggle she was
obliged to cause in the heart of her adopted daughter, and when she saw
it awake, and saw faith and courage get the victory in spite of misery,
she felt as if she herself had brought all these misfortunes on the
head of her darling--remorse and compassion filled her heart, and she
burst into bitter tears as soon as she was left alone.--Braesig on the
other hand had left all his compassion upstairs, he had expended all
that he had upon Hawermann, and now his wrath, which he had before
restrained with infinite difficulty, burst forth, and as he entered the
dark room, he exclaimed: "The infamous Jesuitical packages! What do
they mean by blotting the fair fame of such a man as Charles Hawermann?
It's a Satanic deed! It's just like one man holding the cat, while the
other impales it! Curse the ...."--"Braesig, Braesig, _please_ don't!"
cried little Mrs. Behrens. "Don't let us have any of your unchristian
ways here."--"Do you call that unchristian? It sounds to me like a song
of the holy angels in paradise, when I say that sort of thing about the
infernal plots of these Jesuits."--"But, Braesig, we are not their
judges."--"I know quite well, Mrs. Behrens, that I am not a judge, and
that you hav'n't a seat on the municipal board; but still you can't
expect me to look at vermin with the same pleasure as at beautiful
canary-birds! No, Mrs. Behrens, toads are toads, and Pomuchelskopp is
the chief toad that has squirted its venom over us. What do you say to
the trick he has been trying to play me lately? You see, he has put up
a fence across the foot-path that leads to the glebe, and which has
been in existence for a thousand years for anything I know, and has
sent me a message that if ever I cross that fence he'll have my boots
pulled off and let me hop away home through the snow in my stockings
like a crow. Do you call that a Christian sentiment? But I'll go to law
with him. The fellow daring to even me to a crow! And parson Godfrey
must go to law with him also, for trying to deprivate him of the use of
the foot-path. And young Joseph must go to law with him, for he has
said, several times, and publicly too, that young Joseph was an old
fool, and young Joseph is not obliged to take that quietly. You must
also go to law with him for not having built you a dowager-house, as he
was obliged to do by law, at least one or two old people have told me
so. Then Charles Hawermann must go to law with Mr. von Rambow. We must
all get up a rev'lution against those Jesuits, and if everyone will
agree with me, we might all drive to Guestrow to-morrow to see the
Chancellor, and summons the whole lot of them on a bit of parchment. We
can engage five barristers, that'll be one for each of us, and then,
'Hurrah for the lawsuit!'" If Braesig had had any idea that Louisa had
to suffer more than anyone else from "the Jesuits," he would have
insisted on engaging a barrister to plead her cause also, but he had
not the remotest notion of her misery.--Mrs. Behrens tried to calm him
down, but she found it a very difficult task, for the misfortunes of
his old friend had caused him much mingled anger and sorrow, and all
the small rages proper for a farmer, and the irritability brought on by
gout and losing at cards combined to augment his rage.--"I came here,"
he said, "to amuse myself because it was club-day, and because I wanted
to win back the nine shillings from that old sharper Kurz, that he
fleeced me of with his confounded trickery, and now the devil is
holding his d--d telespope before my eyes that I may the better see
some utterly vile human actions! And that's to be my amusement! Now,
Mrs. Behrens, if you don't mind I'd like to spend the night here, for I
shouldn't make much of that stupid game, Boston, this evening, and it
might be as well for me to sleep in Charles' room so as to be able to
cheer him up whenever he gets low."--Mrs. Behrens replied that she
would be much obliged to him if he would do so, and she spent the rest
of the evening trying to calm down the irrascible old man. Neither
Hawermann nor Louisa came back to the parlour, and when Braesig went
upstairs he found that Louisa had gone to her own room.
When Braesig took leave of his old friend on the next morning, he said:
"You may leave it all in my hands, Charles, I'll drive over to
Puempelhagen, and get your things. You shall have all your belongings
though it makes me ill to cross the threshold of the house where you
were so badly treated."
On the same morning Hawermann sat down to write to Frank; he told him
honestly and clearly what had happened at Puempelhagen, even to the
terrible ending of his stay there, and the accusation which had been
made against him, and said that he and his daughter were of one mind in
declining the offer Frank had made. He wanted to tell the young man of
his warm friendship for him, but somehow the words would not come as
easily as usual, and when written seemed rather forced. He ended by
entreating Frank to leave him and his daughter to go their way alone,
to forget them, and allow them to live out the rest of their lives by
themselves.
Louisa also wrote, and when she had sent Mrs. Behrens' maid out in the
evening to post her letter, she went to the window, and watched the
servant as if she were taking a last long leave of what was very dear
to her, and then looking at the setting sun, she murmured:
"E'en dying, I should long to go
Where all my hope doth rest!"
She did not blush to-day when she said these words, as she had done
only yesterday; her face was pale, and when the last rays of the
setting sun were hidden behind the houses, she sighed heavily, and slow
tears gathered in her eyes and rolled down her white cheeks. She did
not weep for her own sorrow, but for his.
As soon as Braesig reached the parsonage, Lina ran out to meet him,
exclaiming: "Oh, uncle Braesig, I'm so glad that you've come. Such
dreadful things have happened here, I don't mean _here_, but at
Puempelhagen. Dr. Strump has been here--George was taken ill suddenly
last night--so I had the doctor's gig stopped in the village as he was
coming back from Puempelhagen, and he told us such a frightful story--I
don't mean the doctor, for one could hardly get a word out of him on
the subject--but his coachman said that--oh _do_ come in, there's such
a draught here," and she drew the old bailiff into the parlour. When
there, she told him that the people said her dear uncle Hawermann had
shot Alick, and had then gone away no one knew where, but most probably
to take his own life. Braesig comforted her by assuring her that
Hawermann was alive, and after having convinced her of that, he asked
how Mr. von Rambow was getting on. Lina told him that Dr. Strump did
not think him dangerously wounded, and then Braesig went to see George
who was apparently suffering from congestion of the lungs. After that
it was time for him to go to Puempelhagen for Hawermann's things as it
was about twelve o'clock, so he set out in search of a man who could
act as coachman instead of George.
He asked several of the villagers to go with him, and help him to bring
away the things, but they all refused on one pretext or another, and he
soon found that he would have to go alone. But at the last moment old
Ruehrdanz, the weaver, came forward, and said: "I don't care what he
says; if he chooses to make a scene he can do so, it's nothing to me,
I'll go with you, Mr. Braesig."--"What do you mean by making a scene,
Ruehrdanz?" asked Braesig.--"You see, sir, he has forbidden us to do any
kind of work for the parsonage people, we ar'n't even allowed to go a
single step in their service."--"Who forbade you to do so?"--"Why _he_
did. Our master Pomuchelskopp."--"The infamous Jesuit!" muttered Braesig
below his breath.--"He told us that if we disobeyed him we might feed
our cattle on saw-dust, for he would give us neither hay nor straw, and
we might burn stones to warm ourselves, for he would give us neither
wood nor peats."--Braesig grew more and more furious every moment, and
the old weaver, having got into the full swing of talk, went on: "And
then you see we've to be ready night and day when he wants us. I myself
have been from home all the Christmas holydays, and only got back at
ten o'clock last night."--"Where were you?"--"At the old station in
Ludwigslust."--"What were you doing there?"--"I wasn't doing any thing
there."--"Why you must have been sent on business?"--"Yes, I was sent
on business, but nothing came of it, as there were no papers."--"What
_do_ you mean?"--"You see, I was sent to the station with a ram, and I
got there all right. I found a fellow waiting for me, so I said to him:
'Good-morning,' I said, 'here he is.'--'Who?' he asked.--'The ram,' I
said.--'What has he come for?' he asked.--'I don't know,' I said.--'Are
there any papers?" he asked.--'No,' I said, 'there are no papers
about him.'--'You fool,' he said, 'are you sure that there are no
papers?"--'Yes,' I said, 'the ram has no papers.'--'Confound you!' he
said. 'Hav'n't _you_ brought me some papers yourself?'--'What?' I said.
'I? What's the good of _my_ having papers? I'm not to be sold to you
here.' Then the fellow grew very rude and had me turned out and the ram
after me, and so there we were both left standing before the station.
'Ugh! Ugh!' coughed the old ram. We were turned out into the road
because he had no papers, and I had none either. What was to be done? I
drove him home again, and when I got back last night, there was a
frightful scene. I thought our master would have eaten me up he fell
upon me so viciously. But it wasn't my fault. If the man ought to have
had papers they should have sent him some. But of this I'm sure, that
if our master wasn't such a great man and didn't happen to be so much
too strong for us, and if we only stuck to each other properly we'd
manage to take him down a peg. As for his hop-pole of a wife, she's a
thousand time worse than he is. It was only last spring that she nearly
beat my neighbour Kapphingst's girl to death. She beat the girl three
times with her broom-stick, and then locked her up in the shed without
food. And why? Because a hawk had carried off one of her chickens. It
wasn't the girl's fault that the hawk carried off the chicken, nor was
it my fault that I wasn't given any papers."--Braesig listened to the
weaver's story, and although only yesterday he had wanted to bring
about a revolution against Pomuchelskopp, he was now silent, for he
would never have forgiven himself, if he had thoughtlessly helped to
excite the labourers against their master.
They got to Puempelhagen at last, and stopped at the farm-house door.
Fred Triddelfitz sprang out, and ran up to Braesig: "Oh, Sir, Sir," he
cried, "it wasn't my fault that Mary Moeller packed the book by mistake
amongst my things, and I knew nothing about it till I was changing my
clothes at Demmin."--"What book?" asked Braesig quickly.--"Why,
Hawermann's book, about which there has been such a row."--"And that
book," cried Braesig, seizing Fred by the collar and shaking him till
his teeth chattered, "you took to Demmin with you, you infamous
grey-hound that you are." Then pushing him towards the house: "Come in,
and show me the book."--Fred brought it tremblingly, and Braesig
snatched it out of his hands: "Do you know what you have done, you
infamous grey-hound? You have brought the man, who tried in all
kindness and gentleness, to make a responsible human being of you, and
who always covered your follies with a silken mantle, to misery and
shameful suspicion."--"Oh, _don't_ Mr. Braesig," entreated Fred turning
deadly pale, "indeed it wasn't my doing; Mary Moeller packed the book
with my things, and I galloped home with it from Demmin this morning as
hard as I could."--"Mary Moeller," cried Braesig, "what have you got to
do with Mary Moeller? Oh, if I were your father or your mother, or even
your aunt, I'd thrash you till you ran round the wall like a squirrel.
What have you got to do with that stupid old woman Mary Moeller? Do you
think that galloping on the public road is the way to make good your
folly? Is your innocent horse to suffer for your sins? But now come
away, come away. You must appear in Mrs. von Rambow's Court of Justice.
You must tell all about it there, and then you can explain the mystery
about Mary Moeller." When he had said this he set off to the manor
house, and Fred followed him slowly, like hard times when they come
into the land, and his heart was full of grief and pain.
"Will you let your mistress know that this young man and I want to
speak to her," said Braesig to Daniel Sadenwater, pointing at the same
time to Fred. Daniel made a half bow, and went. Fred waited, and amused
himself by making a face, in the same way as he used to do at Parchen,
when he was called before the headmaster of his school to answer for
some piece of mischief. Braesig meanwhile was pulling up his boots in
the corner, the better to show their yellow tops, and at the same time
holding the book tightly under his arm. When Mrs. von Rambow crossed
the hall on her way to the drawing-room, Braesig followed her, his face
quite red with inward excitement, and with stooping. Fred came slowly
after, looking pale and anxious.--"You have something to say to me,
Mr. Braesig," said the lady turning from one to the other of her
visitors.--"Yes, Madam, but under the circumstances, I'd be much
obliged by your first listening to what this apothecary's son,
this ...."--"infamous grey-hound" he was about to have said, but
stopped himself in time--"has to say; he has a nice little story to
tell you."--Mrs. von Rambow looked enquiringly at Fred, who began to
stammer out something very like what had really happened, turning red
and pale as he spoke. The only thing he left out was Mary Moeller's
name, and he concluded his story thus: "So the book got into my
portmanteau by accident."--"Out with it about Mary Moeller," interrupted
Braesig, "the truth must be made known."--"Yes," said Fred, "Mary Moeller
packed my things for me as I had so much to do that day."--Mrs. von
Rambow had grown very uneasy: "Then," she said, "it was all owing to a
wretched mistake?"--"Yes, Madam," answered Braesig, "and here's the
book. Look, Hawermann's account is balanced in the last page, and
besides his sal'ry, you see that he has to be paid sixty pounds. You
may be sure that it's all right, for Charles Hawermann never added up
wrong in his life; he was always better at accounts from a boy than I
was."--Mrs. von Rambow took the book with a trembling hand, and as she
looked at the column of figures on the last page, the thought flashed
into her mind, that as Hawermann was proved innocent in this
particular, he might be equally innocent of the other charge brought
against him, and in which she herself had never believed. Fred's story
bore truth on the face of it, and so she saw that she had done the old
bailiff a grievous wrong. But he had shot her husband! She had an
excuse for her conduct in that. She said: "What made him shoot at
Alick?"--"Madam," said Braesig, raising his eyebrows and putting on his
gravest expression, "allow me to say that that is a false accusation.
It was your husband who got the gun, and when Hawermann tried to take
it from him, it went off. That's the whole truth, for Hawermann himself
told me, and he never lies."--She knew that well, and she also knew
that she could not say the same of her husband. In the first excitement
he had certainly declared: "He is not a murderer;" but ever since then,
he had said that Hawermann had shot him. She sat down and covered her
eyes with her hand. She tried to regain her self-control, but it was
only with a great effort that she roused herself to say: "You have
come, I suppose, to receive the money for the bailiff, but my husband
is ill, and I cannot disturb him by asking for it just now. I will send
it."--"No, Madam, I hav'n't come for that," answered Braesig, drawing
himself up to his full height, "I came here to tell the truth, I
came here to defend my friend, my old school-fellow of sixty years
ago."--"That was unnecessary if your friend has a good conscience,
which I believe he has."--"I see, Madam, that you don't understand
human nature. Every man has two consciences, one of which is within him
and of that no devil can deprive him; but the other is external, and is
known as his good name, and that can be stolen from him by any rascal
who has power and cleverness enough to do it. When his good name is
taken from him, the man dies morally, for no one lives for himself
alone, but also for the world. Evil reports are like the thistle-down
which the devil and his accomplices sow in our fields. The better the
ground, the more the weeds flourish, and when they are in seed the wind
comes--no one knows whence it cometh, or whither it goeth--and carries
the thistledown with it, scattering it over the land, and next year the
field is full of thistles. Then people come and abuse the land, but no
one will lend a hand to pull up the weeds, for each man is afraid of
hurting his fingers. And you, lady, have also feared the pricks. That
was what pained my friend Charles Hawermann most of all, when he was
turned out of the house as a cheat and a thief. That is what I came to
tell you--and now farewell--I will say no more." He then left the room,
and Fred slunk after him.
And Frida? Where was the high spirited young woman with the wise eyes
and clear judgment, who could see what ought to be done so calmly and
decidedly? She was changed now, her calm judgment was gone, and
uneasiness had taken its place, and a veil of sorrow had fallen over
her eyes, which hindered them seeing as clearly as before. "Oh," she
exclaimed aloud. "Another untruth! All these suspicions were only born
of lies, self-deception and unmanly weakness! My anxiety about him and
my love for him, have made me participate in his guilt; have made me
wound the noblest heart that ever beat for me. But I will tell him
all," and she sprang to her feet, "I will tear the net in which I am
entangled." Then falling back in her chair again, she went on sadly:
"No, not now; I can't yet; he is too ill." Ah me! She was right:
self-deception and lies had gained ever more power and strength, and
her true heart would find it very difficult to keep itself uninfluenced
by its surroundings, and to distinguish between what was real and what
merely seemed to be real.
When Braesig got back to his carriage, he found that Ruehrdanz had
collected nearly all of Hawermann's possessions with the help of
Christian Daesel, and the rest of the things were very soon got
together. As Braesig was getting into the carriage beside Ruehrdanz, Fred
Triddelfitz pulled him back, and said: "Mr. Braesig, please tell Mr.
Hawermann that I am innocent; that it wasn't my fault."--Braesig was not
going to have answered him at first, but catching sight of his
miserable face, was sorry for him, and said: "Yes, I'll tell him that;
but see that you improve." And then he drove away.
After they had gone a short distance Ruehrdanz said: "It's nothing to
me, Sir, and that's why I speak of it, but who ever would have thought
it! I mean about Mr. Hawermann."--"What are you talking about?"--"Oh,
nothing! I mean that he should have gone away so suddenly, and then the
shooting!"--"That's all nonsense," said Braesig angrily.--"I said so
too. Sir, but Christian, the groom who helped me to pack told me it was
true. He said the quarrel was all about some confounded papers, for
Hawermann's papers wer'n't right. Yes, that was it, the confounded
papers!"--"Hawermann's papers were all right."--"That's just what I
said, Sir, but then there's the shooting. Our young master Gustavus was
telling the story all over the village this morning."--"Gustavus,"
cried Braesig furiously, "is a young rascal, a puppy! A puppy whose ears
ar'n't shorn yet!"--"That's just what I said, and I hope you won't be
angry with me, Sir; but still he's the best of the lot up at the manor.
You see, my father's sister's son came here from the Prussian district
near Anklam last week, and he told us what sort of a man our squire is.
He always had some human skin sticking to the end of his cane, he was
so fond of thrashing folk, but the Prussians would stand it no longer.
The people had him up before the county-court or the country-court--I
forget what the thing's called--and the Landgrave punished him
severely. I only wish that we had a Landgrave like that close at
hand, for the Chancellor's office is too far away."--"Yes," cried
Braesig crossly, "if you had a Landgrave like that, you'd have rare
doings."--"That's just what I say, Sir; but Mr. Pomuchelskopp once went
too far, he beat a woman who was in the family way very brutally,
and--don't be angry with me. Sir--I think that was a horrible thing to
do. The king happened to hear of it, and commanded that he should be
imprisoned for life at Stettin with hard labour. Then his wife went to
the king and fell at his feet, and his majesty granted her request on
condition that he wore an iron ring round his neck for the rest of his
life, and that he did convict's work at Stettin jail for a month every
autumn. He was there this autumn. He was also banished from Prussia,
and so he came here. Now tell me, Sir, where do you think he will go if
he is chased away from here?"--"Where the pepper grows, for all I
care," cried Braesig.--"That's just what I say, Sir; but--don't be angry
with me--I don't believe that they'll take him there even, for you see
he has money to buy himself off, though indeed there are his papers
against him. If the king sees from his papers that he has to wear an
iron ring round his neck, and that that's the reason he wears such a
large handkerchief round his throat, he won't let him buy himself
off."--"Ah, then you see you'll have to keep him," said Braesig.--"Yes,
of course that'll be the way of it; we'd have to keep him because he'd
be given into our charge. Tche!" he said to the horse and then they
drove on at a slow trot through the village of Guerlitz, Braesig thinking
deeply.--What a strange world it is! he thought. A fellow who is well
known to be a rascal has the power to take the good name from an
honourable man, and the world believes the evil speaking of the bad
man, while it turns a deaf ear to the asseverations of him whom he
calumniated. Braesig believed, from what he had heard of the stories
Gustavus had been telling that Pomuchelskopp was doing his utmost to
spread evil reports of Hawermann.--"It's scand'lous," he said to
himself as he got out of the carriage at Mrs. Behrens' door in
Rahnstaedt, "but wait Samuel! I've got the better of you once in
preventing you having the glebe, and I'll get the better of you again.
But first of all I'll have the law of you for likening me to a 'crow'."