By the help of the remainder of his sisters' money, Alick got through
the spring and half of the summer of 1847 pretty well, and when that
supply was at an end, he sold off his wool rather than apply to his
friendly old neighbour for help. He was sure that Pomuchelskopp had a
great deal to do with his troubles somehow or other, and the suspicion
grew stronger within him, that he had been shorn like a sheep for the
benefit of the man who had pretended to be a true friend and neighbour
to him, but how or why it was done was a mystery to him. His manner to
Pomuchelskopp grew much colder than before, whenever they chanced to
meet. He visited him no longer, and he slipped out into the fields
through the garden when he happened to see his former friend coming to
call upon him. Frida silently rejoiced in the change. We should also
have rejoiced in it if he had only acted wisely and thoughtfully, and
if he had striven with quiet courage to set himself free from his
entanglements, but instead of that he acted foolishly. Persuading
himself that he could not bear the presence of the man he now hated and
despised, he went so far as to refuse to shake hands with him, when
Pomuchelskopp greeted him warmly at a patriotic meeting in Rahnstaedt,
and not contented with that, spoke of him in such insulting terms that
everyone present soon knew pretty well how Pomuchelskopp had been
employing his money. Though Alick's conduct on this occasion was
honest, it was very foolish. He owed Pomuchelskopp twelve hundred
pounds, and had not the wherewithal to pay him. If he knew the squire
of Guerlitz as well as he said he did, he must have been aware of the
danger of such conduct. Pomuchelskopp could stand a few hard words as
well as anybody, but the scene at the meeting was a little bit too much
for him, and means of revenge lay too close at hand for him not to make
use of it. He made no reply, but rising, went to attorney Slus'uhr and
said: "Let Mr. von Rambow know that if he does not pay me my twelve
hundred pounds by S. Antony's day I shall foreclose. I know now where I
am. I shan't have another chance, and so I'll do the best I can
now."--"If Moses would only foreclose too!" cried Slus'uhr; and this
pious wish was to be fulfilled also, but later.
There was a great change in young Joseph, which no one but Mrs. Nuessler
had noticed. She had always had a suspicion that Joseph would some time
or other take to new and evil ways, that he would at last refuse to be
guided by any one. This time was now come. From the very beginning of
his married life Joseph had been accustomed to lay by some money every
year. At first it was only ten pounds, but at last these ten pounds had
increased to hundreds, and he was very happy when his wife told him on
New-year's-morning that she had made up the farm-books for the year,
for she always kept the accounts, and that they had so much to lay by.
His soul rejoiced in his savings, why, he hardly knew; but in all these
long years of his married life he had grown accustomed to having a
larger or smaller sum of money to put in the bank or to invest, and
custom was Joseph Nuessler's life. When the bad year came, Mrs. Nuessler
had said to her husband during the harvest: "This'll be a bad year, and
I'm afraid that we'll have to take up some of our capital."--"Mother,"
Joseph had answered, staring at her in blank amazement, "surely you'd
never do that." But on this New-year's-morning his wife came to him and
said, she had drawn four hundred and fifty pounds, and that she only
hoped and trusted that that would be enough. "We can't let our people
and our cattle starve," she said in conclusion.--Joseph sprang to his
feet, a thing he had never done before; he trod on Bolster's toes,
another thing he had never done before; stared at his wife gloomily and
said nothing, a thing that he often did, and then walked out of the
room with Bolster limping at his heels. Dinner-time came, but Joseph
did not return. A beautiful bit of sirloin was put on the table, but
Joseph did not return. His wife called him, he did not hear. She sought
him, but could not find him, for he had taken refuge in the cow-house
and was busily engaged with a tar-pot in one hand and a brush in the
other, in making little crosses on his cattle, and Bolster was standing
at his side. After a long search his wife found him thus employed:
"Goodness gracious me, Joseph," she asked, "why ar'n't you coming to
dinner."--"I hav'n't time, mother."--"What are you doing here with the
tarpot?"--"I'm marking the cows that we ought to sell."--"Preserve us
all!" cried Mrs. Nuessler, snatching the tar-brush out of his hand,
"what do you mean? My best milkers!"--"Why, mother," answered Joseph
calmly, "we must get rid of some of our people and of our cattle or
they'll eat up our very noses and ears."--It was indeed a fortunate
circumstance that he had fallen upon the cows first and not upon the
people, otherwise the farm-lads and lasses might have borne tarry
crosses on their backs on that New-year's-morning.--Mrs. Nuessler got
him to leave off his work with great difficulty, and then took him back
to the parlour. When once more seated there, he announced that he would
not farm any more, and said that Rudolph must come and marry Mina, and
take the farm into his own hands. Mrs. Nuessler could make nothing of
him, so she sent for Braesig. Mina, who had heard enough, rushed
upstairs to her garret-room and clasping both hands upon her heart,
said to herself, that it was wrong to harass her father, why could he
not be allowed to rest when he wanted, and why should Rudolph not
manage the farm, Hilgendorf had written to say that he could do it. If
uncle Braesig took part against her in this she would tell him plainly
that she wouldn't be his god-child any longer.
When Braesig came and had heard the whole story, he took his stand in
front of young Joseph, and said: "What's the meaning of all this,
young Joseph? Why did you spend the holy New-year's-morning in painting
tarry crosses on your cows? Why do you want to sell your wife's best
milkers? And do you really mean to say that you're going to give up
farming?"--"Braesig, Rudolph can attend to the farm, and why can't Mina
marry him at once? Lina is married, and Mina is as good as her
sister."--As he said this he glanced at Bolster out of the corner of
his eye, and Bolster shook his head in grave agreement with his
master's sentiments.--"Joseph," said Braesig, "justice is a great
virtue, and I must confess that your folly has for once driven you to
speak the words of wisdom"--Joseph raised his head--"no, Joseph, I'm
not going to praise you, it is only that you have for once in your life
said something I can agree with. I also think that Rudolph should be
sent for, and that he should manage the farm. Hush, Mrs. Nuessler!" he
added, "come here for one moment please." He drew Mrs. Nuessler into the
next room, and explained to her that he intended to remain with parson
Godfrey until Easter. He could look after matters at Rexow till then,
but after that Rudolph must come, "and it's better for you that it
should be so," he continued, "for he'll never paint crosses on your
cows, and it will be equally good for him, for in that way he will
gradually learn to manage a farm on his own responsibility. Then the
marriage must be in the Easter holidays of next year."--"Goodness
gracious me, Braesig, that'll never do, how can Mina and Rudolph live in
the same house? What would people say?"--"Ah, Mrs. Nuessler, I know how
hard the world is in its judgment of engaged couples. I know it well,
for when I was engaged to the three--toots, what was it I was going to
say? Oh, it was this, that Mina might go to parson Godfrey's. My room
at the parsonage will be empty after Easter, for I'm going to Hawermann
in Rahnstaedt then."--"Yes, that'll do very well," said Mrs. Nuessler.
And so it was all settled.--Rudolph came to Rexow at Easter, but Mina
had to go away then, and when she and all her luggage were packed into
the carriage, she wiped the tears from her eyes and thought herself the
most miserable creature on the face of the earth, for was not her
mother sending her out of her own father's house to live amongst
strangers--by which she meant her sister Lina--and without any good
reason that she could see. She doubled up her fist when she thought of
Braesig, for her mother had said that Braesig thought the arrangement a
good one. "Pah!" she cried aloud, "and I am to have his room at the
parsonage; I'm sure it'll smell of stale tobacco, and that the walls
will be so well smoked that one might write one's name upon them with
one's finger!" But when she entered the room at last, she opened her
eyes wide with astonishment. There was a table in the middle of the
room, and it was covered with a white cloth, while right in the centre
of it was a glass vase full of the most beautiful flowers that could be
got at that time of year, blue hepaticas, yellow acacias, and wild
hyacinths. Beside the flower glass lay a letter directed to Mina
Nuessler in uncle Braesig's hand-writing, and when she opened it, she was
more surprised than ever, for it was written in poetry, and this was
the first time she had ever had verses addressed to her. Uncle Braesig
had learnt an old proverb, used in house building from Schulz the
carpenter, and had adapted it to a room. He had then added a few lines
of comfort entirely out of his own head. This was the letter.
To my darling god-child.
This room is mine,
And yet not mine.
Thou who hadst it
Didst think it thine.
When thou didst go
I did come in,
When I am gone,
Some one comes in.
Sad are both parting and absence,
But a year soon vanishes hence,
So find comfort in this, my dear.
That with next spring the wedding's here.
Mina blushed when she read the bit about the marriage, and throwing her
arms round her sister Lina's neck, began laughingly to abuse Braesig for
his stupidity; but in her heart of hearts she blessed him. Thus Mina
went to Guerlitz, Rudolph to Rexow, and Braesig to Mrs. Behrens and
Hawermann at Rahnstaedt.
With Hawermann everything was going on in much the same way as before.
He led a very retired life in spite of the efforts of his friends. The
rector often gave him a little lecture; Kurz inveigled him into many a
farming talk, and even Moses now and then made his way upstairs, spoke
to him about old times, and asked his advice on various business
affairs; but the old man kept on the even tenour of his way
uninfluenced by any of them. He thought night and day of his daughter's
fate and nourished a faint hope that the labourer Regel would return
sooner or later, and by telling the truth would wash away the stain of
dishonesty which had been fastened upon him. The labourer had written
home several times lately, and had sent his wife and children some
money; but had always kept his whereabouts a secret. Little Mrs.
Behrens was much afraid that his sorrows were preying on her old friend
so heavily as to make him more or less morbid, and she feared that he
might in time become a monomaniac, so she thanked God heartily when
Braesig came to live with them. Braesig would do him good, he was the man
to do it, if any could. His restless nature and kind heart made him try
to rouse his friend; he would oblige him to do this or that, would
persuade him to go out for a walk with him, would make him listen to
all sorts of silly novels which he got from the Rahnstaedt lending
library, and when nothing else had any effect, he would give utterance
to the maddest theories in order to induce his friend to contradict
him. Hawermann grew better under this mode of treatment, but if ever
the words Puempelhagen or Frank were mentioned in the course of
conversation, all the good was undone for the time being, and the evil
spirit of melancholy once more possessed him.
Louisa got on much better than her father, she was not one of those
women who think that when they have been disappointed in love they
ought to go about the world sadly, and show every one by their
woe-begone faces and languid movements how much their poor hearts have
suffered, saying by their manner, that they are only waiting for death
to release them from a world, in which they have now neither part nor
portion. No, Louisa was not that kind of woman. She had strength and
courage to bear her great sorrow by herself, she did not need the
world's pity. Her love was hidden deep down in her heart like pure
gold. She spoke of her feelings to nobody, and only took from her
treasure what was required for the needs of the day, for the
loving-kindness she lavished on all who came near her. When God sees a
child of man striving valiantly for victory over a crushing sorrow, and
in spite of his own misery, doing what he can to make the lives of
others easier and pleasanter to them. He gives him help and strength to
go on with his battle, and sends him many little accidental
circumstances that assist him on his way, but which pass unnoticed by
outsiders. What is called chance is, when regarded from a truer point
of view, only the effect of some cause which is hidden from our eyes.
Such a chance help, as I have mentioned, came to Louisa in the spring
after the meeting of the stormy council of women, which divided
Rahnstaedt into two parties.
One day when Louisa was returning home from visiting Lina at Guerlitz,
as she was walking along a foot path at the back of some of the gardens
at Rahnstaedt, one of the garden doors suddenly opened, and a pretty
little girl came up to her with a bunch of elder-flowers, tulips and
acacias. "Please take these flowers," said the little member, blushing
deeply, for it was she who had come to speak to Louisa. When Louisa
looked at her in surprise, wondering what it all meant, tears began to
roll down the girl's cheeks, and covering her eyes with her hand, she
murmured: "I w-wanted to give you a little pleasure." Louisa touched by
the kindness of the girl, threw her arms round her neck and gave her a
kiss. They then went into the garden together and seated themselves in
the arbour made of the interlaced branches of elder. There Louisa and
the warm-hearted little member began an acquaintance which soon ripened
into a firm friendship, for a heart full of love is easily opened to
friendship, so it came to pass that the little member became a daily
visitor at Mrs. Behrens' house, and whenever she appeared all the faces
in the household brightened at her approach. As soon as Hawermann heard
the first notes struck on Mrs. Behrens' old piano, he used to come down
stairs, and seating himself in a corner, would listen to the beautiful
music the little member played for his entertainment. When that was
over Mrs. Behrens would come in for her share of amusement, for the
little member was a doctor's daughter, and doctors and doctors'
children always know the last piece of news that is going; not that
Mrs. Behrens was curious, she only liked to know what was going on, and
since she had come to live in a country-town she had been infected with
the desire, all inhabitants of such towns feel, to know what their
neighbours are doing. She once said to Louisa: "you see, my dear, one
likes to hear what's going on around one, but still when my sister Mrs.
Triddelfitz begins to tell me any news I don't like it, her judgments
of people's actions are so sharp and sarcastic; it's quite different
with little Anna, she tells such funny innocent stories that one can
laugh over them quite happily; she is a dear good child."
This new friendship gained strength and significance when the bad
harvest brought its consequences of famine, want and misery into the
town. Anna's father was a doctor, although he had not the title of
Practising Physician, but he had something that was better than any
such title, he had a kind heart, and when he came home and told of the
poverty and wretchedness he had seen, Anna used to go to Mrs. Behrens
and Louisa and repeat to them what her father had said. Mrs. Behrens
used then to go to her larder and fill a basket with food and wine,
which the two girls carried out to the homes of the starving people in
the dusk of the evening, and when they came home they gave each other a
kiss, and then they kissed Mrs. Behrens and Hawermann, that was all,
not a word was said about it. When arrangements were to be made
about the soup kitchens, all the ladies in Rahnstaedt held a great
'talkee-talkee,' as Braesig called it, to settle how the distress in the
town could best be alleviated. The town-clerk's wife said that if there
were to be soup-kitchens at all, "they must be on a _grand_ scale." And
when she was asked what she meant, she answered that it was all the
same to her, but if any good was to be done it must be on "a grand
scale." Then the elder members of the council agreed that a difference
must be made between the converted and unconverted poor, for a little
starvation would do the latter no harm. After that a young and newly
married woman proposed that some man should be appointed manager of the
charity, but her motion was quashed at once, as all the other ladies
voted against her, and the town-clerk's wife remarked that as long as
she had lived--"and that's a good many years now," interrupted Mrs.
Krummhorn--all cooking and charitable societies had been managed by
women, for men didn't understand such things, but she would once more
impress upon them that the charity must be done on a grand scale. The
Conventicle then separated, every member as wise as she had been at the
beginning. When the soup kitchens were opened, two pretty girls of our
acquaintance became active workers in them. They flitted about the
great fire in their neat gowns and long white linen aprons, and ladled
out the soup from the large pots into the tins the poor women brought
with them. They sat on the same bench as the converted and unconverted,
and helped them to peel the potatoes and cut the turnips for the next
day's use. That was the way that Louisa expended what she took from the
treasure of love hidden away in her heart, and Anna also added her
mite.
Braesig took a good deal of the distant visiting of the poor off the
little member's hands, saying that running messages was just what he
was made for, and when he had not got gout he trotted about the town
wherever he was wanted. He said to Hawermann one day: "Charles, Dr.
Strump says there's nothing like polchicum and exercise for gout, and
the water-doctor says, it ought to be cold water and exercise. They
both agree in advising exercise, and I feel that it does me good. But
what I wanted to say was this,--Moses sends you his compliments
and desires me to say that he intends to come and see you this
afternoon."--"Why, has he returned from Dobberan already? I thought
that he didn't want to come home till August."--"But Charles, this is
S. James' day, and harvest has begun. But what I wanted to say was
this,--the old Jew has quite renewed his youth. He looks almost
handsome, and ran up and down the room several times to show me how
active he was. I must be off now to see old widow Klaehnen, she's
waiting for me in her garden, and is very impatient, for I've promised
her some turnip seed. And then I must go to Mrs. Krummhorn's and look
at her kittens, she has promised to give us one of them, for, Charles,
we require a good mouser; after that I have to go and speak to Rischen
the blacksmith about the shoes for Kurz's old riding horse. The poor
old beast has as many windgalls as Moses' son David has corns on his
feet, I'm not joking, Charles. I suppose you hav'n't heard yet that Mr.
von Rambow has already invested in a horse with windgalls, otherwise he
might have bought Kurz's horse to complete the infirmary at
Puempelhagen. I have to go and see the mayor's wife later in the
afternoon, for she has got some newly mown rye, and wants me to to make
her some beer as we have it in our farms. She is going to make quite a
festival on the occasion of the beer making. Now good-bye, Charles, I'm
going to read aloud to you this afternoon, and I've got a book that I'm
sure will amuse us both." Then he went away, and ran up one street and
down another, visiting this house and that, and doing all in his power
to help his neighbours. As the inhabitants of a small Mecklenburg town
are more or less interested in agricultural matters, Braesig was
continually appealed to for advice and assistance, and finally became
the oracle and slave of the whole town.
In the afternoon Braesig seated himself beside his friend Charles, and
opening his book prepared to read aloud. If we were to look over his
shoulder we should read on the title page: "The Frogs by Aristophanes,
translated from Greek." We open our eyes wide with astonishment, but
only think how much wider the old Greek humourist would have opened
his, had he seen to what heights education had advanced in Rahnstaedt,
had he known that his frogs had taken their place, two thousand years
after his death, in the same shelf of the Rahnstaedt circulating library
as "Blossoms," "Pearls," "Forget-me-nots," "Roses," and other annuals.
How the old rascal would have laughed! Uncle Braesig did not laugh, but
sat there gravely and seriously. He had put on his horn spectacles,
that looked for all the world like a pair of carriage lamps, and
was holding the book as far away from him as the length of his arm
would allow. When he began: "'The Frogs'--he means what we call
'puddocks,' Charles--'by Aristop-Hannes'--I read it 'Hannes,' Charles
as I look upon 'Hanes' as a misprint, for there's a book called
'Schinder-Hannes'[2] that I once read, and if this is only half as
horrible, we may be well satisfied, Charles." He now began to read
after school-master Strull's, fashion, only stopping for breath, and
Hawermann sat still seeming to listen attentively, but before the first
page was finished he was buried in his own thoughts again, and when
Braesig wet his finger to turn the fourth page, he discovered to his
righteous indignation that his old friend's eyes were closed. Braesig
rose, placed himself in front of him and stared at him. Now it is a
well known fact that the miller wakes when the mill stops working, and
that the hearers wake when the sermon is done. So it was with
Hawermann, he opened his eyes, pulled at his pipe, and said:
"Beautiful, Zachariah, most beautiful."--"What? you say 'beautiful' and
yet you were asleep!"--"Don't be angry with me," said Hawermann, who
was now thoroughly awake, "but I couldn't understand a single word of
it. Put the book away, or do you understand it?"--"Not so well as
usual, Charles, but I paid a penny for the hire of it, and when I pay a
penny I like to have my money's worth."--"But if you can't understand
it?"--"People don't read in order to understand, Charles, they read
_poor passer lour temps_. Look," and he tried to explain what he had
read, but was interrupted by a knock at the door, which was followed by
the entrance of Moses.
Hawermann went forward to meet him and said: "I'm very glad to see you
Moses. How well you're looking!"--"Flora says so too, but it's an old
story with her, she told me so fifty years ago."--"Well, how did you
like the watering-place?"--"I'll tell you some news, Hawermann. One is
very glad of two things at a watering-place. The first is that one can
go there, and the other is that one's going away again. It's just the
same as with a horse, a garden, and a house one rejoices to have
them, and rejoices to get rid of them."--"Yes, I see that you wer'n't
able to stand the full course of it; perhaps however it was business
that brought you home."--"How I hate business. I am an old man. My
business now is not to enter into new transactions, and gradually to
withdraw my money from old ones. That's what has brought me here today
I want to have the ten hundred and fifty pounds I lent on
Puempelhagen."--"Oh, Moses, don't! You would plunge Mr. von Rambow into
great difficulties."--"I don't know that. He must have money; he must
have a great deal of money. David, the attorney and Pomuffelskopp tried
to ruin him at the new year, but he paid them up sixteen hundred pounds
at once. I know all that David has been about; I questioned Zebedee.
'Where were you yesterday?' I asked. 'At the Court's,' he said. 'That's
a lie, Zebedee,' I answered. But he swore it was true till he was black
in the face. I always said: 'You know you're telling a lie, Zebedee.'
At last I said: 'I'll tell you something. The horses are mine, and the
carriage is mine, and the coachman is mine. Now if you don't tell me
the truth, I'll send you away, for you're a scoundrel.' Then he
confessed and told me about the sixteen hundred pounds, and yesterday
he said that Pomuffelskopp had given Mr. von Rambow notice to pay up
the mortgage he holds on Puempelhagen, on S. Anthony's day. Now
Pomuffelskopp is a wise man, and he must know how it stands with
him."--"Merciful heaven!" cried Hawermann quite forgetting his hatred
to Alick, and feeling all his former loyalty to the von Rambow family
revive, "and you are going to follow his example? Moses, you know that
your money is safe."--"Well, I'll confess that it is safe. But I know
many other places where it would also be safe." Then looking sharply at
the two old bailiffs, he said very emphatically: "I have both seen him
and spoken to him."--"What? Mr. von Rambow? Where was it?" asked
Hawermann. "In Dobberan at the gaming-table," said Moses angrily,
"and also in my hotel."--"Alas!" said Hawermann, "he never used
to do that. What will become of him poor fellow?"--"I always said,"
exclaimed Braesig, "that too much knowledge would be the ruin of the
lieutenant."--"I assure you," interrupted Moses, "that I saw these
people round the table with piles of Louis d'ors before them. They sat
at one part of the table and then at another. They pushed about the
money in this direction and in that, and that's what they call
business, and what they call pleasure! It's enough to make one's hair
stand on end. And he was always at it. 'Zebedee,' I said, for Zebedee
had brought my carriage ready for me to go home on the next day,
'Zebedee, stand here and keep your eye on the Squire of Puempelhagen.
You can tell me afterwards how he gets on. It makes me quite ill to
watch him.' Zebedee came to me in the evening, and told me he was
cleaned out. And a little later Mr. von Rambow came and asked me for a
hundred and fifty pounds. 'I'll tell you something,' I said, 'I'll act
like a father to you, come away with me, Zebedee has the carriage all
ready, I'll take you with me, and it shan't cost you a farthing.' He
refused my offer, and was determined to remain."--"Poor fellow, poor
fellow," sighed Hawermann. "That boy," cried Braesig, "has actually a
wife and child! If he belonged to me, what a wigging I should give
him."--"But, Moses, Moses," entreated Hawermann, "I implore you by all
you love not to demand payment. He will come to his right mind, and
your money is safe."--"Hawermann," said Moses, "you also are a wise
man; but listen to me; when I began business as a money lender, I said
to myself: when anyone comes to borrow money from you who has carriage
and horses and costly furniture, lend him what he wants, for he has
goods to be security; when any merry-hearted young fellow who laughs
and jokes and drinks champagne wants to borrow money from you, lend it
to him, for he'll earn enough to pay you back; but if a man should come
to you for help who has cards and dice in his pocket, and who frequents
gambling-tables, beware what you do, for a gamester's money is never to
be counted on. And besides that, Hawermann, it would never do. People
would say that the Jews incited the young man to gamble, so as to ruin
him the quicker, and make sure of seizing his estate," and Moses drew
himself to his full height. "No," he continued, "the Jew has his own
code of honour as well as the Christian, and no man shall come and
point to my grave, and say: that man drove a dishonest trade.--I won't
have my good name taken from me in my old age by a man whose own
conduct is not immaculate. Has he not stolen your good name, and yet
you are an honest man and a true-hearted man. No," he went on, as
Hawermann rose and began to walk up and down the room, "sit down, I
won't talk about it. Different people have different notions. You bear
your fate, and you have your reasons for doing so; I should not bear it
if I were in your place, and I have my reasons for saying so. Good-bye
now, Hawermann; good-bye Mr. Braesig. I shall demand my money at S.
Anthony's day all the same," and so saying he went away.
It was thus that the black clouds rose on this side also of Alick's
sky, and they rose when he did not expect them. The dark storm clouds
hemmed him in on every side, and when once the storm burst who could
tell how long it might rage, and how many of his brightest hopes might
not be destroyed by it for ever. He would not let himself think that
ruin was staring him in the face, he comforted himself by looking
forward to a good harvest, by counting up the money he expected to get
from the grain merchants and wool-staplers, and with the hope that some
lucky chance would stave off the evil day of reckoning a little longer.
People always think when things are going ill with them that chance
will come to their rescue and make everything easy to them. They treat
the future as if it were a game at blind man's buff.--So the year 1848
began.