A BEGGAR'S HAT, AND AN OLD MAN'S EARNINGS.
In this part of the country the frost, when it has once set in, holds
on unrelentingly for many months. The Morgenhalde alone makes a happy
exception to the rule. There the sun has sufficient power to make a
dripping from the roof, when all elsewhere is hung with heavy icicles.
But this winter even the sun in heaven failed to treat the Morgenhalde
with its wonted friendliness. There was no thawing outside the house
nor in.
Not only was the cold greater than it used to be,--that was easily
accounted for by the cutting down of the forest, whose tall trunks lay
scattered about, waiting for the spring floods to carry them down into
the valley,--but a weight as of frost lay heavy on the hearts of the
dwellers upon the Morgenhalde. Annele seemed to have lost the power of
rousing herself to life. Something had frozen up within her, which no
warm breath could have melted, had any such breath reached her.
Annele, the only child who had remained near her parents, felt herself
now the most cruelly deserted by their removal. The secret
mortification of being the only poor one of the whole family of sisters
seemed more than she could bear. She could do nothing to help her
father and mother; nay, might even be reduced to asking charity of her
sisters, to begging their children's cast-off clothes for her own
little ones.
She moved silently about her work, her love of talking all gone,
answering whatever question might be put to her, but nothing beyond.
She scarce ever left the house. Her former restlessness seemed to have
passed into Lenz. He so wholly despaired of accomplishing anything by
his old quiet industry that the chair on which he sat and the tools he
held in his hand seemed coals of fire to him. Petty creditors whom he
was unable to pay, and was obliged to put off with fair words, were
constantly annoying him. He, the Lenz who had only needed to say, "Thus
and thus it is," to command instant confidence, now had to make solemn
promises to this man and that, that his money should be paid him. The
greater was his anxiety lest he should be unable to redeem his word,
and the more did he exaggerate the danger that threatened his honor.
The thought of the various persons here and there who were waiting for
the receipt of their money haunted his sleeping and waking hours and
increased his restlessness. He had always been considered a man who
could be perfectly depended upon; now he frequently disappointed hopes
that he had raised, and even failed to keep his engagements. He had
trusted that the mere knowledge of his distress would be a sufficient
protection against outside annoyances; he soon learned that men accept
no excuses in lieu of their ready money. The ring of that is better
than the echo of any good name; the best have too often proved a poor
dependence.
Annele saw that Lenz was tormenting himself unreasonably. She was often
tempted to turn his importunate creditors out of doors, and bid him not
yield so meekly to their cruel exactions. It was the way of the world,
as she knew, to trample upon those who cringed to it. But she kept her
thoughts to herself. His distress should drive him to adopt her
cherished plan of buying a hotel. Then, and not till then, would
matters assume a different aspect.
In his anxiety and despair Lenz felt keenly the desolation at his
heart, and his sidelong glance at Annele often said, as plainly as
words could have done: You are right. You have often reproved me for
being shiftless and good-for-nothing. Your words are coming true; I am
good-for-nothing. My heart is consumed with anxieties, and this
unloving life is wearing me away. I am like a candle that is kept
burning at both ends. May it soon be burned out!
Many persons brought him articles to be repaired, and obliged him to
work off part of his debt in that way. Now, now when bread was needed
for to-day, and there was no provision for the future, it was hard to
have to work for the past.
Some sat by him while he did their little jobs, keeping him thus a
prisoner in his own house; others with complaints and revilings took
away again the commissions he had failed to execute.
Such an existence was not to be endured. He must find some remedy, some
lasting remedy. His present state was neither living nor dying. "It is
intolerable to hang thus suspended by the hair of my head. I am
resolved once more to have solid ground under my feet," he said to
Annele. She vouchsafed a scarce perceptible nod of assent, but the mere
exercise of his will gave him new strength.
Early the next morning he set off across the mountain to visit his
mother's relations in the next valley. He had always been a favorite
with them, and felt sure they would not look on and see him perish.
The stars were just fading in the light of approaching day, when he
reached the top of the mountain-ridge. He looked abroad over the
snow-covered world. Nowhere a sign of life; why must he be living?
A phrase that had haunted him in one of his sleepless nights came now
into his mind: "The white sleep," this was it.
An icy wind from the mountains blew against his fevered checks, and
rudely recalled him to his senses by tearing the hat from his head and
whirling it down the abyss on whose brink he stood. His first impulse
was to rush after it; but a look showed him that it would be rushing to
certain death. One instant the thought flashed through his brain that a
happy accident might thus end his life forever; the next he had put the
cowardly suggestion behind him.
The blinding snow drifted ceaselessly across the ridge. The very raven
scarce was able to guide his flight, but, with fluttering wings, was
driven now high aloft, now deep into the abyss.
Lenz plodded painfully through snow and wind, till at last his eyes
were greeted by the sight of human habitations. The smoke, beaten down
by the wind, was spread in light clouds above the roofs of the houses.
Chimneys were almost unknown in this part of the country.
Lenz sought shelter at the first farm-house. "Welcome, welcome, Lenz! I
am glad you have not forgotten me," exclaimed a tall, handsome woman
standing by the hearth, with the pieces of a stout bough she had just
broken still in her hand.
"What have you done with your hat?"
"I did not recognize you at first. You are Katharine, are you not? How
strong you have grown. Katharine, I am come begging."
"Not so bad as that, I hope, Lenz."
"Yes, but it is though," said Lenz, with a bitter smile. He felt this
was no subject for joking. "You must lend or give me an old hat; mine
has been blown away by the wind."
"Come into the sitting-room. My husband will be sorry not to have been
at home to see you. He is carting wood in the forest."
The bailiff's daughter opened the sitting-room door, and politely
invited Lenz to precede her into the warm, cosey parlor.
He told her frankly when they were seated together that he had had no
intention of coming to see her; that in fact he did not even know where
she lived; but was glad that chance had led him to her door. She took
the confession in good part, saying, "You always were a true, honest
fellow, and I am glad you keep so." She brought out an old gray hat and
a soldier's cap of her husband's for him to take his choice between,
recommending the cap, as the hat was really too shabby to wear. It was
very much crushed and wanted a ribbon besides. He chose the hat,
however, and Katharine, finding he could not be induced to change his
mind, cut off one of the broad black ribbons from her Sunday hood, and
made it serve as a hatband, talking all the while of the people and
things in her old home,--everything connected with which she held in
fond remembrance.
"Do you remember throwing your hat up into the air one night as we were
coming home from the musical festival at Constance, and my running down
to the meadow to pick it up for you?"
"To be sure I do. I don't throw my hat up into the air nowadays; the
wind blows it up."
"The summer is sure to follow the winter," said Katharine,
comfortingly.
Lenz looked in wonder at the handsome woman so ready to help with hand
and tongue. She soon had a cup of coffee ready which she insisted upon
his drinking, sitting by him while he did so and talking over old days
and old acquaintances. "Franzl often comes to see us," she said; "we
are still the best of friends."
"I can see that life has prospered with you," said Lenz.
"Thank God, I have nothing to complain of. I have good health, money
enough for myself, and something to spare for others. My husband is
honest and industrious. It is not quite so merry here as it used to be
at home, for we have no singing. I would not mind that, if only I had a
child. My husband and I have agreed that, if we still have none of our
own on the fifth anniversary of our marriage, we will adopt one. Faller
must let us have one of his. You will try to persuade him, will you
not?"
"Gladly."
"How old you have grown, Lenz! You look all fallen away. Is it true
that Annele has turned out such a bad wife?"
Lenz's face flushed crimson. "Good Heavens!" cried Katharine; "how
stupid I am! I beg your pardon, Lenz, a thousand times. I did not mean
to wound you. I know it is not true. People will talk as long as the
day lasts, and when the days are short they take the night for it. I
pray you again and again to forget I ever said such a thing. I have
been so happy at having you see me in my own home, and now all my
pleasure is gone; I shall be miserable for weeks. You and the landlady
said I was too stupid, and I really am. Please give me back my heedless
words, Lenz."
She held out her hand as if expecting him to lay the words in it.
Lenz grasped her hand, assuring her that he was not offended, but, on
the contrary, grateful to her from his very heart. The hands of both
trembled. Lenz said it was time he was on his way again, but she held
him fast, and seemed anxious, by talking of all manner of other topics,
to efface the remembrance of her heedless speech. When he left at last,
she cried out after him: "Remember me to your Annele, and bring her
soon to see me."
Lenz went on his way with the borrowed hat; a beggar's hat, as he
called it, sadly.
Katharine's words pursued him. The same pity that was expressed for him
in that house was doubtless felt in many others. The thought almost
unmanned him, but he would not give way. He told himself that it was
his own fault; he ought to have showed more firmness.
Again and again his stick fell from his hands, and every time he
stooped to pick it up, he almost lacked the power to rise.
So much for a man's brooding over his sorrows instead of giving heed to
his way! You would lose your hands if they were not fastened to your
body. Mind what you are about!
He straightened himself up and walked on more briskly. The sun shone
bright and warm; the icicles on the rocks glittered and dripped; joyous
mountain songs, that he used to sing with the Liederkranz, began to
ring in his ears. Away with them! It could not have been he who once
sang such songs out of the gladness of his heart.
The relations he visited gave him a friendly welcome. At first he
related everywhere the adventure of the hat as an excuse for appearing
in such a dilapidated condition; but, finding that no one seemed to
think it required an explanation, he finally ceased to mention it. Of
course, in those very houses where he said nothing of the hat, it
excited great speculation; and was taken as a proof of the abject
poverty into which he had fallen.
His request for money was everywhere refused with more or less
civility. Some wondered at his applying to them when he had rich
brothers-in-law and an uncle rolling in money; others more politely
excused themselves on the plea of having just bought some land and
needing all their money for building; or regretted he had not applied a
few days ago, before they made their last investment.
Sorely dispirited, Lenz pursued his way. He could not bear to think of
home. His one wish was that he might never see the Morgenhalde again,
but could lie down in some ditch, or in the wood, or in any one of the
many quiet places he passed; lie down and die. Still, an irresistible
force drove him ever onward.
Before him lay Knuslingen, where Franzl lived with her brother. There
was at least one person in the world who would be glad to see him.
Who indeed could be so happy as Franzl when Lenz entered her room? She
was sitting at the window, spinning coarse yarn, and a great bound her
distaff gave at the sight of him. Twice she wiped the chair on which he
was to sit, uttering all the while many apologies at the untidiness of
the room. She had never noticed before how damp and smoky it was. Lenz
must tell all about himself, and yet she could not keep still long
enough to listen. She began running on in her old way. "At first the
cold here was more than I could bear, after being used to our good sun
on the Morgenhalde. Whenever there is a ray of sunlight anywhere, we
were sure to get it there. Whatever else may go wrong, Lenz, be
thankful for so much good sunlight; that no one can rob you of. It is
very different here. For seven weeks and five days not a glimmer
reached this valley. On the second day after the festival of the Three
Kings, at eleven o'clock, the first ray of sun fell on that pear-tree
at the edge of the hill, and from that time the sun kept climbing up so
that in summer it is warm and pleasant. By this time I have grown to
feel quite at home here again. But, Lenz, what makes you look so? There
is a something in your face that I never saw before,--something that
does not belong there. Ah! that is better; when you smile you have your
old look again,--your pleasant look. You must have felt how I have
prayed for you and yours every morning and every evening. I bear no
grudge against Annele, not the least. She was quite right. I am a poor,
worn-out tool. Whom do your children look like? What are their names?
When the spring comes again, I must get to see them if I have to creep
on my hands and knees." Then Franzl went on to tell how she had three
hens and three geese and a potato-patch, all her own. "We are poor,"
she said, folding her hands on her bosom, "but, thank Heaven, we have
never been reduced to looking on and seeing others eat. We have always
had something to put in our mouths. Please Heaven, next year I mean to
buy myself a goat." She bestowed great praise upon her geese, and
greater still upon her hens. The hens, whose winter-quarters were in a
coop by the stove, politely clucked their thanks and took as good a
view as their space permitted of the man to whom their good qualities
were thus set forth. The gold-colored hen, called Yellow-hammer,
flapped her wings with delight, and then gave herself a good,
comfortable shake.
Lenz had no time to speak, before Franzl, thinking to comfort him,
broke out into fierce abuse of the landlady, mixed with commendations
of Katharine and her kindness to her, as well as to all the poor in the
neighborhood. "She feeds my hens, and they in return feed me," said the
old woman, laughing at her own wit.
Lenz at last made out to say that it was time for him to be going. He
heard Annele's sharp words as plainly as if she were standing at his
elbow, reproaching him for his foolish waste of time, in sitting
listening to any old woman's tale that was poured into his ears. He
cast a hurried look behind him to see if she were not actually in the
room, and hastily seized his hat and cane. Franzl begged him before he
went to mount with her into her little chamber under the roof where she
had something to say to him. He trembled inwardly lest Franzl too was
about to speak of his unhappiness at home. She did not refer to that,
however, but brought out from the straw of her bed a heavy, well-filled
shoe, tied with many fastenings, saying: "You must do me a favor; I
cannot sleep in peace with this thing here; and I pray you to take it
away and do what you please with it. Here are a hundred florins and
three crown-pieces. You will take them, won't you? and give me back my
quiet sleep." Lenz declined the proffered money, and again prepared to
depart; but Franzl wept and held him fast. "If you have any message for
your mother, let me know. Please God, I shall soon be with her, and
will deliver it faithfully. And if your mother is too timid to tell our
Lord God the whole truth, I will do it myself. You can rely upon me."
Still the old woman would not let go of Lenz's hand, and kept saying:
"There was something else I wanted to say to you; it has been on my
tongue, but now I cannot think what it was. As soon as you are gone I
shall certainly remember it. I was to remind you of something; don't
you know what it was?"
Lenz did not know what it was, and at last almost reluctantly took his
departure.
He entered a wayside inn, where a noisy welcome awaited him. "Hurrah,
hurrah! that is jolly to have you here too," cried a voice in greeting;
and there at a table, on which stood a great flagon of beer, sat
Proebler with two of his associates. One of his pot companions was the
blind musician from Fuchsberg, whose instrument Lenz was in the habit
of putting in order every year. An expression of embarrassment and
mortification overspread the blind man's face at the sound of Lenz's
voice, but he assumed a braggadocio air, and, flourishing his glass
above his head, cried out, "Come, Lenz, pledge me out of my glass!"
Lenz courteously declined. Old Proebler tried to get up and advance to
meet him, but his legs soon admonished him that he was safer sitting,
and he contented himself with calling out: "Take a seat with us, Lenz,
and let the bankrupt world without snow itself away as it will. There
is no good left in it. Here we will sit till the day of judgment. I
want nothing more; when I have spent my last farthing I shall sell my
coat for drink, and then lay me down in the snow and save you the cost
of burying me. Here you have a proof, comrades, of what a worthless
world it is, that can thus bring its best and noblest to ruin. Have a
drink, Lenz! That is well. Look at him, the best and bravest fellow in
all the world; and how has the world used him? When his mother died,
and the whole town was talking of nothing but Lenz's marriage,--why,
the sparrows could not be madder after a sack of corn than the girls
were for Lenz."
"Enough of that," interposed Lenz.
"No, no; you need not be ashamed to hear the truth. The doctor's
daughters, and the paper-miller's only daughter, who was so rich and
handsome and married Baron Thingummy,--every one of them would have
jumped at him. The paper-miller said to me the day after the betrothal:
'Lenz of the Morgenhalde might have had my daughter and welcome.' And
now--Peace, Lenz; I have done--only the Lord or the Devil knows who
will get the upperhand. Look at that man! His own father-in-law has
robbed him, has sold the very hair off his head, and left his house
bare in the middle of winter. I was honest too once, Lenz; but I have
had enough of it, and you will see the folly of it presently. Go about
the world, if you are in want, and ask of the good and charitable. Take
a pinch; take a pinch! their snuff-boxes are open to you, and that is
all. Take a pinch!" Proebler pressed his snuff-box upon him and laughed
immoderately.
Lenz shuddered at hearing himself thus held up to view as the most
striking example of failure and ruin. Such a notoriety he had never
thought to attain. He tried to convince Proebler that a man had no right
to ruin himself, and then cry out against the world for having ruined
him. His arguments in favor of every man's helping himself instead of
expecting the world to help him greatly strengthened his own
confidence, but failed to affect his hearer, who drew a knife from his
pocket, and forcing it into Lenz's hand, together with the knife that
lay on the table, cried out: "There, you have all the knives; I can do
you no hurt. Now tell me honestly, am I a good-for-nothing fellow, or
might I have been the foremost man in the world, if the world had
helped me? Your father-in-law, whose soul the Devil must weigh out
like so much lead, smeared his creaking boots with the marrow of my
bones; and capital blacking he found it. Tell me honestly, am I a
good-for-nothing fellow, or what am I?"
Of course Lenz had to acknowledge that Proebler would have been a master
in his art, if he had remained in the right road; at which the old man
shouted and beat upon the table, and was with difficulty prevented from
throwing his arms about Lenz's neck and kissing him.
"I want no other funeral oration. Lenz has pronounced my eulogy. Drink,
drink! empty your glasses!"
Lenz had to drink with the rest, and Proebler, filling the glasses
again, cried out exultingly: "The doctor wants to take me into his
hospital, his manufactory. It is too late. The time for doctoring and
manufacturing is past. There is Lenz of the Morgenhalde, whom all
respect to-day and to-morrow, and how much longer? I was once like him,
and now when I go through the town men point their fingers at me and
shrug their shoulders and cry, 'Pah, there is that scamp of a Proebler!'
Follow my advice, Lenz. Don't wait till you are as old as I, but make
your bow in good season. Hark to me, brother, I have something to tell
you. Do you remember our setting up those standard regulators? Do you
know what we were then? A couple of pattern fools. Did you want to
unite the clockmakers in an association? You might as well try to make
them join hands with the Devil. Hark to me, brother! Don't tear
yourself away; stay here, stay here! I have something to tell you. I
make you my heir. There is a way to buy jollity in the world, and
forgetfulness, and good cheer. I know your heart is heavy; I know where
the shoe pinches. Old Proebler knows more than other men; he knows
everything. Pour wine on the worm in your heart; wine or brandy.
Whatever drowns it is good. Then we shall have no more clocks, no more
hours, no day and no night, no more time, but all eternity."
The old man fell into the most frenzied ravings. At times a spark of
intelligence shone through his wild utterances, and then again all was
delirium. It was impossible to tell whether it was a fact, or only his
fancy, that the landlord's failure had robbed him of all provision for
his old age, or whether it was the sale of his mysterious work that had
reduced him to this state of despair. The burden of his cry was ever
"Lenz, drink your life out while you are young, and don't be so long
killing yourself as I have been." Lenz turned sick with horror at this
living proof of what a man may come to who has lost his self-respect,
and whose only refuge is self-forgetfulness.
"Your mother had a good saying," began Proebler again; "did I tell you
that was Lenz of the Morgenhalde? Yes, your mother. 'Better go barefoot
than in ragged boots,' she used to say. Do you know what she meant? I
have a better proverb: 'Tear off the nag's shoes before you take her to
market.' Landlord! here is another horseshoe for you. Wine, wine!" He
threw down a dollar.
The mention of his mother's name, though in such an unworthy
connection, acted as a warning to Lenz as effectually as if her eye
were suddenly and sternly fixed upon him. He rose from his seat, in
spite of all Proebler's efforts to detain him. Gladly would he have
taken the old man with him, but it was impossible to stir him from the
spot. All he could do was to charge the landlord to keep him where he
was till morning, and on no account to give him anything more to drink.
"There is my last pinch gone," cried Proebler, throwing his snuff-box
after him as he closed the door.
Drawing his breath hard, as if escaping from a close and burning hell,
Lenz staggered out into the free air of heaven.
The night was coming on. The ice-bird twittered by the frozen brook,
and the ravens sought the cover of the forest. A buck came out to the
edge of the wood, stood with his great eyes fixed on Lenz till he came
close up to him, then with a bound vanished again into the thicket,
marking his course by the fresh snow he shook from the tender firs as
he passed.
Lenz often stopped, thinking he heard himself called. Perhaps Proebler
was following him. He shouted in reply till the echoes rang; he went
back a space; but no one did he see or hear. Again he pushed on. The
trees, the mountains, seemed dancing to meet him. A woman who looked
like his mother came towards him. If his mother should see him thus!
The old woman gave him a friendly greeting as she passed, and warned
him not to linger in the valley after dark, for there were black
gullies in the snow, and avalanches were falling which might bury a man
and no one be the wiser.
A wonderful tone there was in the old woman's voice, just like his
mother's. Thanks for the friendly warning!
A sacred vow Lenz registered in his heart.--
He also resolved, however, not to go home empty-handed, and, turning
his steps to the city, sought the house of his brother-in-law, the
lumber-merchant. The rich man was happily at home, but gave him such an
ungracious reception that he found it difficult to state his errand.
Sister Babette's husband laid all the family misfortunes at Lenz's
door; he alone was to blame for not having taken affairs from the
beginning into his own hands. Whether the accusation was made in good
faith or not, it furnished an excellent excuse for refusing help. In
vain did Lenz pray, with clasped hands, to be saved from absolute ruin.
The lumber-merchant only shrugged his shoulders and advised him to
apply to his rich uncle, Petrovitsch.