ALL IS WELL.
The ravens flew across the valley and over the mountains, past a humble
cottage where sat an old woman at the window, spinning coarse yarn,
while big tears rolled down her withered cheeks upon the threads she
spun. It was Franzl. The tidings that Lenz with his whole household had
been buried in the snow had reached Knuslingen, and men from her
village had gone to their rescue. Franzl would gladly have gone with
them and done her part; but her poor old feet refused to bear her.
Moreover, she had lent her one good pair of shoes to a poor woman who
had to go to the doctor's. In the midst of her sorrow Franzl often
clapped her hands to her stupid head and said to herself: Why did I not
think of it yesterday, while he was here? it is too late now. I had it
on my tongue's end to tell him he must make provision against being
snowed up. We were thrice snowed up for days at a time, and such an
accident should be provided for every winter. It is too late now. The
old mistress was right in saying, as she did a hundred times: "Franzl,
you are always very clever, an hour behind the time."
The ravens that now flew past her window might have told Franzl to dry
her tears, for the buried family was saved. Unhappily man cannot
understand the ravens, and is a long while conveying his good news
across mountain and valley.
At evening a sleigh with merry jingling bells came driving up to the
door. What could it want? there was no one at home but Franzl. It
stopped just before her window. Who was getting out from it? was it not
Pilgrim? She tried to go to meet him, but her strength failed her.
"Franzl, I have come for you," cried Pilgrim. The old woman rubbed her
forehead. Was it a dream? or what was it? "Lenz and his household are
saved," continued Pilgrim; "and I am sent to fetch you, most high and
mighty princess Cinderella. Will you trust yourself to the Swan."
"I have no shoes," stammered out Franzl.
"For that reason I have brought you fur boots that will just fit your
little foot," returned Pilgrim; "and here is the skin, I mean the
sheep-skin, of the monster Petrovitsch. You must drive with me,
well-beloved Franzl of Knuslingen, Fuchsberg, and Knebringen. Your
magic spinning-wheel you must leave behind, unless it chooses to hop
after us on its wooden legs.
"'So gird thyself, my Gretchen,
Thou must with me to-day;
The corn is cut and garnered,
The wine is stored away.'"
Thus merrily singing, Pilgrim offered old Franzl his arm, as if to lead
her to the dance. She was in a state of perfect bewilderment. Happily
her sister-in-law came home at this moment, and was by no means
displeased at the idea of having Franzl carried off in a sleigh. The
old woman, however, turned her unceremoniously out of the room when she
wanted to help her pack up her things: she could have no one by to see
her stow away that mysterious shoe.
"The bed is my own; can you not pack it away in the sleigh?" she asked.
"Let Knuslingen have it to sleep upon," answered Pilgrim. "Use your
pillow for a footstool and leave the rest behind. You will be cushioned
like a queen."
"Must I leave my hens and my geese behind too? They are all my very
own, and my gold-hammer has been sitting for six weeks."
The hen thus complimented thrust her gay crest through the bars of her
coop.
The hens and geese, Pilgrim said, ran after the true princess
Cinderella of their own accord, and these were free to do the same if
they were so inclined; carrying them was out of the question.
Franzl recommended her beloved fowls most pressingly to the tender
mercies of her sister-in-law, and charged her to send them by the first
messenger that should be going her way.
The hens cackled uneasily in their coop as Franzl left the room, and
the geese in the barn added their note of remonstrance when the sleigh
flew by.
It was on a beautifully clear winter's night that Pilgrim and Franzl
started from Knuslingen. The stars were glittering above their heads
and a firmament of glittering stars was in Franzl's heart. She was
obliged to seize her bag and pinch it till she felt her well-stuffed
shoe in order to convince herself that the whole was not a dream.
"See, there is my potato-patch," said Franzl; "I bought it with my own
money when it was nothing but a heap of stones, and in these four years
the value of it has doubled. The potatoes are as white as the whitest
meal."
"Let the Knuslingers enjoy your potatoes; you shall get something
better," answered Pilgrim. He went on to tell of the rescue of the
buried household, and how they were all living now with Petrovitsch,
who was a changed man and had become one of his best friends. It was
Annele's first request, he said, that Franzl should be sent for. The
old woman wept aloud when she heard of Annele's white hair. She once
knew a woman, she said, whose mother had a relation, a man up in
Elsass, whose hair turned white in a night from fright. It was
wonderful, and she was filled with compassion for Annele, who would now
be the town talk. "Folks are so stupid, and yet think they must always
be saying some smart thing. I will soon teach them we don't need their
silly gossip."
At every house where they saw lights Franzl wanted to get out and tell
what had happened. "There lives Mr. So-and-so and Mrs. Such-a-one;
kind, honest people who have grieved at Lenz's fate. It is too bad they
should keep on being unhappy when there is no need of it. They would be
glad, too, to know that Franzl was the first person sent for. Who can
tell whether there will ever be another chance to bid good-by in this
world?"
Pilgrim, however, drove pitilessly past all the good peoples' houses,
stopping nowhere. If a window was opened and a head thrust out to look
at the sleigh, Franzl cried as loud as she could, "Good by; God bless
you." It was no matter if the bells did nearly drown the words; she had
had the satisfaction of sending a kindly farewell to those she might
never see again.
At the farm where the bailiff's daughter lived Pilgrim had to stop.
Alas! no joy is complete in this world; Katharine was not at home.
Having no children of her own, she was frequently called on to assist
in bringing into the world those of others, and was at that moment
watching by a sick-bed. Franzl told her news twice over to the maid, to
make sure of her not forgetting a word.
Her sense of content came over her afresh on re-entering the sleigh.
"Now I feel better," she said. "It is like half waking up from a good
night's sleep, and just being conscious of how deliciously comfortable
you are, before tumbling off to sleep again. I am not asleep; though I
feel as if I were already in the life everlasting."
Pilgrim came near destroying all her pleasure by an ill-timed joke.
"Franzl," he said, "you won't fare very well up there."
"Up where?"
"In the next world. You are having your paradise now. You must not
expect to have it here and there too; that would be more than your
share."
"Stop! stop! let me get out; I want to go home," cried Franzl. "I will
have nothing to do with you! nothing on this earth shall tempt me to
give up my hope of the life everlasting. Stop, or I shall jump out!"
With a greater strength than he had supposed the old woman possessed
she seized hold of the reins and tried to force them from Pilgrim's
hand. He had great difficulty in quieting her by protesting it was all
a joke. She could not understand a man's joking about such things as
that. He quoted in Greek, and obligingly translated into Black-forest
German, a passage from the life of Saint Haspucias to prove that she
would not after all lose the life everlasting, because a special
exception was made in favor of servants, whose life in this world was
hard enough at the best. Pilgrim showed a wonderful acquaintance with
the heavenly arrangements, and with difficulty resisted the temptation
of assuring Franzl that he was employed by St. Peter as court-painter.
Franzl was quite pacified, and fully admitted the truth of his
statement about the hard life of servants. "I am so glad to be going to
see my Lenz's children," she began again presently. "The boy is called
William, after you, is he not? And what is the little girl's name?"
"Marie."
"O yes; for her grandmother."
"That happily reminds me of something I had quite forgotten. The
children think I have gone for their grandmother, and am fetching her
home in a swan. They are depending on keeping awake till we arrive. The
high and mighty princess of Knuslingen, Fuchsberg, and Knebringen must
let it please her grace to be called grandmother."
Franzl thought the deception very wicked; such a name was sacred, and
should only be given to a blood-relation. Her only consolation was that
she would soon undeceive the children; she was not born in Knuslingen
for nothing. The necessity of keeping up the honor of her native town
soon restored her to complete composure.
It was well that Franzl became somewhat sobered by these discussions on
the way, else she would certainly have expected to see the whole
population of the village drawn up by the roadside to welcome her. As
it was, her first greeting was a burst of laughter from Petrovitsch,
who was so convulsed by the oddity of her appearance that he had no
strength to stand. Bubby, also, excited by his master's unwonted
gayety, began to bark as the best substitute for laughter at his
command. "Anton Striegler knew you would come to look like that some
day," cried the old fellow, maliciously; "and therefore he let you be."
"And the worms will let you be for a while longer, till you are better
done; you are too tough for them now," retorted Franzl, the
concentrated hate of years, and indignation at being taunted with her
blighted love, finding vent in the stinging answer. It silenced Bubby's
bark and Petrovitsch's laughter. Both had a salutary fear of the old
woman from that time forth.
Lenz was asleep, and Annele in the room with the children, who after
all had not been able to keep awake. She would have thrown her arms
about old Franzl's neck, if the presence of Pilgrim and Petrovitsch had
not restrained her.
"See, here are our children," she said. "Give them just one kiss; it
will not wake them."
She insisted on Franzl staying in the parlor while she went into the
kitchen to cook her supper. Surprise at the change that had come over
her former mistress kept the old woman sitting for a while in the chair
where she had been placed, but she presently followed into the kitchen.
"Oh how good it is to be able to light a fire!" said Annele. Franzl
looked at her in amazement, not understanding that Annele was grateful
now for everything, all the thousand little blessings that the rest of
us take as a matter of course.
"What do you say to my white hair?" asked Annele.
"I wish I could give you mine; there is not a white hair on my head,
and never will be. My mother used to tell me that I was born into the
world with a full crop of hair."
Annele said, with a smile, that her white hair was sent her as a sign
that she had been in the shadow of death and must now live at peace
with all the world.
"You will forgive me too, Franzl, will you not? I thought of you in
that hour of death."
Franzl could only answer with her tears.
The change in Annele was indeed wonderful. The first time she heard the
bells ring she took the baby in her arms, and said, as she folded its
little hands together, "O child! I never thought to hear that sound
again"; and when Franzl brought the first bucket of water, she
exclaimed, "Oh, how clear and beautiful the water is! I thank God for
giving it to us!"
Long after the memory of this time of terror had faded from the minds
of her two companions in danger, the thought of it was still vivid, to
Annele, making her gentle and tender, sensitive to every hasty word.
Franzl could not help saying to Pilgrim sometimes, that she feared
Annele would not live long, there was something so almost heavenly
about her.
The burial and deliverance of Lenz's household quite cast into the
shade another event, which otherwise would have given rise to much
speculation and comment.
Two days after his disaster the frozen body of a man was found under
the snow in a woody hollow near Knuslingen. It was poor old Proebler. No
one mourned him so deeply as Lenz. He believed now that he had heard
the old man calling him, and read a lesson in the death of this poor,
half-crazy discoverer that was revealed to no one else.
Annele continued to thrive in her uncle's great house, and was as fresh
and blooming as ever. She and Lenz lived there till late into the
summer, when their own house was ready for them. Little William sorely
troubled the old man by jumping up on sofas and chairs which Bubby was
allowed to tumble about on with impunity.
Petrovitsch caught a violent cold from his exposure that night, and was
strongly urged by the doctor to try the baths for his cough. He
steadily refused, however, resolving in his own mind that, if he must
die, he would die at home; he had had enough of homesickness. He
often walked with little William on the Spannreute, where well-grown
larch-trees had been set out, and trenches dug to protect the house.
One day he said to him reprovingly: "William, you are just like Bubby,
never satisfied with the straight path. Why will you always be jumping
this way and that, over a ditch or up the side of a rock? you two are
fit companions for each other." "Uncle," answered little William, "a
dog is not a man, nor a man a dog." These simple words so pleased the
old uncle, that he begged Lenz to leave the boy behind if he ever
should return to his house on the hill.
Annele was the one most desirous of going back to the Morgenhalde. Once
she would have thought it a paradise upon earth to keep Petrovitsch's
big house for him, in the expectation of becoming his heir; now she
cared for nothing but to pass her days in quiet, happy industry among
the lonely hills.
The death of her mother, which had been concealed from her for a time,
did not fall upon her as a sharp and sudden blow; it counted as one of
the many horrors which were crowded into that terrible night.
Petrovitsch kept little William in the house, and induced Pilgrim to
make his home with them. The passersby were often entertained by the
sounds that came from the big house; the neighing as of a horse, the
grunting of a pig, the whistle of a nightingale, or the squeaking of
little owls. Two heads, the one of an old child, the other of a young
one, were generally to be seen at the window. They were Pilgrim's and
his godson's. Their great delight was trying to see which could imitate
the greater number of animal sounds. Bubby joined in with a genuine
bark, and Petrovitsch laughed till his laughing was cut short by his
cough. For years the old man had not been out of the village. As for
trying any baths, he maintained that the laughing he did at home was
better than all the washing in the world.
Lenz's friends showed themselves eager to help in the rebuilding of the
house on the Morgenhalde. They flocked from all sides, bringing
contributions of wood and stone. But the prospect of returning to his
old life gave Lenz no pleasure; he wanted to start on a new and wider
field. As a man recovering from a severe illness is not satisfied with
resuming the threads of his life where his illness interrupted them, so
Lenz felt himself a wiser and stronger man, able to undertake larger
works.
All seemed ready now for the execution of his old pet plan, and no one
favored it more than Annele. Her hearty encouragement strengthened and
cheered her husband. "You have always had at heart the happiness of
your fellow-men. I remember your saying soon after our marriage that
you rejoiced in a bright Sunday because it made thousands and thousands
of persons happy. Go about among men; wherever you go, you will bring
the sunlight with you. I wish I could go too and tell them all how good
you are."
Accompanied by the engineer, the doctor, Pilgrim, the schoolmaster, and
the weight-manufacturer, Lenz went from house to house, and from
village to village, where his eloquence, his wisdom and goodness were
praised by all, as well as his ready sympathy with others' needs and
his quick suggestions of relief.
What in his days of prosperity he could not succeed in accomplishing
was effected now as by tacit agreement; the various independent
clockmakers were united in a general association.
After building afresh his old house, and bringing prosperity into those
of his fellow-workmen, he now had the happiness of helping to found a
new home.
He performed for Pilgrim the office which Pilgrim had once offered to
perform for him in the doctor's house, and won for his friend the hand
of Amanda, Pilgrim became overseer of the case-making department of the
factory, and to him are due the many graceful forms of clock-cases,
carved with leaves and other ornamentations, for which the wood of the
new Spannreute forest, and the well-seasoned timber taken from the old
house on the Morgenhalde, furnished abundant material.
In the second summer after the catastrophe on the Morgenhalde Lenz came
to his uncle with the first request he had made him; it was for the
means to send Faller to the baths. The doctor had recommended them as a
relief for a severe bronchial affection that had been contracted on the
night of the avalanche.
"There is the money for it. Tell Faller he must go to the baths for
himself and me too. I am glad you do not beg on your own account. Your
way of helping yourself is much better."
Great persuasions were needed to induce Faller to visit the baths. He
was finally brought to consent only by Annele's earnest representations
to his wife.
Annele had two friends of very different character, Faller's wife and
Amanda, now Mrs. Pilgrim. Many a slip from the doctor's garden found
its way up to the Morgenhalde, and was carefully planted and tended by
Annele's own hand.
Faller went to the bathing establishment kept by Annele's older sister,
and there fell in with an old acquaintance. The manager of the bath was
the former landlord of the Lion, who had retired thither after the
death of his wife. The old gentleman was as patronizing as ever, and
seemed to thrive on his freedom from care. He was cheerful and even
communicative. One subject, however, he never alluded to,--his past
life; that would have compromised his dignity, and might have awakened
awkward reminiscences between himself and Faller. He spoke handsomely
of Lenz, and enjoined upon Faller to tell him that he must never allow
himself to be goaded into any undertaking that he did not feel himself
thoroughly fitted for. This sentence he made Faller repeat over and
over again, word for word, till he knew it by heart, when the landlord
put on his spectacles to see how a man actually looked who had such a
sentence in his head.
His two favorite topics were the absence of justice in Brazil, and the
wonder-working qualities of the springs and the whey. If some princess
would only set the fashion by visiting his baths, they would become the
first in importance in the world.
By telling his wish with regard to the princess, the landlord thought
to show his forethought as well as the loftiness of his aspirations.
Poor Faller had it impressed upon him again and again, as if he might
at any moment have the disposing of a couple of dozen princesses great
and small.
Faller came home apparently improved in health. Early in the spring,
however, when the snow was beginning to melt, he died.
Not long afterward old Petrovitsch, too, was buried. He had made a
brave struggle against death. His paroxysms of coughing had increased
in violence and frequency since the autumn, and in one of them he was
finally choked to death. As the doctor had conjectured, he left no
property except a life-annuity which he had bought with what little
money the gaming-table at Baden-Baden had spared. Thus many seeming
inconsistencies in the old man's conduct were accounted for. The
doctor maintained that all his dislike of other men sprang from
dissatisfaction with himself.
Faller's sons were all provided for. Lenz took one into his house, and
Katharine adopted the second pair of twins. She only wanted one, but
the children could not bear to be parted. The little girl remained with
her mother.
Franzl took delight in telling her old friend Katharine of the sort of
life that was led on the Morgenhalde.
"I don't know which of us Annele spoils the most, her husband or me.
The angels in heaven must rejoice to see the life they lead together.
You know I am from Knuslingen, and therefore, though I mean to take no
credit to myself, manage to see more than most persons. At first there
lurked a fear of each other in their hearts,--a fear lest some
thoughtless word might open the old wound, as flames sometimes break
out afresh amid the ruins of a house that has been burned. But they
gradually learned that each had always dearly loved the other, and that
what had seemed unkindness and hate was only the pain of not having
rightly learned to conform to each other's habits. Now Annele has given
up all desire for a hotel, and Lenz has grown more of a man. The
Liederkranz has become quite a different sort of society, and my Lenz
is the chief member of it; all say he has the finest voice and the best
managed of all the singers. There is a new society started which in
some way is to help everybody. The weight-manufacturer from Knuslingen
can explain it better than I can, for he is one of the members. Did you
know that my Lenz's musical clock had taken the first prize at some
great exhibition, and that he had received a medal from England? He
told Annele that he cared for it only as it might prove to her that he
was capable of accomplishing something after all; at which she cried
and told him, all that was buried with their past life, and never to be
recalled; that she needed no one now to bear witness to his worth; none
knew it as well as she. Then Lenz looked up to his mother's picture and
said, 'Mother, sing in heaven! Your children are happy.'"
Katharine listened to this glowing account with proper expressions of
joy. Franzl, however, was not easily stopped when once wound up, and
continued: "Do you know what we inherited from Petrovitsch? Nothing but
his dog, which has to be fed on the fat of the land. I say dry bread
and potatoes are good enough for him, but Lenz pets him on account of
his having saved little Marie's life. Not a penny did Petrovitsch
leave us. The doctor always said he had put all his money into a
life-insurance company,--I think he called it,--which paid him so much
a year. The handsome fortune that he scraped together from all parts of
the world was lost at the gaming-table. Players are certainly the
cleverest and the stupidest creatures in the world. The doctor says so,
and it must be true.--Don't you mean to stay over to-morrow for the
funeral of the old mayoress? She was nearly seventy-eight years old,
and the last of that generation. Lenz said, when his uncle died, that
he was glad he left him nothing, for he would rather make his own way
in the world. He means to take William and young Faller as apprentices,
and later to send them abroad."
"And do they treat you well?" asked Katharine, for the sake of saying
something.
"Dear me, only too well! I don't know why it is that every one thinks
life could not go on happily without me. I wish I was not quite so old;
my comfort is that my grandmother lived to be eighty-three, and for
aught any one can tell, it might have been ninety-three; those old
people who can't read and write often make mistakes. Perhaps I shall
live as long myself. I enjoy my food and my sleep. There is a blessing
on all that goes on in this house. Look at the wood; has it not grown
nicely? and it is all our own. As truly as that forest grows and
thrives where God planted it, so truly does all good grow and thrive
with us. Are they not fine young trees? we shall live to see them grow
strong and tall."
Katharine could not wait for that, and as she went off with the twins,
accompanied by their mother, Lenz, and Annele, Franzl called after her
from the kitchen: "Katharine, you must make up your mind to stand
god-mother next time."
That is the story of Lenz and Annele of the Morgenhalde; which explains
why the young, white-haired mother asked her son, when he was setting
off for foreign lands, to bring her home a sprig of edelweiss.
When Lenz returned from starting the two youths on their way, he found
a garland of fresh flowers about his mother's picture. Eighteen years
ago that day she had been buried, and Annele always kept the
anniversary. They felt in their hearts, though they never said it, that
her blessed memory bloomed ever fresh within them, like the flowers in
the field.
Faller's widow and daughter sat down to dinner with them at noon. "If
my husband had but lived to see our two sons set off on their travels
together!" sighed the poor woman. Lenz tried to comfort her by telling
how well the twins were doing that Katharine had adopted. One had
already risen to be sergeant in the army, the other was his adopted
father's assistant, and would doubtless be his heir. Faller's daughter,
a tall, slender girl of fifteen, said she had promised to write to
William and her brother the first of every month.
After dinner Lenz sat down to his work as usual. Eighteen years ago it
had calmed a greater grief than the departure of his son occasioned him
to-day. Annele sat by him with her sewing; no longer full of an unrest
which she communicated to him, but rather shedding a beneficent
influence around her. His work prospered better when she looked on. She
spoke little, and the few words she did say showed within what a narrow
circle her thoughts were now confined. "William takes six shirts with
him, made from the cotton your blessed mother spun."
The places of the two apprentices were already filled; for parents the
country round were anxious to have their boys learn their trade with
Lenz. One of the new-comers was, to Franzl's great delight, a grandson
of the weight-manufacturer of Knuslingen.
Towards evening the schoolmaster came up the hill with a great bundle
of papers under his arm, labelled in large letters, "Acts of the
Clockmakers' Union." He asked Lenz to go a little way into the wood
with him before the other members arrived, and during their absence
Annele ranged two rows of chairs about the room, for Lenz was now
president of the association.
[Illustration: Edelweiss.]
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