An Old Story of My Farming Days Vol. 1 (of 3).
by Fritz Reuter · English · Gutenberg #35849 · 468,076 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: An Old Story of My Farming Days Vol. 1 (of 3).
Author: Fritz Reuter
Translator: M. W. Macdowall
Release date: April 13, 2011 [eBook #35849]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35849
Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN OLD STORY OF MY FARMING DAYS VOL. 1 (OF 3). ***
Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
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2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
_Each volume sold separately at the price of M 1,60_.
COLLECTION
OF
GERMAN AUTHORS
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
* * * * *
VOL. 34.
AN OLD STORY OF MY FARMING DAYS.
By FRITZ REUTER.
IN THREE VOLUMES.--VOL. 1.
LEIPZIG: BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.
LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY, LIMITED.
ST. DUNSTAN'S HOUSE, FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET E.C.
PARIS: LIBRAIRIE C. REINWALD, 15, RUE DES SAINTS-PERES; THE
GALIGNANI LIBRARY, 224, RUE DE RIVOLI.
_This Collection of German Authors may be introduced_
_into England or any other country_.
COLLECTION
OF
GERMAN AUTHORS.
VOL. 34.
* * * * *
AN OLD STORY
OF MY FARMING DAYS BY FRITZ REUTER.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
TAUCHNITZ EDITION:
By the same Author,
IN THE YEAR '13: . . . . . . . . 1 vol.
* * *
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. I.
_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.
Well, well, it was not always so.--The father of the man who now rides
to town with white reins for his horse, and who drinks his couple of
bottles of champagne, had probably nothing better than small beer with
which to quench his thirst, and had his reins tied together with his
wife's garter. Ah, those were hard times in Mecklenburg when wheat was
sold in barrels on the public road for sixteen pence a bushel, good
measure too, to the labourers to feed their pigs with, and when, as in
Rostock, a whole load of oats was given in exchange for a loaf of
sugar.
Mecklenburg is a beautiful and a rich land, just the kind of country
that delights a farmer, but at the time of which I am speaking there
was great poverty and distress throughout the length and breadth of it,
and the collector knocked at every door, and demanded that the rent
should be paid, and whoever had anything to give, gave his last penny,
and he who had nothing to give was sold up.
Let no one imagine from this that our country-people hobbled about the
land like scare-crows during these hard times, or that one could read
the "Vater-unser" through their sunken cheeks--Nay!--they were as true
Mecklenburgers every bit then as now, only they had to manage
differently. Now-a-days one says: "Butter costs a shilling a pound,
which comes to so much a hundredweight, and if I sell so many
hundredweights of it, I shall be able to buy a glass-coach and four
horses to match from the sale of butter alone."--At that time one said:
"What mother? Butter cost two-pence? Then let's eat it by itself.--What
mother? The butcher offers fifteen shillings for the fat pig? Cut its
throat, mother, and put it in our own salting-tub."--The country-people
were all quite as strong and healthy then as now, and were quite as
well off as regarded food in the third decade of this century as at the
present day, it was the shoemakers' and tailors' bills that were the
difficulty, and as for ready money, they learnt what that really was
when they were called upon to pay their rent.
Yes, things are much improved of late years, and although the priests
say a thousand times that the world is worse than it was, I maintain
that it has grown better.
"Good morning, Mr. bailiff Wilbrandt!"--"Good morning, old friend, come
and have some breakfast"--"Good morning, father Hellwig!"--"Don't
bother me, I'm in a bad humour."--"Why, what's the matter?"--"A great
deal's the matter. My rent has almost doubled itself, and Zirzow has
done its part this year, and so here I am with L3000 that I don't
know how to invest. The Rostock bank won't take in any more money, so
what's to be done? Ah, Wilbrandt, it's a bad world!"--"Yes, it's a bad
world," replied the bailiff; and I also said: "Very bad," without for a
moment remembering the large sum of money I shall have to invest next
term.--"Yes," continued Wilbrandt, "who the devil thought of mortgages
in the old days?"--"True," said father Hellwig, "nobody thought of such
things then. Look you, when I went to old Solomon in Stemhagen[1], and
told him I wanted to borrow some money from him, he said to me:
'Hellwig,' he said, 'you have an honest face, it is marked with
small-pox--but there's no harm in that--you shall have the money.' And
then I had to spend one night in his house, and sleep in the same room
as he did. Now I have a bad habit of smoking myself to sleep, and so I
always take a freshly lit pipe to bed with me, and as Solomon was very
nervous about fire, he kept continually calling to me: 'Hellwig, are
you still smoking?' Ah, those were good old times!"--"Yes," said the
bailiff, "and how we used to rejoice when we had paid off the last
farthing of our small debts! The happiest part of my life passed away
with my last debts. Those were good old times."--"No," said I, "they
were bad old times. You managed to keep afloat in spite of hardships
and difficulties, and therefore you are worthy of all honour and
respect, but many other honest men couldn't do so, try as they
might."--Then Mr. X Y Z, a land-owner in the neighbourhood, came up,
and striking the table so hard with his walking-stick that all the
bottles danced, said: "Those who didn't get the better of their
difficulties weren't worth their salt."--"What," cried the bailiff,
"have you got to say to that?"--Then father Hellwig rose, and looking
at him with his honest old face, said: "You are a young man, and have
inherited your estate from your ancestors. You hav'n't the faintest
idea of the misery of those times.--You know all about it, old friend,"
he added, turning to me, "so tell us about what happened then."--"Yes,"
I answered, "I will tell the story of those old days."
AN OLD STORY
UT MINE STROMTID.
CHAPTER I.
On midsummer-day 1829, a man was seated in an arbour in a desolate
garden, plunged in sad reverie. The land to which the garden belonged
was a leasehold, situated on the river Peen, between Anclam and Demmin,
and the man who was seated in the cool, shady arbour was the tenant
farmer--that is to say; that is what he had been, for he was now
bankrupt, and an auction was going on in his yard, and all his goods
and chattels were being scattered to the four winds.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered man of forty-four years of age, with
hair of a dusky blond colour. All that work can do for a man had been
done for this man, and a better than he could nowhere be found. "Work,"
said his honest face: and "work" said his honest hands, which were now
folded on his knee as if in prayer.
Yes, in prayer! No one in all Pomerania had so much need of a little
talk with his God as this man. ''Tis a hard blow for any one when he
sees the household goods which he has brought together with the labour
of his hands and the sweat of his brow scattered over the wide world.
'Tis a hard blow for a farmer when he is obliged to let the cattle he
has reared with pain and trouble, pass into the hands of strangers, who
know nothing of the struggles that have filled his life; but it was
neither of these things that was lying so heavily on his soul just now,
it was another grievous sorrow that made him fold his hands, and raise
his eyes to heaven.
He had been a widower for one day only. His wife lay upon her last
bed--his wife! For ten long years he had been engaged to her; for ten
years he had toiled and laboured and done all that man could do to
provide a fitting home for her. His deep faithful love for his promised
wife filled his heart with tender music, such as the Whitsun bells ring
out over the green fields and blossoming trees. Four years ago he had
attained the end for which he had striven, had scraped together enough
money to set up house. An acquaintance of his who had inherited two
farms from his parents, let one of them to him at a high rent; a very
high rent; he knew that, none better; but love gives a man courage,
that kind of courage which conquers difficulties. All would have gone
well with him, if his good little wife had not got up so early in the
morning, and worked so hard, and if she had not come to have that
burning red spot on each cheek. All would have gone well with him,
if his landlord, instead of being a mere acquaintance, had been a
friend--and he was not that, for it was because of him that the auction
was going on in the farm-yard to-day.
Friend?--A man like that one who is sitting in the oak arbour can have
no friends? He _had_ true-hearted friends, but they could not help him,
they had nothing to give or lend. Wherever he looked, it seemed to him
as though he were surrounded by a high wall which hemmed him in and
stifled him, and so he cried with all his strength to God to save him
in his sore distress. A linnet and a chaffinch were singing in the
oak-boughs above his head, their feathers shining in the sun, the
flowers in the neglected garden scattered their fragrance all around,
and the oak-trees cast their cool shadow over him. If two lovers had
been sitting there, they would never have forgotten the place and how
it looked all their lives long.
And had _he_ not sat in that shady bower with a gentle hand clasped
within his own? Had not the birds sung as cheerily, and was not the
perfume of the flowers as sweet then as now? Had he not dreamt of
sitting on that very seat in his old age, and while immersed in that
dream of the future--who was it who had brought him a cool draught to
refresh him after his hard day's work? Who was it who had shared the
toil and care of his daily life, and had encouraged him by her
sympathy?
Gone--all gone!--Everything he had was to be sold, and the gentle
loving hand he had held in his own was stiff and cold. Then the man
felt as if the birds no longer sang their glad songs for him, as if the
flowers no longer grew for him in their sweetness and beauty, and as if
the glorious sun no longer shone for him, although his poor overcharged
heart still went on beating as strongly as before; and so he stretched
out his hands beyond birds and flowers, and even the golden sun, to the
divine Comforter, who better than any earthly joy can soothe the
wounded heart.
Hawermann sat thus in silent prayer, his hands clasped, and his brave
blue eyes, in which a wondrous light was shining as though from God's
own sun, raised to heaven, when a little girl came up to him and laid a
daisy on his knee. He drew the child,--she was his only one--closer to
him, and rising, took her in his arms. His eyes were full of tears as
he walked down the garden-path carrying his little girl and holding the
daisy she had given him in his hand.
He came to a young tree that he himself had planted; the straw rope by
which it was fastened to the pronged stick that supported it had become
loose, and the young tree was leaning all on one side. He straightened
it and fastened it again to its prop, scarcely conscious of what he was
doing, for his thoughts were far away, but it was his nature to give
help wherever it was wanted.
When a man is lost in thought, even though that thought may have led
him up to the blue heavens, if any little bit of his daily work should
happen to fall under his notice, he takes up the wonted task
involuntarily, and does what may be required at the moment, and so he
is wakened out of his reverie, and reminded of what is lying close at
hand and ought to be done, and that it is so is a great gift of God.
Hawermann walked up and down the garden, his eyes saw what was round
about him, and his thoughts returned to earth once more. Though the sky
of his future life was heavy with black, stormy clouds, still there was
one little scrap of blue that the clouds could not overcast, and that
was the thought of his little girl whom he was carrying in his arms,
and whose small childish hand was playing with his hair.
He left the garden and entered the farm-yard.--And what was going on
there?--Indifferent strangers were pressing up to the table where the
auctioneer was selling off the farmer's effects, each thinking only of
the bargains he wished to make. One after another all of Hawermann's
possessions were knocked down to the highest bidder. Those things that
he had collected bit by bit with toil and trouble to furnish his house,
were now being scattered abroad amid the jokes and laughter of all
present. Even the old things were going--that cupboard had belonged to
his old mother; that chest of drawers his wife had brought home with
her when she was married; he had given her that little work-table when
he was engaged to her.--His cows were tied in a long line and were
lowing to be taken to the pasture-field. The brown heifer his wife had
reared from a calf, and which had always been her pet, was standing
amongst them. He went up to it, and passed his hand caressingly down
its back. "Sir," said Niemann, the head-ploughman, "this is very
sad."--"Yes, Niemann, it _is_ sad, but it can't be helped," he
answered, turnings away and mingling in the crowd round the
auction-table.
As soon as the people saw that he wanted to get to the table they made
room for him courteously and kindly. He asked the auctioneer if he
might speak to him for a moment: "_Im_mediately, Mr. Hawermann," was
the reply, "in one moment, I've just finished with the household
things, then ...... a chest of drawers! six and two-pence! three-pence!
six and four-pence! going! going!--six and four-pence!--No one else bid
anything?--Going! going! gone!"--"Whose is it?"--"Tailor Brandt's," was
the answer.
Just at this moment some farmers rode into the yard, probably to look
at the cattle which were now about to be sold. Foremost amongst them
was a stout red-faced man, whose fat face was made even broader than it
was by nature, by the insolent expression that it wore. Men of this
species are often to be met with, but what distinguished this man from
the rest of his type were the small cunning eyes that peeped out over
his fat cheeks, and which seemed to say: It's all thanks to _us_ that
you are so well up in the world, _we_ know how to manage. The owner of
these eyes was also the owner of the farm of which Hawermann was
tenant. He rode right in amongst the crowd, and when he saw his unhappy
tenant standing among the other people, he was at once struck with
terror lest he should not get his full rent, and the cunning little
eyes that knew so well how to manage things for their own advantage
said to the insolence that found its home on his mouth and in his
expression: Up brother, now's the time to make yourself as big as
possible, for it'll cost you nothing! Then forcing his horse closer to
Hawermann, he called out in a loud voice so that every one might hear:
"Ha ha! These are the clever Mecklenburgers, who think they can teach
us how to farm properly! And what have they taught us? They've taught
us to drink red wine and cheat at cards, but as for farming!--they can
teach us better how to become bankrupt."
There was deep silence during this hard speech. Everyone looked first
at the speaker, and then at the man whom he had addressed. Hawermann
had started on hearing the voice and the words as though some one had
plunged a knife into his heart, and now he stood gazing silently on the
ground at his feet, not caring to defend himself, but a murmur arose
among the people, and a cry of: "ss--ss--for shame! This man drank no
red wine, he never cheated at cards--and his farming was most
excellent!"--"Who's the great gaby that was talking such nonsense?"
asked old Drenkhahn of Liepen, pressing closer with his heavy
thorn-stick in his hand.--"It's the man whose labourers go about
amongst us begging," cried lame Smidt.--"They hav'n't money to buy
a coat for their backs," cried Brandt, the tailor from Jarmen, "and
have to wear their Sunday clothes when they are working in the
fields."--"Yes," laughed the smith, "it's the man who was so glad to
see his labourers wearing such grand cloth coats when they were at
work, and they only did it because they couldn't afford to buy
smock-frocks, you know!"[2]
The auctioneer came up to the landlord, who was listening to all these
remarks with perfect indifference, and asked him: "How _could_ you say
that, Mr. Pomuchelskopp, how _could_ you?"--"Yes," said one of the men
who had come with him, "these people are right, you should be ashamed
of yourself for having aimed another blow at a man who is selling
everything he has honestly, that he may meet and pay off all his
debts."--"Ah," said the auctioneer, "if that were all. Mr. Hawermann's
wife died yesterday, and is lying upstairs on her last bed, and
so he is left alone in the world with a little girl, and _what_
prospects?"--"I didn't know that," muttered Pomuchelskopp sullenly. The
murmur of disapprobation now spread from the crowd to the landlord's
companions, and in a few moments more, Mr. Pomuchelskopp was left
alone, all the men who had accompanied him having ridden away to the
other side of the yard.
The auctioneer now approached Hawermann and said: "You wanted to speak
to me Mr. Hawermann?"--"Yes--yes," replied the farmer slowly, he seemed
to be coming to himself again like a martyr when he has been removed
from the rack. "I wished to ask you if you will also sell the few
things that remain to me by law, at the auction. I mean the bed and the
other things."--"With pleasure, but the furniture has sold badly, the
people have no money, and if you really want to sell those things, it
would be better to do so by private bargain."--"I haven't time for
that, and I'm badly in want of the money."--"Well if you really wish
it, I'll manage it for you," and then the auctioneer went about his
business again.
"Hawermann," said farmer Grot, who was one of the people that had
come on horseback, "you are so lonely here in your sorrow, do bring
your little girl and come and pay me a visit, my wife will be so
glad...."--"Thank you heartily for your kindness, but I can't accept
your invitation, I have something to do here."--"You mean your dear
wife's funeral, Hawermann," said farmer Hartmann, "when is it to be? We
will all be glad to do her the last honours."--"Thank you, thank you,
but that cannot be, it wouldn't be fitting, and I've just learnt that
one oughtn't to stretch one's foot further than one's own roof will
cover."--"Old friend, dear old neighbour and fellow-countryman," said
Wienk, the farm-bailiff, laying his hand on his shoulder, "don't
despair, things will get better."--"Despair! Wienk," said Hawermann
earnestly, and pressing his child closer in his arms he looked calmly
at the farm-bailiff with his honest blue eyes, and continued: "Is it
despair when one looks one's future full in the face, and tries to find
the best way of getting out of one's difficulties? I can't remain here,
no one could stay in a place where his ship had run aground. I must
live in another man's house. I must begin at the beginning again, and
do as I did before. I must take service once more, and so earn my daily
bread. And now good-bye all of you. You've been kind friends and
neighbours to me. Good-bye--good-bye. Shake hands, Louie. Remember me
to all at home. My wife...."--He was going to have said something more,
but could not get out the words, so he turned quickly and hastened
away.
"Niemann," he said to his head-ploughman whom he met at the other end
of the yard, "tell the rest of my people that my wife's funeral will be
at four o'clock to-morrow morning." Then he entered the house and went
into his bed-room. Everything had been taken away, even his bed and the
few small articles of furniture which had been left to him; nothing
remained but the four bare walls. Except that there was an old chest in
the corner near the window, on which the young wife of one of the
labourers was seated, her eyes red with weeping, and in the middle of
the room was a black coffin in which a pale, still, solemn figure was
lying, and the young woman had a green branch in her hand, with which
she fanned away the flies from the quiet face. "Stina," said Hawermann,
"you may go now, I will remain here."--"Oh, Sir, let me stay."--"No,
Stina, I shall remain here all night."--"Then, shall I take the little
one home with me?"--"No, leave her, she'll go to sleep."--The young
woman left the room. After a time the auctioneer brought Hawermann the
money for his things, and then everyone left the yard, and all was as
still and quiet without as within. He put the child down, and counted
the money on the window sill: "so much for the carpenter for making the
coffin; so much for the cross on the grave; so much for the burial fee;
so much for Stina, and with what remains I can make my way to my
sister's house."--It grew dark, the young woman brought in a candle,
and placed it beside the coffin, and gazed long in the pale face of her
dead mistress, then drying her eyes with her apron, she said: "Good
night," and Hawermann was once more alone with his child.
He opened the window, and looked out into the night; it was dark for
the time of year, no star was to be seen, the sky was covered with
black clouds, and the light breeze that sighed in the distance was warm
and fragrant. The quails were calling in the meadow, and a corncrake
was sounding its rain signal, and the first drops of the coming shower
were falling softly on the thirsty earth, which in its gratitude filled
the air with that sweet smell, known and loved by farmers, the smell of
the earth. How often had he been refreshed in spirit by such weather;
how often had his cares been chased away, and his hope been renewed by
it. Now he was free from those cares, but his joy was gone also--his
_one_ great joy had gone from him, and had taken with it all the
smaller ones as well. He closed the window, and turning round saw his
little daughter standing by the coffin, trying in vain to reach and
stroke the quiet face within. He lifted the child higher so that she
might do so, and the little girl stroked and patted her mother's face:
"Mammy--oh!"--"Yes," said Hawermann, "Mammy's cold," and seating
himself on the chest, he took the child on his knee, and wept bitterly;
seeing this, the little one cried too, till she cried herself to sleep,
so he held her gently in his arms, and drew his coat warmly round her.
He sat there all night long, keeping a true lyke-wake by his wife and
his dead happiness.
Next morning punctually at four o'clock the head-ploughman and the
other men who worked on the farm arrived, the lid of the coffin was
screwed down, and the procession moved off slowly to the little
churchyard. His child and he were the only mourners. The coffin was
lowered into the grave--a silent prayer--a handful of earth--and the
form of her who had encouraged and comforted him for years, of her who
had been his life and his joy, was hidden from his sight, and if ever
he wished to see her, he must live over again in thought the happy old
days when she was still at his side, until the time when the book of
memory will be closed on earth, and then--yes, then, his dear one will
reappear before him, beautiful and glorious.
He went and spoke to his work-people, shook hands with each of them,
and thanked them for the last service they had rendered him, said
good-bye to all, and then, after giving the head-ploughman the money to
pay for the coffin, the cross, and the burial fee, he set out on his
journey into the unknown future.
When he got to the last house in the hamlet, the labourer's young wife
was standing at the door with a child in her arms, he went up to her,
and said: "Stina, you nursed my poor wife faithfully in her last
illness. Here Stina!" and he tried to slip a few shillings into her
hand.--"Sir, Sir," cried the young woman. "Don't! you pain me. What
have you not done for us when you were rich, and now that evil days
have come to you, should we not do our part?--Ah, Sir, I have a favour
to ask of you. Leave your little girl here with me. I will love and
tend her as if she were my own. And is she not as good as mine? Did I
not nurse her when her mother was too weak to do it herself? Let me
have charge of the child!" Hawermann stood buried in thought. "Sir,"
continued the woman, "from what I hear you'll have to part with the
child sooner or later, and--but see, here comes Joseph, he will tell
you the same." The labourer came up, and as soon as he heard what they
were talking about, said: "Yes, Sir, she shall be treated like a
princess. We are strong, and well-to-do in the world, and the kindness
you have shown to us, we will richly repay to her."--"Nay," said
Hawermann, rousing himself, "that will never do, I can't consent to
that. I may be wrong in taking the child with me when my future is so
uncertain, but I've left so much behind me here, that I can't do
without the last that remains to me. No, no, I can't," he exclaimed
turning to go, "my child must remain with me. Goodbye, Stina--good-bye,
Rassow."--"If you won't leave the child with us. Sir," said the
labourer, "at least let me go with you, and carry her for you."--"No,
no," replied Hawermann, "I don't find her at all too heavy." Then the
young woman kissed and fondled his little daughter, and kissed her
again and again, and after he had resumed his journey, both she and her
husband stood for a long, long time looking after him. She, with tears
in her eyes and thinking most of the child; he, gravely and thinking
most of the man.--"Stina," he said, "we shall never have such another
master."--"God knows that," said she, and then they both went away
sorrowfully to their daily work.
CHAPTER II.
About forty miles from the place where Hawermann had laid his wife
in her quiet grave, was the farm of which Joseph Nuessler, his
brother-in-law, was tenant. The offices were ill-built, had fallen a
good deal out of repair, and the yard had altogether a very untidy
appearance. There was a large manure-yard here, and a small one there,
and carting and agricultural implements were all mixed up together in
confused masses like people at a fair; the manure-cart said to the
carriage: how did you get here, brother? and the plough asked the
harrow to dance, but music was wanting, for there was dead silence in
the yard. Every one was busy hay-making in the meadow, for the weather
was lovely. No one was looking out of any of the small open windows in
the long, low, thatched farm-house, for it was in the afternoon, and
the cook had finished her kitchen-work, and the housemaid had done with
her sweeping and dusting, and both of them had gone down to the meadow.
Even the farmer's wife, who always kept such order in the house, had
gone there too, rake in hand, for the hay ought to be in cocks before
the evening-dews began to fall.
Still there was life in the house although it was so quiet. In the
sitting-room, to the right of the entrance-hall, where the blue-painted
cupboard stood--the bar as they called it--and the sofa covered with
the black-glazed linen, which was rubbed up with boot-polish every
Saturday till it shone again, and the oak chest with the yellow
mounting, well, in this room sat two little girls of three years old
with round flaxen heads, and round rosy cheeks, playing at making
cheeses in a sand-box with their mother's thimble and two penny jars,
which they filled with the damp sand, and pressed down as hard as they
could, laughing gleefully whenever the lump kept its shape when turned
out.
These children were Lina and Mina Nuessler, and with their rosy cheeks
and yellow hair they looked for all the world like two little round
apples, growing on one stalk. They were twins, and even people who knew
them well, found it impossible to say which was Lina and which Mina,
for their names were not written on their faces, and if their mother
had not given them different coloured ribbons there would have been
great mistakes made; even their father, Joseph Nuessler, could not
distinguish the one from the other, he called Lina, Mina, and Mina,
Lina. But now no such mistakes need be made, for their mother had tied
up Lina's flaxen plaits with blue ribbon, and Mina's with red; but if
any one had only taken the trouble to look closely at them he must have
seen clearly that Joseph Nuessler was wrong, for Lina was half an hour
older than Mina, and even when the difference in age is small, still
birth-right always makes itself known, and Lina had quite the
upper-hand of Mina, but she comforted her little sister whenever she
was unhappy.
Besides these unimportant little twins there was yet another set of
twins in the room, and they were an old, experienced and very important
couple, who were peering down on the children from the oak chest, and
shaking in the soft breeze that came in at the open window. These were
the grandfather's peruke and the grandmother's best cap, which were
hanging on a couple of cap-stands, all ready to play their part on the
next day, which was Sunday.--"Look, Lina," said Mina, "there's
grandfather's p'uke," she couldn't pronounce the letter "r" properly
yet.--"You shouldn't say p'uke, you should say p'uke," said Lina who
couldn't pronounce her "rs" a bit better, but being the eldest she had
of course to put her little sister on the right way.
The little twins now got up, and standing in front of the chest looked
at the old twins on the cap-stands, and Mina, who was still very
thoughtless, stretched out her hand, and took her grandfather's peruke
from the stand. Then putting it on her own head with a "just look at
me" sort of expression, placed herself before the looking-glass, and
arranged the wig exactly as her grandfather wore it on Sundays. Now
Lina ought to have had more sense, but she began to laugh, and allowing
herself to be carried away by the fun of the thing, took her
grandmother's mob-cap from the other stand, and put it on in the
same way as her grandmother did every Sunday. Then Mina laughed,
and then they both laughed, and taking hands began to dance
"Kringelkranz-Rosendanz," and then stopped and laughed, and after that
they went on dancing again.
But Mina was really too thoughtless, she had kept her toy-jar in
her hand, and now in the very midst of the fun she let it fall,
and--crash--it was destroyed, and so was the fun. Mina began to cry
bitterly over the broken jar, and Lina cried to keep her company, but
after this had gone on for a short time Lina began to try to comfort
her sister: "Never mind, Mina, the wheel-wright will mend it for
you."--"Yes," sobbed Mina, but more quietly than before, "the
wheel-wright must mend it."--And then the two sorrowful little
creatures went out of doors, quite forgetting that they still had their
grandfather's and grandmother's Sunday-finery on their heads.
Now many people would think that it was a silly fancy of Lina's that
the wheel-wright could mend the broken jar, but who ever has known a
real country wheel-wright is aware that such a man can do anything.
When a wether is to be killed, the wheelwright is sent for. When a pane
of glass is broken, the wheel-wright has to nail a board across the
window that the rain and wind may not get it. When an old chair has
lost a leg, he is the doctor who makes it stand steady again. When a
bullock is to be blistered, he acts apothecary; in short, he puts
everything right that has gone wrong, and so Lina was a very sensible
girl when she proposed to take the jar to the wheel-wright.
Just as the children entered the yard a little man came in at the gate.
And this little man had a red face, and a very imposing red nose which
he always held cocked up in the air. He wore a square cap of no
particular colour with a tassel in front, and a long-tailed, loose,
grey linen-coat. He always kept his feet turned out in an exaggerated
first position which made his short legs look as if they were fastened
to his body in the wrong way. He had striped trousers and long boots
with yellow tops. He was not stout, and yet he was by no means thin, in
fact his figure was beginning to lose its youthful proportions.
The children walked on, and when they had got near enough for the
farm-bailiff--for such was the calling of the little man--to see what
they were wearing, he stood still, and raised his bushy yellow
eye-brows till they were quite hidden under his pointed cap, treating
them as if they were the most beautiful part of his face, and must
therefore be put away in a safe place out of all danger: "Bless me!"
cried he. "What's the matter?--What on earth have you been about?--Why
you've got the whole of your old grandparent's Sunday-finery on your
heads!"--The two little girls allowed themselves to be deprived of
their borrowed plumes without remonstrance, and showing the broken jar,
said that the wheel-wright was to mend it.--"What!" exclaimed Mr.
farm-bailiff Braesig--that was the way he liked to be addressed--"is it
possible that there is such insummate folly in the world?--Lina, you
are the eldest and ought to have been wiser; and Mina, don't cry any
more, you are my little god-child, and so I'll give you a new jar at
the summer fair. And now get away with you into the house."--He drove
the little girls before him, and followed carrying the peruke in one
hand and the cap in the other.
When he found the sitting-room empty, he said to himself: "Of course,
every one's out at the hay.--Well I ought to be looking after my hay
too, but the little round-heads have made such a mess of these two bits
of grandeur, that they'd be sure to get into a scrape, if the old
people were to see what they've been after; I must stay and repair the
mischief that has been done."--With that he pulled out the pocket-comb
that he always carried about with him to comb his back-hair over to the
front of his head, and so cover the bald place that was beginning to
show. He then set to work at the peruke, and soon got that into good
order again. But how about the cap?--"What in the name of wonder have
you done to this, Lina?--It's morally impossible to get it back to the
proper _fassong_.--Ah--let me think.--What's the old lady like on
Sunday afternoons? She has a good bunch of silk curls on each side of
her face, then the front of the cap rises about three inches higher
than the curls; so the thing must be drawn more to the front. She
hasn't anything particular in the middle, for her bald head shows
through, but it always goes into a great bunch at the back where it
sticks out in a mass of frills. The child has crushed that part
frightfully, it must be ironed out."--He put his clenched fist into the
cap and pulled out the frills, but just as he thought he was getting
them into good order, the string that was run through a caser at the
back of the frilled mass gave way, and the whole erection flattened
out.--"Faugh!" he cried, sending his eye-brows right up in the air. "It
wasn't half strong enough to keep it firm. Only a bit of thread! And
the ends won't knot together again! God bless my soul! whatever induced
_me_ to meddle with a cap?--But, wait a bit, I'll manage it yet."--He
thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew out a quantity of string of
different sizes, for like every farm-bailiff who was worth anything he
always carried a good supply of such things about with him. He
searched amongst his store for some thing that would suit the case in
hand.--"Whip-cord is too thick--but this will do capitally," and then
he began to draw a piece of good strong pack-thread through the caser.
It was a work of time, and when he had got about half of it done, there
was a knock at the door; he threw his work on the nearest chair, and
called out: "Come in."
The door opened, and Hawermann entered with his little girl in his
arms. Braesig started up. "What in the," he began solemnly, then
interrupting himself, he went on eagerly: "Charles Hawermann, where
have you come from?"--"From a place, Braesig, where I have nothing more
to look for," said his friend. "Is my sister at home?"--"Everyone's out
at the hay; but what do you mean?"--"That it's all up with me. All the
goods that I possessed were sold by auction the day before yesterday,
and yesterday morning"--here he turned away to the window--"I buried my
wife."--"What? what?" cried the kind-hearted old farm-bailiff, "good
God! your wife. Your dear little wife?" and the tears ran down his red
face. "Dear old friend, tell me how it all happened."--"Ah, how it all
happened?" repeated Hawermann, and seating himself, he told the whole
story of his misfortunes as shortly as possible.
Meanwhile, Lina and Mina approached the strange child slowly and shyly,
stopping every now and then, and saying nothing, and then they went a
little nearer still. At last Lina summoned courage to touch the sleeve
of the stranger's frock, and Mina showed her the bits of her jar:
"Look, my jar is broken." But the little girl looked round the room
uneasily, till at last she fixed her great eyes on her father.
"Yes," said Hawermann, concluding his short story, "things have gone
badly with me, Braesig; I still owe you L 30, don't ask for it now, only
give me time, and if God spares my life. I'll pay you back every
farthing honestly."--"Charles Hawermann, Charles Hawermann," said
Braesig, wiping his eyes, and blowing his imposing nose, "you're--you're
an ass! Yes," he continued, shoving his handkerchief into his pocket
with an emphatic poke, and holding his nose even more in the air than
usual, "you're every bit as great an ass as you used to be!"--And then,
as if thinking that his friend's thoughts should be led into a new
channel, he caught Lina and Mina by the waist-band, and put them on
Hawermann's knee, saying: "There, little round heads, that's your
uncle."--Just as if Lina and Mina were playthings, and Hawermann were a
little child who could be comforted in his grief by a new toy. He,
himself, took Hawermann's little Louisa in his arms, and danced about
the room with her, his tears rolling down his cheeks the while. After a
short time he put the child down upon a chair, upon the very chair on
which he had thrown his unfinished work, and right on the top of it
too.
In the meanwhile the household had come back from the hay-field, and a
woman's clear voice could be heard outside calling to the maids to make
haste: "Quick get your hoop and pails, it'll soon be sunset, and
this year the fold's[3] rather far off. We must just milk the cows in
the evening.--Where's your wooden-platter, girl? Go and get it at
once.--Now be as quick as you can, I must just go, and have a look at
the children."--A tall stately woman of five-and-twenty came into the
room. She seemed full of life and energy, her cheeks were rosy with
health, work, and the summer air, her hair and eyes were bright, and
her forehead, where her chip-hat had sheltered it from the sun, was
white as snow. Anyone could see the likeness between her and Hawermann
at first sight; still there was a difference, she was well-off, and her
whole manner showed that she would work as hard from temperament, as he
did from honour and necessity.
To see her brother and to spring to him were one and the same action:
"Charles, brother Charles, my second father," she cried throwing her
arms round his neck, but on looking closer at him, she pushed him away
from her, saying: "What's the matter? You've had some misfortune!--What
is it?"
Before he had time to answer his sister's questions, her husband,
Joseph Nuessler, came in, and going up to Hawermann shook hands with
him, and said, taking as long to get out his words as dry weather does
to come: "Good-day, brother-in-law; won't you sit down?"--"Let him tell
us what's wrong," interrupted his wife impatiently.--"Yes," said
Joseph, "sit down and tell us what has happened.--Good-day, Braesig; be
seated, Braesig."--Then Joseph Nuessler, or as he was generally called,
young Joseph, sat down in his own peculiar corner beside the stove. He
was a tall, thin man, who never could hold himself erect, and whose
limbs bent in all sorts of odd places whenever he wanted to use them in
the ordinary manner. He was nearly forty years old, his face was pale,
and almost as long as his way of drawling out his words, his soft blond
hair, which had no brightness about it, hung down equally long over his
forehead and his coat collar. He had never attempted to divide or curl
it. When he was a child his mother had combed it straight down over his
brow, and so he had continued to do it, and whenever it had looked a
little rough and unkempt, his mother used to say: "Never mind, Josy,
the roughest colt often makes the finest horse."--Whether it was that
his eyes had always been accustomed to peer through the long hair that
overhung them, or whether it was merely his nature cannot be known with
any certainty, but there was something shy in his expression, as if he
never could look anything full in the face, or come to a decision on
any subject, and even when his hand went out to the right, his mouth
turned to the left. That, however, came from smoking, which was the
only occupation he carried out with the slightest perseverance, and as
he always kept his pipe in the left corner of his mouth, he, in course
of time, had pressed it out a little, and had drawn it down to the
left, so that the right side of his mouth looked as if he were
continually saying "prunes and prism," while the left side looked as if
he were in the habit of devouring children.
There he was now seated in his own particular corner by the stove, and
smoking out of his own particular corner of his mouth, and while his
lively wife wept in sympathy with her brother's sorrow, and kissed and
fondled him and his little daughter alternately, he kept quite still,
glancing every now and then from his wife and Hawermann at Braesig, and
muttering through a cloud of tobacco smoke: "It all depends upon what
it is. It all depends upon circumstances.--What's to be done now in a
case like this?"
Braesig had quite a different disposition from young Joseph, for instead
of sitting still like him, he walked rapidly up and down the room, then
seated himself upon the table, and in his excitement and restlessness
swung his short legs about like weaver's shuttles. When Mrs. Nuessler
kissed and stroked her brother, he did the same; and when Mrs. Nuessler
took the little child and rocked it in her arms, he took it from her
and walked two or three times up and down the room with it, and then
placed it on the chair again, and always right on the top of the
grandmother's best cap.
"Bless me!" cried Mrs. Nuessler at last, "I quite forgot.--Braesig, _you_
ought to have thought of it. You must all want something to eat and
drink!"--She went to the blue cupboard, and brought out a splendid loaf
of white household bread and some fresh butter, then she went out of
the room and soon returned with sausages, ham and cheese, a couple of
bottles of the strong beer that was brewed on purpose for old Mr.
Nuessler, and a jug of milk for the children. When everything was neatly
arranged on a white table cloth, she placed a seat for her brother, and
lifting her little niece, chair and all, put her beside her father.
Then she set to work and cut slices of bread, and poured out the beer,
and saw that there was enough for everybody.
"I'll be ready to give you something presently," she said, stroking her
little girls' flaxen heads fondly, "but I must see to your little
cousin first.--Here's so chair for you, Braesig--Come, Joseph."--"All
right," said Joseph, blowing a last long cloud of smoke out of the left
corner of his mouth, and then dragging his chair forward, half sitting
on it all the time.--"Charles," said Braesig, "I can recommend these
sausages. Your sister, Mrs. Nuessler, makes them most capitally, and
I've often told my housekeeper that she ought to ask for the receipt,
for you see the old woman mixes up all sorts of queer things that
oughtn't to go together at all; in short, the flavour is very
extraordinary and not in the least what it ought to be, although each
of the ingredients separately is excellent, and made of a pig properly
fattened on pease."--"Mother, give Braesig some more beer," said
Joseph.--"No more, thank you, Mrs. Nuessler. May I ask for a little
kuemmel instead?--Charles, since the time that I was learning farming at
old Knirkstaedt with you, and that rascal Pomuchelskopp, I've always
been accustomed to drink a tiny little glass of kuemmel at breakfast and
supper, and it agrees with me very well, I am thankful to say. But,
Charles, whatever induced you to have any business transactions with
such a rascal as Pomuchelskopp? I told you long ago that he was not to
be trusted, he's a regular old Venetian, he's a cunning dog, in short,
he's a--Jesuit."--"Ah, Braesig," said Hawermann, "we won't talk about
it. He might have treated me differently; but still it was my own
fault, I oughtn't to have agreed to his terms.--I'm thinking of
something else now. I wish I could get something to do!"--"Of course,
you must get a situation as soon as possible.--The Count, my master, is
looking out for a steward for his principal estate, but don't be angry
with me for saying so Charles, I don't think that it would do for
you.--You see, you'd have to go to the Count every morning with
laquered boots, and a cloth coat, and you'd have to speak High-German,
for he considers our provincial way of talking very rude and
uncultivated. And then you'd have all the women bothering you, for
they have a great say in all the arrangements. You might perhaps
manage with the boots, and the coat, and the High-German--though you're
rather out of practice--but you'd never get on with the women. The
Countess is always poking about to see that all's going on rightly in
the cattle-sheds and pig-sties,--in short--it's, it's as bad as Sodom
and Gomorrah."--"Bless me!" cried Mrs. Nuessler, "I remember now. The
farm-bailiff at Puempelhagen left at the midsummer-term, and that would
just be the place for you, Charles."--"Mrs. Nuessler is right as usual,"
said Braesig. "As for the _Counsellor_[4] at Puempelhagen"--he always
gave the squire of Puempelhagen his professional title, and laid such an
emphasis on the word counsellor that one might have thought that he and
Mr. von Rambow had served their time in the army together, or at least
had eaten their soup out of the same bowl with the same spoon--"As for
the _Counsellor_ at Puempelhagen, he is very kind to all his people,
gives a good salary, and is quite a gentleman of the old school. He
knows all about you too. It's just the very thing for you, Charles,
and I'll go with you to-morrow.--What do you say, young Joseph?"
--"Ah!" said Mr. Nuessler meditatively, "it all depends upon
circumstances."--"Good gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Nuessler with a look of
anxiety on her pretty face. "I'm forgetting everything to-day. If
grandfather and grandmother ever find out that we've been having a
supper-party here without their knowledge, they'll never forgive me as
long as I live.--Sit a little closer children.--You might have reminded
me, Joseph."--"What shall I do now?" asked Joseph, but she had already
left the room.
A few minutes later she came back, accompanied by the two old people.
There was an expression of anxious watchfulness and aimless attention
in both faces, such as deaf people often have, and which is apt to
degenerate into a look of inanity and distrust.--It is a very true
saying that when a husband and wife have lived many years together, and
have shared each other's thoughts and interests, they at last grow to
be like one another in appearance, and even when the features are
different the expression becomes the same. Old Mr. and Mrs. Nuessler
looked thoroughly soured, and as if they had never had the least bit of
happiness or enjoyment all their lives long, such things being too
expensive for them; their clothes were thread-bare and dirty, as if
they must always be save, saving, and even found water a luxury that
cost too much money. There was nothing comfortable about their old age,
not a single gleam of kindliness shone in their lack-lustre eyes, for
they had never had but _one_ joy, and that was their son Joseph, and
his getting on in the world. They were now worn out, and everything was
tiresome to them, even their one joy, their son Joseph, was tiresome,
but they were still anxious and troubled about his getting on in the
world, that was the only thing they cared for now. The old man had
become a little childish, but his wife had still all her wits about
her, and could spy and pry into every hole and corner, to see that
everything was going on as she wished.
Hawermann rose and shook hands with the old people, while his sister
stood close by looking at them anxiously, to see what they thought of
the visitor. She had already explained to them in a few words, why her
brother had come, and that may have been the reason that the old faces
looked even sourer than usual, but still it might be because she had
provided a better supper than she generally did. They seated themselves
at table. The old woman caught sight of Hawermann's little girl: "Is
that his child?" she asked.--Her daughter-in-law nodded.--"Is she going
to remain here?" she asked.--Her daughter-in-law nodded again.--"O--h!"
said the old woman, drawling out the word till it was long enough to
cover all the harm she thought the cost of the child's keep would bring
upon her Joseph. "Yes, these _are_ hard times," she continued, as
though she thought speaking of the times would best settle the
question, "_very_ hard times, and every man has enough to do to get on
in the world himself."--Meanwhile the old man had done nothing but
stare at the bottle of beer and at Braesig's glass: "Is that my beer?"
he asked.--"Yes," shouted Braesig in his ear, "and most excellent beer
it is that Mrs. Nuessler brews, it's a capital _rajeunissimang_ for a
weak stomach!"--"What extravagance! What extravagance!" grumbled the
old man.--His wife eat her supper, but never took her eyes off the oak
chest opposite.
Young Mrs. Nuessler, who must have studied the peculiarities of her
mother-in-law with great care, looked to see what was the matter, and
found to her horror and dismay that the cap was gone from its stand.
Good gracious! what had become of it? She had plaited it up that very
morning, and hung it on the stand.--"Where's my cap?" the old woman at
last enquired.--"Never mind, mother," said her daughter-in-law bending
towards her, "I'll get it directly."--"Is it done up yet?"--The young
woman nodded, and thought, surely grandmother will be satisfied now,
but the old woman glanced into every corner of the room to see what she
could find out. Braesig's countenance changed when he heard the cap
spoken of, and he looked about him hastily to see where the "beastly
thing" could have got to, but in another moment old Mrs. Nuessler
pointed at little Louisa Hawermann, and said with a venomous smile,
like a stale roll dipped in fly-poison: "It must be plaited all over
again."--"What's the matter?" cried her daughter-in-law, and starting
up as she spoke, she saw the ends of the cap ribbons hanging down below
the hem of the child's frock; she lifted her niece off the chair, and
was going to have picked up the cap, but the old woman was too quick
for her. She seized her crumpled head-gear, and when she saw the
flattened puffs, and Braesig's bit of pack-thread hanging half in and
half out of the caser, her wrath boiled over, and holding up her cap so
that everyone might see it, exclaimed: "Good for nothing chit!" and was
going to have struck the little girl over the head with her cap.
But Braesig caught her by the arm and said: "The child had nothing to do
with it," and then growled out in a half whisper: "the old cat!" At the
same moment loud crying was to be heard behind the grandmother's chair,
and Mina sobbed: "I'll never, never do it again," and Lina sobbed: "And
I'll never do it again."--"Bless me!" cried young Mrs. Nuessler, "it was
the little girls who did all the mischief.--Mother, it was our own
children that did it."--But the old woman had been too long accustomed
to turn everything to her own advantage, not to know how to make a
judicious use of her deafness; she never heard what she did not want to
hear; and she did not want to hear now. "Come," she shouted, and signed
to her husband.--"Mother, mother," cried her daughter-in-law, "give me
your cap, and I'll set it to rights."--"Who's at the fold?" asked the
old woman as she left the room with old Joseph.--Young Joseph lighted
his pipe again.--"Good gracious!" said Mrs. Nuessler, "she's quite right
there, I ought to be at the fold. Ah well, grandmother won't be civil
to me again for a month."--"Crusty," said Braesig, "was an old dog, and
Crusty had to give in at last."--"Don't cry any more, my pets," said
the mother, wiping her little girl's eyes. "You didn't know what harm
you were doing, you are such stupid little things. Now be good
children, and go and play with your cousin, I must go to my work.
Joseph, just keep an eye on the children, please," and then Mrs.
Nuessler put on her chip-hat, and set off to the fold where the cows
were milked.
"A mother-in-law's the very devil!" said Braesig. "But you, young
Joseph," he continued, turning to Mr. Nuessler, who was smoking as
calmly as if what had happened was nothing to him, "ought to be ashamed
of yourself for allowing your mother to bully your wife."--"But," said
young Joseph, "how can I interfere? I am her son."--"You needn't
actually _strike_ her," said Braesig, "because your parents are given
you by God, but you might give her a little filial advice now and then,
such as befits an obedient son, and so prevent the devil of dispeace
getting into the house.--And as for you, Charles Hawermann, don't take
a little tiff like this to heart, for your sister has a cheerful
disposition, and an affectionate nature, so she'll soon be on good
terms with the old skin-flints again, and they can't get on without
her, she's the mainstay of the household.--But now," and he pulled an
enormous watch out of his pocket, the kind of watch that is called a
warming-pan, "it's seven o'clock, and I must go and look after my
work-people."--"Wait," said Hawermann, "I'll go part of the way with
you. Good-bye for the present, Joseph."--"Good-bye, brother-in-law,"
said young Joseph from his corner.
As soon as they were out of doors Hawermann asked: "I say, Braesig,
how could you speak of the old people in such a way before their
son?"--"He's quite accustomed to it, Charles. No one has a good word
for the two old misers, they've quarrelled with all the neighbours, and
as for the servants, _they_ take very good care to keep out of the old
wretches' sight."--"My poor sister!" sighed Hawermann, "She used to be
such a merry light-hearted girl, and now, shut up in a house with such
people, and such a Nuss (slow) of a man."--"You're right enough there,
Charles, he is an old Nuss, and Nuessler (slow-coach) is his name; but
_he_ never bullies your sister, and although he is such an ass that he
can manage nothing himself, he has sense enough to see that your sister
is quite able to keep everything straight."--"Poor girl!--She married
that man for my sake, to make my way easier for me, she said; and for
our old mother's sake, to give her a comfortable home with one of her
children in her latter days."--"I know, I know, Charles.--I know
it from my own experience. Don't you remember it was during the
rye-harvest, and you said to me, Zachariah, you said, you must be in
love, for you're leading in your rye quite wet. And I said; how so? On
the Sunday before that we had had spruce-beer, and your sister was one
of the party, or else I shouldn't have led in the rye in such weather.
And then I told you that if I didn't change my mind your sister was the
only one of my three sweethearts that I'd marry.--Then you laughed
heartily, and said, she was too young.--What has being young to do with
it? I asked.--And then you said that my other two sweethearts came
first, and so they ought to have the preference. And then you laughed
again, and didn't seem to believe that I was in earnest. A short time
afterwards my lord the Count changed his mind, and said he wouldn't
have a married bailiff. And then a little more time passed, and it was
too late. Young Joseph made her an offer, and your mother begged her so
hard to take him, that she consented.--Ah well, that marriage ought
never to have been," and Braesig looked down gravely. After a moment's
silence he went on--"When I saw the twins I felt drawn to them, and
thought that they might have been my own, and I almost wished that the
old woman, old Joseph, and young Joseph were in their graves.--It was
indeed a happy day for the old Jesuits when your sister brought her
loving heart and cheerful nature into their house, if it had been any
one else there would have been murder done long ago."
While they were talking they had left the village behind them, and were
now beside the large garden. Suddenly Hawermann exclaimed: "Look there,
the two old people are on the top of the hill yonder."--"Yes," said
Braesig with a derisive chuckle, "there they are, the hypocritical old
Jesuits, standing in their hiding-place."--"Hiding-place?" asked
Hawermann, astonished. "Up there on the hill?"--"Even so, Charles, the
old creatures can trust no one, not even their own children, and when
they want to say anything to each other that they can't explain by
their usual signs, they always go to the very top of the hill where
they can see that there are no eavesdroppers, and shout their secrets
in one another's ears. Look at them cackling away, the old woman
has laid another dragon's egg, and now they're both going to hatch
it."--"How eagerly they're talking," said Hawermann. "Do you see how
the old woman is gesticulating? What can it all be about?"--"I know
what they are laying down the law about, for I know them well.--And
Charles," he continued after a short silence, "it is better that you
should understand the whole state of the case at once, and then
you'll know how to act. They're talking about you, and your little
girl."--"About me, and my little girl!" repeated Hawermann in
astonishment.--"Yes, Charles--don't you see. If you had come with a
great purse full of money, they would have received you with open arms,
for money is the only thing for which they have the slightest respect;
but as it is they regard you and the child in the light of beggarly
poor relations who will take the very bread out of the mouth of their
unfortunate son."--"Oh!" sighed Hawermann, "why didn't I leave the
child with the Rassows?--Who is to take care of her?--Can you advise me
what to do?--I can't leave her here in my sister's charge for my
sister's sake."--"Of course you'd like to have her near you. Well,
Charles, I'll tell you something. You must remain at the Nuesslers
to-night. To-morrow we'll go and see the _Counsellor_ at Puempelhagen:
if we succeed there we'll look out for a good place for the child in
the neighbourhood; and if we don't succeed, we'll go to the town and
board her for the present with Kurz, the shopkeeper. And now
good-night, Charles! Don't be down-hearted, everything will look
brighter soon."--And so he went away.
"Ah, if everybody was only like you," thought Hawermann as he was
returning to his sister's house, "I should soon get the better of my
difficulties.--And get the better of them I must and shall," he
continued with a look of determination, his courage rising and
dispelling his sadness, in like manner as the sun disperses the
rain-clouds, "my sister shall not be made unhappy through me. I will
work hard for my little girl." ........
Later in the evening, when the milk had been poured into the pans in
the dairy, Hawermann and his sister went out into the garden together,
and she talked to him about his affairs, and he to her about hers.
"Don't be so sorry for me, Charles," she said, "I am quite used to my
life. It's true that the old people are hard and disagreeable, but
though they sometimes sulk with me for weeks at a time, I soon forget
their crossness when I'm out of their sight, and as for Joseph, I must
say this for him, he is never unkind, and has never said a hard word to
me. If he were only a little more quick-sighted, and a better manager;
but that's not to be expected of him. I've plenty to do with the house
and dairy without having the farm on my hands too, and a woman can't
manage that sort of thing properly, indeed Braesig is the greatest
possible help to me in that respect. He goes over the fields and sees
what's being done about the place, and takes care that Joseph do'sn't
get behindhand with the work."--"How are you getting on upon the whole?
Does the farming pay well?" asked her brother.--"Not as well as it
might. There isn't enough spent on the land, and the old people won't
let us change the rotation of the crops, or try any new ways of
farming.--We've always made the two ends meet as yet, and had the rent
ready on the term-day; but now Joseph's two elder sisters, who are
married to Kurz, the general merchant, and to Baldrian, the rector of
the academy, are always dinning into the old people's and our ears that
they want their dowries paid. The rector doesn't actually require it,
but he is fond of money; Kurz would really be the better of his, for he
is in trade, and of course wishes to extend his business. Now the old
people want to make over nearly everything to Joseph at their death,
and they won't part with a single farthing of what is in their
possession just now, indeed grandmother has a hateful rhyme that she
always repeats when she hears of a case of this kind:
'Wer seinen Kindern giebt das Brod
Und leidet endlich selber Noth,
Den schlag man mit der Keule todt.'
But it's wrong, very wrong of them, and they can't expect a blessing on
it, for one child is as good as another, and so I told the old people
at the very beginning. My goodness, what a rage they were in! _They_
had made all the money, and what had _I_ brought to my husband they'd
like to know? I ought to go down on my knees, and thank God that they
were going to make a rich man of Joseph.--But I had a good talk with
Joseph, and now he has paid over nearly two hundred and twenty-five
pounds to Kurz in instalments. His mother soon had an inkling as to
what we were about, and was very curious to know all the ins and outs
of the affair, but as Joseph isn't a good manager and can't do accounts
well, I take care of the purse, and never give her the chance of
peeping into it. No, no, grandmother, I'm not quite so stupid as that
comes to!--That's the chief bone of contention between the old people
and myself. They still want to keep Joseph under their thumb; but
Joseph is nearly forty years old, and if he won't rule himself, _I_
will rule him, for I am his wife and therefore the 'nearest' to him, as
our parson's wife would say. Now, Charles, tell me, am I right or
wrong?"--"You are quite right, Dorothea," said Hawermann.--Then they
wished each other "good-night," and went to bed.
CHAPTER III.
Braesig arrived in good time next morning to go to Puempelhagen
with Hawermann. Mrs. Nuessler was sitting in the porch paying the
farm-servants, and Joseph was sitting beside her smoking while she
worked.--Neither of the old people had come down yet, for the
grandmother had said to her daughter-in-law, she, at least, could not
join them in the parlour, for she had nothing to put on her head; and
the grandfather had said, they could all be quite happy without
him.--"That's really kind of them," said Braesig. "There's no fear of
our dinner being spoilt now by their bad temper, for, Mrs. Nuessler,
I'm going to spend the day with Charles.--Come, Charles, we must be
off.--Goodbye little round-heads."
When they were out in the yard Braesig stood still, and said: "Look,
Charles, did you ever see anything more like the desert of S'ara? One
heap of manure here and another there! And look, that's the drain old
Joseph cut from the farm-yard to the village horse-pond. And as for the
roofs," he continued, "they have enough straw to make new ones, but the
old people think money expended on thatching sheer waste. I come here
often, and for two reasons; firstly because of my stomach, and secondly
because of my heart. I've always found that well cooked food is not
only pleasant to the taste, but also produces a wholesome exhilaration
when followed by one of the little rages I generally get into here. And
I come here for the sake of your sister and the little round-heads. I
know that I am of use to her, for young Joseph just rolls on smoothly
like the wheel of the coach that runs every winter from here to
Rostock. How I should like to have him as leader in a three horse team,
harnessed into a farm cart, and then drive him with my whip!"--"Ah!"
said Hawermann as they came to a field, "they've got very good wheat
here."--"Yes, it's pretty fair, but what do you think they were going
to have had there instead?--Rye!--And for what reason? Simply because
old Joseph had sown rye in that field every year for twenty one
years!"--"Does their farm extend to the other side of the hill?"--"No,
Charles, it isn't quite such a fat morsel as all that, like bacon fried
in butter and eaten with a spoon! No, no, the wheat on the top of the
hill is mine."--"Ah, well, it's odd how soon one forgets.--Then your
land comes down as far as this?"--"Yes, Charles; Warnitz is a long
narrow estate, it extends from here on the one side as far as
Haunerwiem on the other. Now stand still for a moment, I can show you
the whole lie of the country from this point. Where we are standing
belongs to your brother-in-law, his land reaches from my wheat-field up
there to the right, as far as that small clump of fir-trees to the
left. You see, Rexow is quite a small farm, there are only a few more
acres belonging to it on the other side of the village. To the right up
there is Warnitz; and in front of us, where the fallow ground begins,
is Puempelhagen; and down there to the left, behind the little clump of
firs, is Guerlitz."--"Then Warnitz is the largest?"--"No, Charles,
you've mistaken me there. Puempelhagen is the best estate in the
neighbourhood, the wheat-land there produces forty-two loads, and that
is eight more than Warnitz can show. It would be a blessing if all the
other places were like it. The _Counsellor_ is a good man, and
understands farming, but you see his profession obliges him to live in
Schwerin, so he can't attend to Puempelhagen. He has had a good many
bailiffs of one kind or another. He came into the estate when
everything was very dear, and there are a considerable number of
apothecaries[5] on it, so that he must often feel in want of money, and
all the more so that his wife is extravagant, and likes to live in a
constant whirl of gaiety. He is a worthy man and kind to his people,
and although the von Rambows are of very old family--my master, the
Count, often asks him to dinner, and he will not admit any but members
of the nobility to the honour of his acquaintance--he goes about quite
_doucimang_, and makes no fuss about his position."
Hawermann listened attentively to all that was said, for if he
succeeded in getting the place of bailiff, these things would all be of
importance to him, but his thoughts soon returned to the subject of his
greatest present anxiety.--"Braesig," he said, "who is the best person
to take charge of my little girl?"--"I can't think of anyone. I'm
afraid that we must take her to the town to Kurz. Mrs. Kurz is an
excellent woman, and he, well he is a good hand at a bargain like all
tradesmen.--Only think, he sold me a pair of trousers last year.--I
wanted them for Sundays--they were a sort of chocolate colour:
well listen: the first morning I put them on, I went through the
clover-field, and when I came out of it, my trousers were as red as
lobsters, as high as the knee--bright scarlet I assure you. And then he
sent me some kuemmel, it was Prussian made, wretched sweet stuff, and
very bad. I returned it, and told him a bit of my mind. But he won't
take the trousers back, and tells me he never wore them. Does the
fellow imagine that _I_ will wear red trousers?--Look, Charles, that's
Guerlitz down there to the left."--"And that, I suppose, is Guerlitz
church-steeple?" asked Hawermann.--"Yes!" said Braesig, raising his
eye-brows till they were hidden by the brim of his hat--he always wore
a hat on Sunday--and opening his mouth as wide as he could, he stared
at Hawermann as if he wanted to look him through and through.
"Charles," he exclaimed, "you spoke of Guerlitz church-steeple, and as
sure as your nose is in the middle of your face the parson at Guerlitz
must take your child,"--"Parson Behrens?" asked Hawermann.--"Yes, the
same Parson Behrens who taught you and me at old Knirkstaedt."--"Ah,
Braesig, I was just wishing last night that such a thing were
possible."--"Possible? He must do it. It would be the best thing in the
world for him to have a little child toddling about his knees, and
growing up under his care, for he has no children of his own, has let
all the glebe land, and has nothing whatever to do but to read his
books and study, till any other man would see green and yellow specks
dancing before his eyes even with looking at him from a distance. It
would be a capital thing for him, and Mrs. Behrens is so fond of
children that the little ones in the village cling to her skirts
whenever she goes there. She is also a most excellent worthy woman, and
so cheerful that she and your sister get on capitally together."--
"If it could only be," cried Hawermann. "What do we not both owe that
man Zachariah, don't you remember that when he was assistant to the
clergyman at Knirkstaedt, he held an evening class during the winter,
and taught reading and writing, and how kind he always was to us stupid
boys?"--"Yes, Charles, and how Samuel Pomuchelskopp used to get behind
the stove and snore till he nearly took the roof off, while we were
learning the three R's. Don't you remember when we got to the rule of
three in our sums, and tried to get the fourth unknown quantity? Ah
yes, in quickness I had the best of it, but in correctness, you had.
You got on better than I did in o'thography, but in _style_, in writing
letters, and in High German, I was before you. And in these points I'm
much improved since then, for I've made them my study, and of course
every one has his own _speshialitee_. Whenever I see the parson I feel
bound to thank him for having educated me so well, but he always laughs
and says he owes me far more for letting his glebe at such a good rent
for him. He is on very friendly terms with me, and if you settle down
here, I'll take you to call and then you'll see it for yourself."
Meanwhile they had reached Puempelhagen, and Braesig took Hawermann quite
under his protection as they crossed the court-yard, and addressing the
old butler, asked if his master was at home and able to see them.--He
would announce the gentlemen, was the servant's reply, and say that Mr.
Farm-bailiff Braesig was there.--"Yes," said Braesig.--"You see, Charles,
that he knows me, and the _Counsellor_ knows me also--and--did you
notice?--announce! That's what the nobility always have done when any
one calls on them, My lord the Count has three servants to announce his
visitors; that is to say, one servant announces to another who it is
that has called, and the valet tells his lordship. Sometimes queer
mistakes are made, as with the huntsman the other day. The first
footman announced to the second: 'The chief huntsman,' and the second
added the word 'master,' and the third announced the arrival of a
'grandmaster of the huntsmen.' So the Count came forward very cordially
to receive the strange gentleman who had come to see him, and--he found
no one but old Tibaeul the rat-catcher."
The butler now returned and showed the two friends into a good-sized
room, tastefully, but not luxuriously furnished, and in the centre of
the room was a large table covered with papers and accounts. A tall
thin man was standing beside the table when they entered; he was a
thoughtful-looking, gentle-mannered man, and the same simplicity was
observable in his dress as in the furniture of his room. He appeared to
be about fifty-two or three, and his hair was of an iron grey colour;
he was perhaps shortsighted, for, as he went forward to receive his
visitors, he picked up an eye-glass that was lying on the table, but
without using it: "Ah, Mr. Braesig," he said quietly, "what can I do for
you?"--Uncle Braesig now involved himself in such a labyrinth of words
in his desire to speak grandly as befitted his company, that he would
never have extricated himself if the squire had not come to the rescue.
Looking more attentively at Hawermann, he said: "You want....? but," he
interrupted himself, "I ought to know you.--Wait a moment. Were you
not serving your apprenticeship twelve years ago on my brother's
estate?"--"Yes, Sir, and my name is Hawermann."--"Of course it is. And
to what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you here?"--"I heard that you
were looking out for a farm-bailiff, and as I was in want of just such
a place"--"But I thought you had a farm in Pomerania?" interrupted the
squire.--Now was the time for Braesig to speak if he was going to say
anything of importance, so he exclaimed: "It's quite true, Mr.
Counsellor von Rambow that he had one, _had_ it, but has it no longer,
and it's no use crying over spilt milk. Like many other farmers he met
with inverses, and the hardness and wickedness of his landlord ruined
him.--What do you think of that, Sir?"
At this moment there was a loud shout of laughter behind Braesig's back,
and when he turned round to see who it was he found himself face to
face with a boy of ten or twelve years old. Mr. von Rambow also smiled,
but fortunately it never occurred to Braesig that their amusement could
mean anything but satisfaction with a well delivered speech, so he went
on seriously: "And then he came a regular cropper."--"I'm very sorry to
hear it," said Mr. von Rambow. "Yes," he continued with a sigh, "these
are very hard times for farmers, I only hope they'll change soon. But
now to business--Alick, just run upstairs and see if breakfast is
ready. It is quite true that I am looking out for a new bailiff, as I
have been obliged to part with the last man, because of--well, his
carelessness in keeping accounts--but," said he, as his son opened the
door and announced that breakfast was ready, "you hav'n't had breakfast
yet, we can finish our talk while we eat it." He went to the door, and
standing there signed to his guests to precede him.--"Charles,"
whispered Braesig, "didn't I tell you? Quite like one of ourselves?" But
when Hawermann quietly obeyed the squire's sign and went out first, he
raised his eyebrows up to his hair, and stretched out his hand as
though to pull his friend back by his coat-tails. Then sticking out one
of his short legs and making a low bow, he said, "Pardon me--I couldn't
think of it--The _Counsellor_ always has the _paw_."--His way of bowing
was no mere form, for as he had a long body and short legs it was both
deep and reverential.
Mr. von Rambow went on first to escape his guest's civilities, and
Braesig brought up the rear. The whole business was talked over in all
its bearings during breakfast; Hawermann got the place of bailiff with
a good salary to be raised in five or six years, and only one condition
was made, and that was that he should enter on his duties at once. The
new bailiff promised to do so, and the following day was fixed for
taking stock of everything in and about the farm, so that both he and
his employer might know how matters stood before the squire had to
leave Puempelhagen. Then Braesig told the "sad life-story" of the old
thorough-bred, which had come down to being odd horse about the farm,
and which he "had had the honour of knowing from its birth," and told
how it "had spavin, grease and a variety of other ailments, and so had
been reduced to dragging a cart for its sins."--After that he and
Hawermann took leave of Mr. von Rambow.
"Braesig," said Hawermann, "a great load has been taken off my heart.
Thank God, I shall soon be at work again, and that will help me to
bear my sorrow.--Now for Guerlitz--Ah, if we are only as fortunate
there."--"Yes, Charles, you may well say you are fortunate, for you are
certainly wanting in the knowledge of life and fine tact that are
necessary for any one to possess who has to deal with the nobility. How
_could_ you, how _could_ you go out of the room before the
_Counsellor_?"--"I only did as he desired me, Braesig, and I was his
guest, not his servant then. I wouldn't do so now, and believe me,
he'll never ask me to do it again."--"Well, Charles, let me manage the
whole business for you at the parsonage. I'll do it with the greatest
_finesse_."--"Certainly Braesig, it will be very kind of you to do it
for me; if it were not for my dear little girl, I should never have the
courage to ask such a favour. If you will take the task off my
shoulders, I shall look upon it as the act of a true friend." When they
passed Guerlitz church they heard from the singing that service was
still going on, so they determined to wait in the parsonage till it was
over, but on entering the sitting-room, a round active little woman of
about forty years old came forward to receive them. Everything about
her was round, arms and fingers, head, cheeks and lips; and her round
eyes twinkled so merrily in her round smiling face that one would at
once jump to the conclusion that she had never known sorrow, and her
every action was so cheery and full of life that one could easily see
that she had a warm heart in her breast. "How d'ye do, Mr. Braesig, sit
down, sit down. My pastor is still in church, but he would scold me if
I allowed you to go away.--Sit down, Sir--who are you?--I should have
liked to have gone to church to-day, but only think, the clergyman's
seat broke down last Sunday; lots of people go to it, you see, and one
can't say 'no,' and old Pruesshawer, the carpenter, who was to have
mended it this week, is down with a fever."--Her words poured out
smoothly like polished billiard-balls rolled by a happy child over the
green cloth.
Braesig now introduced Hawermann as Mrs. Nuessler's brother. "And so you
are her brother Charles. _Do_ sit down, my pastor will be delighted to
see you.--Whenever Mrs. Nuessler comes here she tells us something about
you, and always in your praise--Mr. Braesig can vouch for that. Good
gracious, Braesig, what have _you_ got to do with my hymn-book? Just put
it down, will you. _You_ never read such things, you are nothing but an
old heathen. These are hymns for the dying, and what are hymns for the
dying to you? _You_ are going to live for ever. You're not a whit
better than the wandering Jew!--One has to think of death sometimes,
and as our seat is broken, and the old carpenter has a fever, I have
been reading some meditations for the dying."--While saying this she
quickly picked up her books and put them away, carefully going through
the unnecessary ceremony of dusting a spotless shelf before laying them
down on it.--Suddenly she went to the door leading to the kitchen, and
stood there listening; then exclaiming: "I was sure I heard it. The
soup's boiling over," hastened from the room.--"Well, Charles--wasn't I
right? Isn't she a cheery, wholesome--natured woman?--I'll go and
arrange it all for you," and he followed Mrs. Behrens to the kitchen.
Hawermann looked, round the room, and admired the cleanly, comfortable,
home-like, and peaceful look of everything around him. Over the sofa
was a picture of our Saviour, and encircling it, above and below, were
portraits of Mr. and Mrs. Behrens' relations, some coloured, some
black, some large, and some small. In the picture of our Lord, His
hands were raised in blessing, so Mrs. Behrens had hung the portraits
of her relatives beneath it that they might have the best of the
blessing, for she always regarded herself as the "nearest." She had
hung her own portrait, taken when she was a girl, and that of her
husband in the least prominent place over against the window, but God's
sun, which shone through the white window-curtains, and gilded the
other pictures, lighted up these two first of all. There was a small
book-case containing volumes of sacred and profane literature all mixed
up together, but they looked very well indeed, for they were arranged
more in accordance with the similarity of their bindings, than with
that of their contents. Let no one imagine that Mrs. Behrens did not
care for reading really good standard works, because she spoke the
Provincial German of her neighbourhood. Whoever took the trouble to
open one of the books, which had a mark in it, would see that she was
quite able to appreciate good writing, and her cookery-book showed that
she studied her own subjects as thoroughly as her husband did his, for
the book was quite full of the notes and emendations she had written at
the sides of the pages in the same way as Mr. Behrens made notes in his
books. As for her husband's favourite dishes she "knew them," she said,
"by heart, and had not to put in a mark to show where they were to be
found."
And it was in this quiet home that Hawermann's little daughter was to
spend her childhood, if God let him have his wish. The raised hands in
the Saviour's picture would seem to bless his little girl, and the
sunlight would shine upon her through these windows, and in those books
she would read what great and good men had written, and by their help
would gradually waken from childish dreams into the life and thoughts
of womanhood.--
As he was sitting there full of alternating hopes and fears, Mrs.
Behrens came back, her eyes red with weeping: "Don't say another word,
Mr. Hawermann, don't say another word. Braesig has told me all, and
though Braesig is a heathen, he is a good man, and a true friend to you
and yours. And my pastor thinks the same as I do, I know that, for we
have always been of one mind about everything. My goodness, what
hard-hearted creatures the old Nuesslers are," she added, tapping her
foot impatiently on the floor.--"The old woman," said Braesig, "is a
perfect harpy."--"You're right, Braesig, that's just what she is. My
pastor must try to touch the conscience of the two old people; I don't
mean about the little girl, she will come here and live with us, or I
know nothing of my pastor."--
Whilst Hawermann was expressing his deep gratitude to Mrs. Behrens her
husband came in sight. She always talked of him as "_her_" pastor,
because he belonged to her soul and body, and "_pastor_" because of his
personal and official dignity. He had nothing on his head, for those
high soft caps that our good protestant clergy now wear in common with
the Russian popes were not the fashion at that time, in the country at
least, and instead of wide bands, resembling the white porcelain plate
on which the daughter of Herodias received the head of John the Baptist
from her stepfather, he wore little narrow bands, which his dear wife
Regina had sewed, starched and ironed for him in all Christian
humility, and these little bits of lawn she rightly held to be the true
insignia of his office, and not the gown, which was fastened to his
collar with a small square piece of board. "For, my dear Mrs. Nuessler,"
she said, "the clerk has a gown exactly the same as that, but he
dar'n't wear bands, and when I see my pastor in the pulpit with these
signs of his office on, and watch them rising and falling as he speaks,
I sometimes think that they look like angels' wings upon which one
might go straight away up to heaven, except that the angels wear their
wings behind, and my pastor's are in front."
The parson was not an angel by any means, and was the last man in the
world to think himself one, but still his conduct was so upright, and
his face so expressive of love and good-will, that anyone could see in
a moment that he was a good man, and that his was a serious, thoughtful
mode of life, and yet--when his wife had taken off his gown and
bands--there was a bright sparkle in his eye that showed he did not at
all disdain innocent mirth. He was a man who could give good counsel in
worldly matters as well as in spiritual, and he was always ready to
stretch out a helping hand to those in need of it.
He recognised Hawermann the moment he saw him, and welcomed him
heartily: "How d'ye do, dear old friend, what an age it is since I saw
you last. How are you getting on?--Good morning, Mr. Braesig."--Just as
Braesig was about to explain the reason of his and Hawermann's visit,
Mrs. Behrens, who had begun to take off her husband's clerical
garments, called out: "Don't speak, Mr. Hawermann,--Braesig be quiet,
leave it all to me.--I'll tell you all about it," she continued,
turning to her husband, "for the story is a sad one--yes, Mr.
Hawermann, terribly sad--and so it will be better for me to speak.
Come," and she carried her pastor off to his study, saying in apology
for doing so as she left the room: "I am the nearest to him, you know."
When Mr. Behrens returned to the parlour with his wife, he went
straight up to Hawermann, and taking his hand, said: "Yes, dear
Hawermann, yes, we'll do it. We'll do all that lies in our power with
very great pleasure. We have had no experience in the management of
children, but we will learn.--Won't we, Regina?" He spoke lightly, for
he saw how deeply Hawermann felt his kindness, and therefore wished to
set him at ease.--"Reverend Sir," he exclaimed at last, "you did much
for me in the old days, but this ....."--Little Mrs. Behrens seized her
duster, her unfailing recourse in great joy or sorrow, and rubbed now
this, and now that article of furniture vigorously, indeed there is no
saying whether she might not have dried Hawermann's tears with it, had
he not turned away.--She then went to the door and called to Frederika:
"Here, Rika, just run down to the weaver's wife, and ask her to send me
her cradle, for," she added, addressing Braesig, "she doesn't require
it."--And Braesig answered gravely: "But Mrs. Behrens, the child isn't
quite a baby."--So the clergyman's wife went to the door again, and
called to the servant: "Rika, Rika, not the cradle. Ask her to lend
me a crib instead, and then go to the parish-clerk's daughter, and
see if she can come this afternoon--Good gracious! I forgot it was
Sunday!--But if thine ass falls into a pit, and so on--yes, ask her if
she will come and help me to stuff a couple of little matrasses.--It
isn't a bit heathenish of me to do this, Braesig, for it's a work of
necessity, as much so as when you have to save the Count's wheat on a
Sunday afternoon.--And, my dear Mr. Hawermann, the little girl must
come to us this very day, for Frank," turning to her husband, "the old
Nuesslers will grudge the child her food, and Braesig, bread that is
grudged ....." she stopped for breath, and Braesig put in: "Yes, Mrs.
Behrens, bread that is grudged maketh fat, but the devil take that kind
of fatness!"--"You old heathen! How _dare_ you swear so in a Christian
parsonage," cried Mrs. Behrens. "But the short and the long of it is
that the child must come here to-day."--"Yes, Mrs. Behrens," said
Hawermann, "I'll bring her to you this afternoon. My poor sister will
be sorry; but it's better for her and her household peace that it
should be so, and for my little girl ....." He then thanked the
clergyman and his wife gratefully and heartily, and when he had said
good-bye, and he and Braesig were out of doors, he drew a long breath of
relief, and said: "Everything looked dark to me this morning, but now
the sun has begun to shine again, and though I have a disagreeable bit
of business before me, it is a happy day,"--"What is it that you have
to do?" asked Braesig.--"I must go to Rahnstaedt to see old Moses. He has
held a bill of mine for seventy-five pounds for the last eighteen
months. He took no part in my bankruptcy, and I want to arrange matters
with him."--"Yes, Charles, you ought to make everything straight with
him as soon as you can, for old Moses is by no means the worst of his
kind.--Now then, let's lay out our plan of operations for to-day. We
must return to Rexow at once, dine there, and after dinner young Joseph
must get the carriage ready for you to take your little girl to
Guerlitz; from Guerlitz you should drive on to Rahnstaedt, and then in the
evening come over to Warnitz and spend the night with me, and early
next morning you can be at Puempelhagen with the _Counsellor_, who
expects to see you in good time."--"That will do very well," said
Hawermann.
After dinner Braesig asked young Joseph, if he would allow the
carriage to be got ready.--"Of course," cried Mrs. Nuessler.--"Yes, of
course," said young Joseph, who immediately went out and ordered it
himself.--"Charles," said his sister, "my dear brother, how willingly,
how _very_ willingly .... But you know why I can't. Braesig will have
told you.--Oh me! to have peace in the house. Don't imagine for one
moment that Joseph and I are not of one mind, that he wouldn't do as
much as I; but you see he doesn't understand how to manage it, and his
words don't come easily to him. I'll always keep an eye on your child
as if she were my own, although that won't be necessary at the
parsonage."
The carriage drove up to the door.--"Why, hang it, young Joseph,"
cried Braesig, "you've got out your state eq'ipage, the old yellow
coach!"--"Yes, Sir," said Christian, who was seated on the box, "and I
only hope we'll get safe home with the old thing, for it's rather
shaky, and the wheels are so loose that they rattle as much as if one
was riddling gravel through a sieve."--"Christian," said Braesig, "you
must first of all drive through the village pond, and then through the
brook at Guerlitz, and lastly, into the pig's pond at Rahnstaedt, that
the wheels may draw properly."--"And then I'll be a real sailor," said
Christian.
When Hawermann had taken leave of his friends, and had put his little
girl in the carriage, young Joseph hastily forced his way through the
group standing about the door; his wife exclaimed: "What's the
matter?"--"There," he said, thrusting a pound of twist into little
Louisa's hand--that was the only kind of tobacco he ever smoked--but on
looking closer, Hawermann saw that it was a great lump of sausage which
young Joseph had wrapped in tobacco-paper, having nothing else at hand
in which to put it.
Christian drove through the pond and brook as he had been desired. The
child was left at Guerlitz, and there is no need to tell how she was
kissed and petted and made to feel at home with the kind people who had
taken charge of her.--Hawermann drove on to Rahnstaedt to see Moses.
Moses was a man of upwards of fifty. He had large expressive eyes, and
thick black eye-brows, but his hair was very white. His drooping
eye-lids and long dark lashes gave him a look of gentleness; he was of
the average height, and his figure was comfortably rounded; his left
shoulder was a little higher than his right, but that was caused by his
way of standing. Whenever he stood up he used to put his left hand in
his coat-pocket, and catch firm hold of the top of his trousers lest
they should slip down, for he only wore them braced up at the right
side. When his wife begged him to wear a strap at the left side also,
he said: "Why should I? When I was young and poor and had no money I
had only one strap to fasten my trousers, and yet I did my work and
married my Flora, and now that I am old and rich and have my Flora why
should I wear a second strap?" Then he patted Flora on the shoulder
gently, thrust his hand deeper into his pocket, and went back to his
work.
When Hawermann entered, he jumped up from his chair, and exclaimed:
"There now, it _is_ Hawermann!--Didn't I always tell you," he went on,
turning to his son, "that Hawermann was a good man and an honest
man?"--"Yes, Moses," said Hawermann, "I'm honest, but ...."--"Get up,
David, let Mr. Hawermann sit down here beside me. Mr. Hawermann has
something to say to me, and I have something to say to him.--Now,
David, you told me I ought to go to law.--And what did I say?--That I
wouldn't go to law, for Mr. Hawermann was an honest man. I only went to
law _once_, and that was when I had done business with a candidate for
the ministry. When I sent the fellow a letter asking him for my money,
he wrote and told me to read a verse in the Christian hymn-book.--What
was it again, David?"--"It was an _infamous_ verse," replied David:
"'Mein Gewuessen beusst mich nicht,
Moses kann mich nicht verklagen,
Der mich frai und ledig spricht
Wuerd aach maine Schulden tragen.
"'Conscience doth not sting me
Moses cannot touch me,
He, who has set me free
Bears all my debts for me.'"
"Yes," cried Moses, "that was it. And when I showed the letter in court
every one laughed, and when I showed my bill, they shrugged their
shoulders, and laughed again.--Aha, I said, you mean the paper is good,
but the fellow is worth nothing.--They answered that I was right, that
I might have him put in prison, but must pay for his keep while
there--so that in gaining my cause I'd not only have to pay all the
costs of the suit, but I'd also have to provide for the fellow who had
swindled me as long as his term of imprisonment lasted.--If that's the
way of it, I said, let him go free.--Mr. Hawermann, you will treat me
better than the Prussian law-courts."--"That's all very well, Moses,"
said Hawermann, "but I can't pay you, at least not yet."--"But," said
Moses, looking at him enquiringly, "you've got something left?"--"Not a
farthing," answered Hawermann sadly.--"Good God! Not a farthing!"
cried Moses starting to his feet; then addressing his son: "David,
what are you about? What are you staring at? What did you hear? Go
and fetch the book."--Then he began to walk up and down the room
impatiently.--"Moses," entreated Hawermann, "only give me time,
and you shall have every penny that I owe you, both principal and
interest."--Moses stood still and listened attentively to what he said.
"Hawermann," he cried at last, breaking into the patois of the
district, for the Jews of the old time were just like the Christians,
when they felt deeply they always used the dialect of the province in
which they lived, "you're an honest man."--And when David returned with
the book, his father said: "Why have you brought the book, David, take
it away again." Then to Hawermann: "Well, well, I began with nothing,
and you began with nothing. I have worked hard, you have also worked
hard; I have been lucky, you have been unlucky; I understand my
business, and you understand yours. What isn't to-day may be to-morrow,
and to-morrow you may get a place, and if you do you will save up your
wages and pay me, for you are an honest man."--"I've got a place
already," said Hawermann much relieved, "and it's a good place
too."--"Where?" asked Moses.--"With Mr. von Rambow of Puempelhagen."--"I
congratulate you, Hawermann. He is an excellent man. Though he finds
the times hard, he's an excellent man, and though he doesn't do
business with me, he's an excellent man.--Flora," he shouted, putting
his head out at the door, "Mr. Hawermann is here, bring us two cups of
coffee."--And when Hawermann wished to decline the coffee, he said:
"You _must_ have it. When I was a lad and used to travel about the
country with a pack on my back, your mother often gave me a cup of hot
coffee in the cold weather, and afterwards when you were farm-bailiff I
never went to you in vain. We are both men. Drink it, Mr. Hawermann,
drink it up."--
And so this business was settled too, and that night when Hawermann
went to bed in Braesig's house, his heart was much lighter and was full
of courage, and as he lay awake thinking over the events of the past
day, he could not help wondering whether his dear wife had been praying
for him in her heavenly home, and whether she would be a guardian
angel, ever at his side during the remainder of his life on earth.
Next morning he went up to Puempelhagen, and when Mr. von Rambow and his
little son left two days later, he had quite settled down to his new
duties, and had got into the full swing of his work. There he remained
for many years in peace and contentment, for in course of time he lived
down his grief, and found his happiness in that of others.
CHAPTER IV.
Wheat was again growing in the field by the mill, as when Hawermann
came to Puempelhagen eleven years before. Hawermann was on his way back
from church, for it was Sunday, and he had that morning listened to Mr.
Behrens' sermon and visited his little daughter. He was on foot, for
the church was but a short distance from home, and the weather was
as beautiful as midsummer could make it. As he went through the
wheat-field his heart was full of joy at the thought of the visible
blessing God had bestowed on that which had been sown in hope, and in
ignorance of what the future might bring forth. He himself profited
nothing by the blessing of the rich harvest, it all belonged to his
master, but he had the pleasure of seeing it, and the sight made his
heart overflow with joy and thankfulness. He whistled a merry air and
then smiled at himself when he found what he was doing, for he very
seldom felt inclined to show any outward signs of rejoicing. "Well," he
said to himself, "I've gone my rounds here for eleven years now, and
the worst is over. Let me go round once more, and other eyes shall see
it."--He turned into the path leading through the garden, which lay on
high ground to one side of a small plantation of oaks and beeches. The
foot-path was well swept and weeded, for the Squire and his family were
expected that afternoon. When Hawermann got to the edge of the wood, he
turned round and looked back at the wheat-field, saying to himself with
a smile: "Yes, it's a much heavier crop now than it was eleven years
ago; but I must be just; the weather has been far better for farming
this year than it was then. I wonder what the old gentleman will say to
it.--There's still a good long time to pass before the harvest though,
but we've got the rape as good as safe, that's one thing. I only hope
and trust that it isn't sold already," and he sighed. Then thinking
over the events of the past eleven years: "The old gentleman isn't a
bit richer than he was when I came. Indeed, how could he, with five
daughters and two sons-in-law to drain his purse, to say nothing of my
lady, who seems to think that because money is round, it may be set
rolling with impunity. And then the son, what a lot of money it takes
to keep him in a Prussian cavalry regiment!--Yes, the times are better,
far better than when I had my farm; but when a man once gets into
difficulties it's hard work getting straight again, and he has grown so
much older looking in the last year or two."--Hawermann was in no
particular hurry to get home, as dinner was put off until Mr. von
Rambow came, not that the Squire had given orders to that effect, but
it was an understood thing: "Yes," he thought, as he seated himself in
the shade, "he will be glad to see that the wheat is good, for it will
help him on, and he is in need of money. Fortunately the times are
better."
The times were really better, and for farmers the times may be likened
to a long, long cord stretching over England and America and the whole
earth, and uniting the different countries to each other. When this
cord gets slack and entangled, things go ill with the farmers and the
whole land, but when it is firm and steady again there is great
rejoicing in every heart. The cord was drawn much tighter now in our
little corner of the world, and young Joseph had turned his old
clay-pipe, his leaden snuff-box, the blue painted cupboard, and the
polished sofa out of the house, and the old yellow carriage was no
longer in the coachhouse; instead of these he had now a silver-mounted
meerschaum, and a "m'og'ny secletair," and a magnificent ottoman, and
there was a new carriage in the coach-house, which Braesig always called
a "phantom," and he wasn't far wrong, for it was like a dream to see
such a carriage there. And the same cord passing from the Count to
Braesig gave the latter, after his five and twenty years service,
written permission to marry as soon as he liked, and the promise, also
written, of a comfortable pension for his old age. When the cord was
slack it had twisted itself all round little Mrs. Behrens, in like
manner as boys tie up a cock-chafer, and when it was tightened she went
to her pastor, and continually buzzed in his ear that he ought to get
double the rent for his glebe lands now, to what he had done before.
And when Moses, at the end of the preceding year, added up his sum
total, and wrote under the long column of figures, a little one, and a
five and two large noughts: "Take away the book, David," he said, "the
balance is quite right."
But this cord, however straight and tight it may be drawn, is
influenced by human action, though God takes care that the slackening
and tightening are done properly, so that mankind is not either
destroyed or allowed to tumble aimlessly about like peas in a bag that
is violently shaken, but the _individual_ has as little power over the
cord as a cock-chafer has on the thread to which it is tied when
children play with it; like it, he can only buzz about within the space
allowed him. There is yet another cord which rules the world, and it
comes down from heaven, and God himself holds the end of it; this cord
was pulled a little tighter, and Zachariah Braesig had gout, and it was
pulled a little tighter still, and the two old Nuesslers lay upon their
last bed; a little bit was broken off the end of it, an they were laid
in the grave.
Zachariah Braesig was very cross when he found he had gout, and in his
ignorance declared that it was the new fashion of wearing brightly
polished boots, and the cold damp spring they had been having which had
given him gout, whereas he ought to have set it down to good eating and
to his daily little glass kuemmel. He was as troublesome as a gad-fly,
and whenever Hawermann went to see him when the pain was bad, he used
to find him studying the papers the Count had given him relating to
marriage and a pension, and then he was always as cross as two sticks.
"Don't you see," he would say, "what a horrible position the Count's
paper puts me in. If I marry, my lord, the Count, will say that I am
too young for the pension and if I ask for the pension, I acknowledge
by so doing that I am too old to marry. Oh yes, the Count's not much
better than a Jesuit. He speaks me fair, and gets the better of me. He
writes down all sorts of scoundrelly padagraphs on a bit of paper which
prevent a man, who for the last eight-and-twenty years has worn himself
out in his service, enjoying his pension without blame; a man who was
engaged to three women twenty years ago, and who, now that he is fifty
cannot marry even _one_ woman.--Oh, I laugh at my lord's padagraphs!"
One man's meat is another man's poison! Braesig was angry because the
cord had been pulled, but in young Joseph's home it had brought about a
pleasant change. In the old days, Mrs. Nuessler had tried in vain to
bring peace into the house, now it reigned there, and ruled the actions
of the whole family. Mrs. Nuessler was careful to keep it there now that
it had come; and the twins showed its gentle influence in their ways
and thoughts, and young Joseph also felt the change and tried to do his
duty as head of the family. It is true that he spoke as little as ever,
and still disliked smoking any tobacco except twist, and it is true
that he had not even yet grown out of tutelage, for after his parents'
death Hawermann and Braesig had undertaken the guardianship of all
out-door affairs, had arranged about the work, had seen that the farm
was properly stocked, and had got everything in order. As the old
people had forgotten to take away with them the money they had hidden
under pillows, in old stockings, and in odd corners, it was easy to
make everything go on smoothly and well, and when at last the whole
place was in good order, young Joseph said: "What am I to do now?" and
left everything to go its own way. But the comfort and peace in which
he now lived had made him much more cheerful, and his kindness of
heart, which had never been allowed free play by his parents, was
patent to all, and if it sometimes made him do foolish things, it
mattered no more than did the schoolmaster's appearing at a funeral in
a red waistcoat, for, as he said in excuse: "What does it signify,
Reverend Sir, when one's heart is black?"
And what changes had time made at the Parsonage? The cord had been very
little pulled there. When Mr. Behrens felt a light touch on his arm
when he was busy writing his sermon, and looked round to see what it
was, it was only his little wife standing beside him, duster in hand,
and while she gave his chair an extra rub, she asked him whether he
would like the perch to be fried or boiled, and if he had just got in
his sermon to S. Peter's draught of fishes, or to the great fish-dinner
mentioned in the Gospel, so many tiresome unchristian thoughts of fried
fish served with horseradish and butter _would_ disturb him, that he
had hard work to keep his sermon and clerical dignity uninjured.--Once,
a long time ago, I got a beautiful lily-root from my friend Juelke, the
great gardener in Erfurt. Its leaves began to show in March, and the
first thing I did every morning, was to go and see how much the leaves
had grown during the night, and I watched it carefully to see when the
flower-bud began to form. Long before there was any sign of the flower,
when only green leaves were to be seen, I used to carry it from the
cold window to the warm stove, and again from the dusty stove to the
bright sunny window. And as with the plant, so with human life, there
is to me great delight in watching and tending it as it grows.--The
parson had also received a lily-root from the great Gardener, the Lord
God of Heaven, and he and his little wife had loved it, and tended it,
and now the flower was there--a human flower, which grew in the warm
sun-light of loving hearts, and Mrs. Behrens went to look at her the
first thing in the morning, buzzed round her at mid-day, rejoiced in
her healthy appetite, and put another spoonful on her plate, for she
said: food is necessary to life. In the evening under the lime-tree
before the door, she drew the same shawl round herself and the little
girl, that she might know the child was warm, and when it was time to
go to bed she gave her a good-night kiss: "God bless you my darling,
I'll call you to-morrow early, at five o'clock."
And the parson's first act was to go to her; he watched the tender
green leaves opening, propped his lily carefully, and taught her how to
grow straight and true, and when she had gone to bed, he said with the
implicit faith of a little child: "Regina, our lily will soon blossom
now."
So it came about without the dear old clergyman or his wife noticing
it, and without the child noticing it, that she had grown to be the
most important personage in the family. When she went dancing about the
house in her simple frock, her little silk handkerchief round her neck,
her cheeks rosy with health, and her hair hanging down her back
unconfined by ribbon or comb, the whole household rejoiced in her
happiness. When she sat quietly beside her foster-father learning her
lessons, and looking up at him with her great eyes while he taught her
something new and interesting, and then at last closed her books with a
deep sigh, as though she were sorry that lessons were over for the day,
and yet glad, for she had been hard at work for some time, and could
not have properly understood anything more, Mrs. Behrens would leave
her clippers at the door, and go about dusting the furniture in her
stockings. She was afraid of disturbing the lessons: "For," she said,
"teaching children is quite different from writing sermons, and if it's
a deadly sin to speak to old people when they're busy, a child's
mind--good gracious, the waving of a tulip-stalk would be enough to
distract its attention!"
Hawermann's little daughter was always pretty, but she never looked so
pretty as when running to meet her father, she took him by the hand and
led him to the great lime-tree under which the good clergyman and his
wife were sitting, and if Hawermann sometimes looked sad at the thought
of how little he could do for his own child, there was a whole heaven
of joy in her eyes because he was there, and she seemed to feel she
could best repay the love and kindness her foster-parents showed her,
through her love and gratitude to her father. She had just entered her
thirteenth year, and as yet hardly understood the feelings and impulses
of her own heart. She had never asked herself why her father was dear
to her. With Mr. and Mrs. Behrens it was different. She had daily signs
of their affection, and daily opportunities of doing little loving
services for them in return. While with him--she only knew he was her
father, and that he often said things to her that must have come from
his heart, and often looked at her with a quiet sadness that could not
fail to go to hers. If she had made out a debtor and creditor account,
the clergyman and his wife deserved more at her hands, but still----!
The Lord our God has so joined people together by the ties of nature
that they cannot be divided.----
This day had been a happy one for both Hawermann and his child, and now
he was sitting in the shady arbour overlooking the fields he had tilled
and the neighbouring country. Spring was gone, and the summer sun was
shining warmly and brightly through white fleecy clouds, a soft breeze
slightly cooled the air, and the green ears of corn were waving in the
sunshine as though the earth were fluttering her green silken banner in
honour of her sovereign lady the sun. Her regimental music sung by
thousands of birds was hushed now that the spring was gone, and only
the cuckoo and corn-crake were to be heard; and instead of the songs
that but a few weeks ago had sounded in every thicket, the wind came up
over the fields laden with sweet odours, for the hay-harvest had begun.
How pleasant it is to see a long stretch of country lying before one,
divided into stripes of green and yellow, here and there interspersed
with wooded hills; to see old earth decked out in the brilliant
garments which the seasons have woven for her. But still life in such a
place is not without its anxieties, and people are fearful lest by any
misfortune they should not reap as abundant a harvest as they ought,
from their little bits of land, and even these long lines of colour,
and the hills and trees, seem in their eyes poor and barren.--I am
quite aware that it is not so in reality, but they think so at the
time.--With us it is quite different, our fields stretch out in one
kind of corn as far as the woods, the rape-fields resembling a great
sea in the golden sunlight. Large meadows and paddocks are to be seen
full of cattle, and immense hay-fields in which long rows of mowers are
at work in their white shirt-sleeves. Everything is for the best and
works for a good end, and wherever the eye falls there is peace and
fruitfulness.--I know quite well that it is not the case, but one
thinks so at the time.--It all depends upon the way we look at a thing.
One man sees nothing but riches and peace, while another slips away
into the shade and lets the humming of the bees, and the soft
fluttering of the butterflies around him sink into his heart.--Hawermann
was filled with quiet thankfulness as gazing on this scene he went over
again, in thought, the events of the past eleven years. Everything had
gone well with him during that time, he had paid both Braesig and Moses
what he owed them, and he was on good terms with his employer. Indeed
Mr. von Rambow had become almost confidential with him, for although
he was not accustomed to talk over his private affairs with anyone,
he had always found Hawermann so respectful, trustworthy and zealous
in his service, that he had gradually got into the habit of consulting
him about things that had more to do with himself individually than
with the management of the estate. As yet however he had never spoken
to him about his family worries, but now he was going to do so.
When Hawermann had been sitting in the arbour for a short time, he
heard a couple of carriages drive up to the door. "Here they are
already," he exclaimed, springing to his feet, and going towards the
house to receive the squire and his family.
Mr. von Rambow, with his wife, his three daughters and his son, had
come to spend six weeks or so at Puempelhagen to enjoy a little
country-air. "Well, Mr. Hawermann," he said, "I fear that we have come
upon you sooner than you expected, but I got my business in Rostock
finished much more quickly than I had thought possible.--How is all
going on?--Is everything ready for the ladies?"--"Quite ready," said
Hawermann, "but I'm afraid that you'll have to wait a little before
dinner can be served."--"All the better," he answered. "The ladies will
have time to dress, and you can show me the wheat-field.--Alick"
turning to his son, a handsome young man in uniform, "you can
afterwards take your mother and sisters for a turn in the garden, for,"
with an effort to smile, "you take no interest in agriculture."--"Dear
father, I ....." the son began, but his father interrupted him, saying
kindly: "Never mind, my boy.--Now, Mr. Hawermann, come and show me the
wheat. It's in the field just below the garden, I think."
They walked away together. What a terrible change had taken place in
Mr. von Rambow's appearance, he had grown so old, and it was not only
the hand of time that had aged him, he seemed to have some anxiety
which was wearing him out.--At the sight of his wheat-field he cheered
up, and said: "What a splendid crop! I don't remember ever having seen
such wheat at Puempelhagen before."--Hawermann was much pleased, but
like all of his class he did his best to hide it, and because his heart
laughed within him, he just scratched his head, and said they must wait
and see what sort of weather they had at the time of harvest, and that
there was generally a frightful quantity of rust down there at the edge
of the meadow.--"Anything that may happen to it now will be by no fault
of ours," said Mr. von Rambow, "I am very much pleased with the look
of this field.--Ah," he went on after a short pause, "why didn't we
know each other twenty years ago, it would have been better for us
both."--Hawermann became grave and sympathetic at once when he found
his master was in trouble.--They had now reached the place where the
Guerlitz estate marched with Puempelhagen.--"That wheat doesn't look as
well as ours," said the squire.--"Well," replied Hawermann, "the soil
is every bit as good as ours, but it hasn't been well treated, it is
the Guerlitz glebe."--"A propos," interrupted Mr. von Rambow, "do you
know that Guerlitz is sold? It was sold a few days ago in Rostock for
twenty-five thousand nine hundred and fifty pounds. Prices are rising,
are they not, Hawermann? If Guerlitz is worth twenty-five thousand nine
hundred and fifty pounds, Puempelhagen would be cheap at thirty-six
thousand," and he looked sharply at Hawermann as he spoke.--"Yes, Sir,
it would," replied Hawermann. "But the sale of Guerlitz may bring you
good luck in another way. You see it was arranged that the sale of the
estate should break the lease of the glebe lands which belong to it,
and as these lands march with your wheat-field, the best thing that you
can do is to take a lease of them yourself."--"My dear Hawermann! _I_
take the lease!" cried the squire, and then he turned away sadly, as if
he could not bear to look at it any longer. "I have enough on my
shoulders already," he added, "without undertaking anything new."--"You
shall have no trouble whatever about it, only give me power to act for
you, and I will arrange everything with Mr. Behrens."--"No, no,
Hawermann, it's impossible. The expense, the payment of rent in
advance, the large amount of stock required. I can't do it. I have
so many calls on my purse as it is, that I hardly know where to
turn."--Mr. von Rambow went back up the hill with so much difficulty,
and stumbled so often over the stones on the road, that Hawermann
sprang to him and offered him his arm. Just as they reached the garden
the old man became so giddy that the bailiff took him into the arbour,
and made him sit down and rest.--The squire soon recovered when brought
out of the hot sun, but Hawermann looking at him could hardly imagine
him to be the same man who had taken him into his service eleven years
ago. At last he began to speak again, and it seemed a relief to him to
unburden his mind.--"Dear Hawermann," he said, "I want you to do
something for me. My brother's son, Frank--you used to know him--has
left school, and will soon be of age, when he will have to take the
management of his estate into his own hands. I am his guardian by my
late brother's will, and have advised him to learn farming practically,
and as he has agreed to do so, I have chosen you to be his teacher. You
will find him an intelligent, good-hearted young fellow."--Hawermann
answered that he would do his best, he had known the lad when he was
quite a child, and had liked him.--"Ah!" sighed Mr. von Rambow, "why
couldn't my own boy have done the same? Why was I weak enough to give
way to my wife's entreaties against my better judgment? Nothing would
satisfy her but he must go into the army.--And now it has come to this,
he is deeply in debt, and I know he has not told me all, I see it in
his manner. If he would only confess I should know where we stand, and
I might be able to set him free from the money-lenders.--And what if I
also were to fall into their hands," he concluded in a low, broken
voice.--Hawermann was even more frightened by the expression of his
master's face than by his words, and he answered with emotion: "It
won't be so bad as that comes to, and then. Sir, you must remember that
you have still to be paid for the fifteen hundred bushels of rape, and
I'm certain there's all that."--"Ah," said Mr. von Rambow, "and I have
already been paid for seventeen hundred bushels, and the money is all
spent; but that isn't the worst of it. If that were all I shouldn't be
so troubled," he exclaimed, as though he must speak and so lighten the
burden of his anxiety. "The business I had to do at Rostock isn't
settled yet, though I told you it was. I only said that for the sake of
my family. I have undertaken to pay a debt of a thousand and fifty
pounds for one of my sons-in-law, and I find that I cannot raise so
large a sum in Rostock, though I had hoped to do so, and yet the money
must be in the hands of the man who has just bought Guerlitz in three
days' time.--Can you advise me what to do, old friend? You were once in
the same position as I am now, and you succeeded in freeing yourself;
don't be angry with me for referring to it. You are and have always
been an honest man, and can understand how miserable it makes me not to
know how to keep my honest name unstained."--Hawermann understood him
perfectly, he had once been in the same distress for want of thirty
pounds, as the squire was now for a thousand. "Have you spoken
to the purchaser of Guerlitz?" he asked, after a long pause of
deliberation.--"Yes," was the reply, "I told him frankly that I
should find it difficult to pay so large a sum at once."--"And what was
his answer?" said Hawermann, "perhaps that he was in want of it
himself?"--"No, I don't think that was it, but I didn't like his looks
at all, his manner was sly and smooth, and when I told him of my
difficulty his proposals were so cunningly made to entangle me, that I
at once broke off all negociations, and determined to do my utmost to
raise the money in proper time. But I have failed as you know, and
don't know where to turn, or what to do."--"I only know of one remedy,"
said Hawermann, "and that is to go to old Moses in Rahnstaedt."--"To a
Jew?" asked the squire. "No," he exclaimed, "I'll never do that.--I
couldn't bear to fall into a usurer's hands.--No, rather than do that,
I'd bear Mr. Pomuchelskopp's impertinence."--"_Whose_ did you say?"
cried Hawermann, starting as if a wasp had stung him.--"Why the new
purchaser of Guerlitz of whom we have just been talking," said Mr. von
Rambow, looking at his bailiff in astonishment. "He is a Pomeranian,
and comes from a place nearer the river Peen; he is short and stout,
and has a fat face."--"Yes," said Hawermann. "And so it is he who is
going to be our neighbour here. It is he with whom you are going to
have money-transactions.--No, no, Mr. von Rambow, I beg, I entreat you
to have nothing to do with that man.--You can bear me witness that I
have never said anything good or bad of the man who ruined me, but now
that you are in danger, it becomes my duty to speak; that man was the
cause of all my misfortunes," and springing to his feet he went on
excitedly, his face as he spoke losing its usual calm expression, and
an angry sparkle coming into his eyes. "Yes, that is the man who drove
me out of house and home, who heaped one misery after another on me and
my poor wife, so that she at last broke down and died.--Oh, Sir,
whatever you do, beware of that man!"--The warning was too emphatic
to be passed over unheeded.--"But who can I get to help me?" he
enquired.--"Moses," answered Hawermann, firmly and decidedly. The
squire made a gesture of dissent, but Hawermann came a little nearer
him, and went on still more emphatically than before: "Mr. von Rambow,
Moses will help you, we will go to him after dinner, and I assure you
on my own knowledge of the man that you will never repent going to
him."
The squire rose and took Hawermann's arm. He found in him a support
both physical and moral, for when a calm, even-tempered man loses his
ordinary serene composure, he exerts a greater influence over others
than people of a more impulsive nature ever can.
The conversation during dinner was slight and subject to long pauses.
Each was busy with his own thoughts. Hawermann thought of his new and
formidable neighbours, the squire of the money he wanted to raise, and
the young lieutenant seemed as if he had lost himself in a long sum in
addition which he could not manage to add up rightly, so that if my
lady had not ridden her high horse a little, and spoken of the calls
she intended to make on the grand people in the neighbourhood, and
if the three girls had not chattered about the pleasures of a
country-life, and about all the pretty things they had seen during
their drive, it would have been a regular quaker's meeting.
After dinner Mr. von Rambow and his bailiff drove to Rahnstaedt. The
squire felt as he entered the door of Moses' house as if he were going
to pick a guinea out of the mud with his hitherto clean hands. On the
threshold he was greeted with a stuffy smell of tarry wool that had
just left the back of the sheep on which it had grown, and which is a
very different article from the same wool when it is woven into a
carpet for a lady's boudoir. The entrance-hall and business-room were
very untidy, for though Flora was a good woman she never could manage
to keep the skins out of sight, for Moses said shortly that they were
part of the trade, and David was continually adding new items to the
list of things lying about, so that finally the house became a very
paradise for rats, for these delightful little creatures take as kindly
to the fusty smell of a wool-stapler's shop, as doves to oil of
aniseed.
Mr. von Rambow did not feel more comfortable when he was in the
business-room, for Moses was old-fashioned, and when business permitted
always wore his worst coat on the Christian Sabbath, holding it an
article of faith to make himself look as different as possible from
Christians in their holiday-attire. When he came forward hastily to
receive the squire, exclaiming: "Mr. von Rambow!--I am highly
honoured!" and then turning to his son who was spending his
Sunday-leisure from "wool-stapling" in the enjoyment of lying at full
length on the sofa: "Why don't you move, David? Why are you lying
there? Get up and let Mr. von Rambow sit down." And when he led the
squire to the sofa, and signed to him to sit down in the place David
had just quitted, poor Mr. von Rambow would willingly have left the
guineas lying in the dirt--if only he had not been in such desperate
need of them.
Hawermann at once set a chair for his master near the open window, and
then began to explain the business that had brought them to Rahnstaedt.
As soon as Moses found what they had come for he sent David out of the
room, for although he let his son manage the wool-stapling part of his
trade as he liked, he did not consider him capable at five and twenty
years old of taking even a subordinate place in the moneylending
department. The moment the coast was clear--of David--he said again
that it was a great honour to do business with Mr. von Rambow. "What
have I always told you, Mr. Hawermann? Didn't I always say that Mr. von
Rambow was a good man, a very good man.--And, Mr. von Rambow, what have
I always said?--That Mr. Hawermann was an honest man, he worked and
saved, and has paid me everything he owed me to the uttermost
farthing."--But when he understood how large a sum was wanted he rather
drew back, and wished to have nothing to do with it, and if he had not
seen that Hawermann earnestly desired that he should undertake the
business, he would have refused point blank. And who knows whether he
would not have refused to have anything to do with the affair even
then, if he had not heard that the money was wanted to complete the
purchase of Guerlitz, and that failing his help the squire would have to
come to an arrangement with Mr. Pomuchelskopp. When he heard that name
Moses made a face of as much disgust, as if some one had offered him a
bit of unclean meat on a plate, and then exclaimed: "With
Poemueffelskopp!" that was the way he always pronounced the name. "Do you
know what sort of man he is?" and as he spoke, he made a movement as
though he were throwing a piece of unclean meat over his shoulder. "I
advised my son David to have nothing to do with Poemueffelskopp--but
young people!--David bought some wool from him. Very well, I said, you
will see, I said. And what did we discover? He had mixed the lumpy wool
of sheep that had died of disease with what was clean and good, and
also the dirty skins of wethers that had been slaughtered by the
butcher, to say nothing of two large stones that he had put in the
centre. Two large stones!--Good, I said. I paid him in Prussian
paper-money, making up the sum in small parcels containing about
fifteen pounds each, and amongst them I slipped in a few notes that
were either false, or which had passed out of currency, and lastly I
added two old lottery-tickets--these are the two large stones, I
said.--Oh, didn't he make noise enough about it? He came back with
Slus'uhr the attorney--a man of like nature with himself--" with that he
made as though he were throwing another bit of unclean meat over his
shoulder.--"He looks for all the world like one of David's rats, his
ears are put on his head in the same way--he must needs live, so he
lives like the rats on refuse and garbage, and gnaws through the honest
work of other people.--There was noise enough in all conscience now
that the two were together. They said they'd go to law. What's the good
of a law-suit? I asked. The wool and the money are on a par.--And do
you know, gentlemen, I said something more. I said that though the
attorney, Mr. Poemueffelskopp, and I are only _three_ Jews, still we
might be counted as _four_, for the two former were quite equal to
three in their own person.--Oh dear, what a noise they made, they
abused me to every one, but his worship the mayor said to me, Moses, he
said, you do a large business, but have never yet gone to law with any
one, leave them to do their worst. Mr. von Rambow, you shall have the
money this very day at a reasonable percentage, for as you are a good
man and deal kindly with your dependents, and have a good name in the
country-side, you shall have nothing to do with that Poemueffelskopp."
Borrowing money is disagreeable work, and he who writes this book knows
that it is so from his own experience, still there is a great
difference between borrowing from a kind-hearted old friend, and
applying to a man whose business it is to lend money.--The squire had a
good many small debts on his estate, but there were no large mortgages
on it, whenever he had wanted money before he had been able to get it
from his lawyer, or from a tradesman, and this was the first time his
old resources had failed him, and that he had been obliged to go to a
Jewish moneylender. He had an intense dislike to the business he was
about; the fear caused by the unwillingness Moses had at first shown
to lend him the money, and then the sudden relief when he found he
was to have it after all overpowered him so much, that he sank back
in his chair pale and trembling. Hawermann asked for some water for
him.--"Perhaps, Mr. von Rambow," asked Moses, "you'd like a mouthful of
wine better."--"No, water, water," cried Hawermann, and Moses rushed to
the door, and nearly knocked David down when he opened it, for David
had been listening at the key-hole. "David," he exclaimed, "what are
you standing there for? Why don't you go for some water?"
David brought the water, and the squire felt better as soon as he had
drunk it. Moses counted the gold out on the table, and the squire,
after picking them up, looked at his hands, and saw that they appeared
every whit as white and clean as before. And after he was once more
seated in the carriage, it seemed to him as he looked back at the
money-lender's house, as if he had left the heavy load of care he had
brought with him amongst the wool and sheep-skins in the warehouse. And
Moses stood in the door-way and bowed, and bowed, and glanced from side
to side to see whether his neighbours had observed that Mr. von Rambow
was there.--Still he was not so much overwhelmed with the honour done
him, as to be unable to look after his own affairs, he bent down his
head, and drawing Hawermann aside, whispered: "You are an honest man,
bailiff. When I concluded this piece of business I didn't notice how
ill the squire was. You must promise me that the money will be paid off
by the estate.--It is a question of life and death.--What have I to do
with a sick man and a bond?"
Now that the squire's mind was at rest about his money-difficulties his
health improved rapidly, and he began to look at everything in a more
cheerful light, and when a few days later Hawermann again proposed that
Mr. von Rambow should take a lease of the Guerlitz glebe, he consented
at once, and gave Hawermann permission to make all the necessary
arrangements with Mr. Behrens. Little Mrs. Behrens fluttered round her
husband and Hawermann while they talked, and said that "the rent ought
to be higher than before."--"Yes," answered Hawermann, "of course it
ought. The rent must be raised, for the times are better than they
were, but that matter will be easily settled, for it will be an
advantageous arrangement for both sides."--"Regina," said the pastor,
"it has just occurred to me that the flowers have never been watered
this morning."--"Goodness gracious me," cried Mrs. Behrens as she
hastened from the room, "I quite forgot the flowers."--"We'll get on
quicker now," said the pastor. "I confess that I'd rather have an
outsider for a tenant than the lord of the manor, for when the latter
has the glebe-lands there are often little disagreeables and disputes
that ought never to be between the parish-priest and his squire.
Besides that, merely as a matter of personal feeling I'd far rather
have Mr. von Rambow for a tenant than the new lord of the manor; you
see I have known him for many years.--So you really think I ought to
get a higher rent?"--"Most certainly, Sir, and I am commissioned to
offer you half as much again as you used to get. If I _myself_ were
going to take a lease of it from you, I should offer you more,
but ......"--"We understand each other, dear Hawermann," interrupted
Mr. Behrens. "I agree to your terms."--So when Mrs. Behrens returned
with little Louisa to say: "I needn't have gone after all, Louisa had
done it for me," business was all arranged. The child threw her arms
round her father's neck, exclaiming: "Oh father, father, what a good
plan it is!"--Why did she kiss her father, and what did it matter to
her who got the lease of the glebe?--Well, well, if her father had the
land he would have to look after it, and so she hoped to him oftener.
When Hawermann was walking down the path leading to the church he met
Zachariah Braesig coming towards him. Braesig had quite recovered from
the unphilosophical state of mind into which a fit of gout always threw
him, and now that the pain was over could take things as calmly and
philosophically as usual. "Good-day, Charles," he said. "I have been
waiting for you for some time in your room, but as the time hung rather
heavily on my hands I went at last to pay my respects to the
_Counsellor_. He delighted to see me, and received me with the greatest
possible kindness; but how dreadfully changed he is." True, Hawermann
replied, his master had become terribly aged and feeble, and he feared
that he would not long be spared to them.--"Yes," answered Braesig, "but
what is life after all, Charles? What is human life? Look you, Charles,
it is as though it were a thing twirled round and round like an empty
purse from which not a single farthing can fall, however long one may
wait."--"Braesig," said Hawermann, "I don't know what other people may
think of it, but life and work always seem to me to be one and the same
thing."--"Oh, ho! Charles, I have you now! You learnt that from parson
Behrens. He has spoken to me now and then on the subject, and he always
makes out that human life in this world is neither more nor less than a
sort of seed-time, and that Christian faith is the sun and rain that
makes the seed sprout and grow, and that only hereafter, in the other
world, comes the harvest, for while he is on earth, man must labour and
toil to the uttermost.--But, Charles, that is a wrong way of looking at
it, it goes clean against Scripture.--The Bible tells us of the lilies
of the field, how they toil not, neither do they spin, and yet our
Heavenly Father feeds them. And if God feeds them, they are alive, and
yet they do no work. And when I have that confounded gout, and can do
nothing--absolutely nothing, except flap the beastly flies away from my
face--can I be said to work? And yet I am alive, and suffer horrible
torture into the bargain. And, Charles," he continued, pointing to a
field on the right, "just look at those two lilies coming towards
us. I mean the lieutenant and his youngest sister; now have you ever
heard that lieutenants in a cavalry-regiment do any sort of hard work,
or that young ladies of rank and position busy themselves with
spinning? Yet there they come, alive and well, walking over the
rape-stubble."--"Will you wait a few minutes, Zachariah?" said
Hawermann. "They are coming straight towards us, and perhaps wish to
speak to us."--"All right," said Braesig. "But I say, just look at the
young lady wading through the stubble with a long train to her gown,
and thin shoes!--Nay, Charles, life and suffering are one and the same
thing, and the suffering always begins at the small end, with the feet
for instance; and that this is true, witness my confounded gout, and
the young lady's thin shoes.--But what I wanted to say was this, that
your happiest time here is past and gone, for when the _Counsellor_ is
dead, you may look out for squalls.--You will then see strange things
come to pass with my lady, her unmarried daughters, and the
lieutenant.--Charles," he continued, after a few minutes silent
thought, "it would be well for you to be on good terms with the
crown-prince."--"Oh, Braesig, what are you saying?" interrupted
Hawermann. "I shall keep to the straight road."--"Yes, Charles, I do so
too, and so does everyone who is not a Jesuit; but look at the young
lady, she is also going along the straight road, but it leads her
through the stubble!--Charles ....."
The young people had now come too near to allow him to finish his
sentence, so he only added in a sort of aside: "A Jesuit? No! But he's
a regular vocative case!"--
"Thank you, Mr. Hawermann, for waiting for us," said Alick von Rambow,
coming up to them. "My sister and I set out on our walk with two
different ends in view: her object was to find corn-flowers, and mine
was to find horses. She can't find any cornflowers, and I can't see any
horses."--"If you mean the common 'blue-bottle' by corn-flowers, Miss,"
said Braesig. "But," he interrupted himself, "what a pity, that
confounded rape-stubble has torn your pretty dress," and he stooped
down as though he were about to try his hand at lady's maid's
work.--"Oh, it doesn't matter," cried the young lady, starting back,
"it's an old dress. But where shall I find the corn-flowers?"--"I'll
show you. There are a good lot of them down there on the Guerlitz march;
you'll find blue-bottles, red poppies, white gules, and thistles; in
short, a whole plantation of weeds."--"That is a capital plan,
Fidelia," said her brother, "while you go in search of corn-flowers
with Mr. Braesig, I will ask Mr. Hawermann to show me the young horses,
for," turning to Hawermann, "you must know that my father was good
enough to tell me this morning, that I might choose one of the best of
the four-year-olds for my own use."--"I'll show them to you with great
pleasure," answered Hawermann, "there are some really good horses
amongst them."--So the two parties separated, and the last words
Hawermann heard Braesig say as he walked away with Miss Fidelia were,
that he was delighted to make her acquaintance, for he had once had a
dog that was called "Fidel," and that it had been a splendid ratter.
Hawermann and the lieutenant went together to the paddock, and as they
walked they naturally talked about farming. The lieutenant was of a
lively disposition, and Hawermann had known him from his childhood, but
the bailiff found that he had learnt nothing about the subject on which
he was talking, that his views were inpracticable, and his questions
were so wide of the mark and displayed so much ignorance, that he could
not help saying to himself: "He's good-natured, very good-natured, but
he's very ignorant, and--good God!--when his father dies he will have
the estate, and will have to make his living out of it!"
After they had reached the paddock, and had examined each of the young
horses separately, the lieutenant said to Hawermann: "Well, what do you
say? Which ought I to take?"--"The brown," replied the bailiff.--"I
like the black better, don't you see the beautiful arch of his neck,
and what a finely shaped head he has?"--"Mr. von Rambow," said
Hawermann, "you don't ride on the head or neck of a horse, but on its
back and legs. You want a hack, and you'll get three times as much work
out of the brown as the black."--"The black looks as if he were partly
English?"--"You're quite right there, he is descended from Wild-fire;
but the brown is of the old Mecklenburg breed, and it is a pity that
these horses should be allowed to die out, that one should not take
pains to keep up what is good in our own country but should exchange it
for English racers."--"That may be all quite true," said Alick, "but as
all the officers in my regiment have black horses, I shall decide on
taking the black."
As Hawermann could not see the force of this reasoning, he remained
silent, and the conversation on the way back was not so easy as before;
but when they had nearly reached the house--right in front of the door,
and as if he had been preparing for this last step--the lieutenant
stopped the bailiff, and said with a deep sigh, and as if lifting a
heavy burden from his breast: "Hawermann, I have long wished to have a
little private talk with you.--Hawermann, I'm in debt--you must help
me.--I owe a hundred and thirty-five pounds, and I _must_ have the
money."--That was a bad proposal to make to Hawermann; but in really
serious matters the bailiff used the influence of his age, he looked
the young man of three and twenty full in the face, and said: "I can't
help you in this, Mr. von Rambow."--"Hawermann, dear Hawermann, I'm
desperately in want of the money."--"Then you ought to speak to your
father."--"To my father? No, no! he has already paid so much for me,
and now he is ill, it might do him harm."--"Still you should tell him.
Such things as this ought never to be discussed with strangers, they
should always be arranged between father and son."--"Strangers?" asked
Alick, looking at him reproachfully. "Do you really look upon me as
such a complete stranger, Hawermann!"--"No, Mr. von Rambow, no,"
exclaimed Hawermann, seizing his young master's hand, "you are no
stranger to me. And I will do anything for you that I possibly can.
This matter is in itself a mere nothing, and if I could not manage it
alone, my friend Braesig would make up the rest; but, dear Mr. von
Rambow, your father is your natural helper, and it would be wrong to
pass him over."--"I can't tell my father," said Alick, plucking the
leaves off a willow-tree near him.--"You _must_ tell him," cried
Hawermann as emphatically as he could, "he feels that you are
concealing some of your debts from him, and that pains him."--"Has he
spoken to you about it?"--"Yes," replied Hawermann, "but only in
connection with his own great need of money which you already know
about."--"I know," said Alick, "and I also know the source from which
my father received assistance.--Well, I can do what my father did
before me," he added coldly and shortly as he entered the house.--"Mr.
von Rambow," cried Hawermann, following him hastily, "don't do that,
for Heaven's sake, you won't succeed, and you'll only be in a more
unpleasant position than before."--Alick would not listen to him.
A couple of hours later, lieutenant von Rambow was standing amongst the
wool-sacks and sheep-skins in the Jew's house, where David found his
amusement amongst the articles of his trade, and he seemed to be making
a despairing last appeal to Moses, who kept determined hold of his
purse-strings. "Really and truly, my lord Baron, I can't do it. And why
not? Can't I make by it? Can't I make a good deal by it?--Look you, my
lord Baron, there is David--David, what are you doing? What are you
looking at? Come here, David.--Look you, my lord Baron, here he is
standing before you and me, I won't give him the least sign, but will
go quietly into the next room, and then you can ask David." And with
that he walked right shoulder first into the next room.
Poor Alick's affairs must have been in a bad way before he would have
had anything to do with such a person as David, for if he in his grand
new uniform looked fit to draw the king's carriage, David's outer man
was so shabby and ill-conditioned that he was worthy of nothing better
than dragging a scavenger's cart. But in this sort of business
appearance is nothing, the chief thing is to know how to act in any
emergency, and David was quite up to the mark there. He had three
qualities that stood him in very good stead; firstly, he had the
incomparably sly, sharp expression and features of the Jewish usurer,
and as he stood before lieutenant von Rambow, chewing a bit of cinnamon
stalk he had taken from his mother's store-closet, as a remedy against
the close woolly smell of the warehouse, and gazing at him with his
head bent a little sideways, and one hand in his pocket, he looked as
impudent as if the ghosts of all the rats that had died in the house,
during all the years that he had carried on the wool-trade there, had
entered into him: secondly, he knew himself to be a far harder and more
unyielding man of business than his father, for having had so much to
do with wool, skins, &c., which are known to be difficult things to
deal with, had taught him much: and thirdly, he was quite up to the
most approved method of drawing on, or holding off, a customer, and
this he had also learnt in the wool-trade.
Naturally Alick could make nothing of such a highly gifted individual,
and very soon turned to go away with a heavy heart. David was so
pleased with the way in which he had conducted the case in hand, that
he began to compassionate the young man, and felt inclined to give him
a little friendly counsel, so he advised him to apply to attorney
Slus'uhr, "for he has the money, and he will arrange matters for you."
Lieutenant von Rambow had scarcely closed the door when Moses rushed
in, and exclaimed: "David, have you any conscience?--I'll tell you
something, you have none!--How could you send the lad to such a
cut-throat?"--"I have only sent him to his own people," replied David
maliciously. "He's a soldier, so he's a cut-throat too. And even
supposing that the attorney _does_ cut his throat, what's that
to _you_? And if he cuts the attorney's throat, what's that to
_me_?"--"David," said the old man, shaking his head, "I tell you again,
you have no conscience."--"What is conscience?" growled David. "When
you are doing business you send me away, and when you won't do business
you call me."--"David," said his father, "you are too young," and with
that he went into his room again.--"Am I too young?" muttered David
between his teeth. "Am I always to be too young? Well, I know a place
where I am not too young." Then he changed his coat, and set out in the
same direction as he had sent the lieutenant, to the house of attorney
Slus'uhr.
I do not know what he had to do there, but I know this, that young Mr.
von Rambow had to write a good many letters that evening when he got
back to Puempelhagen, and that he sent a cheque in each of them, and
that when they were all finished he gave a deep sigh as if he had got
rid of a heavy burden. He did not know that although he had weathered
the first storm, he had acted like the old woman who heated the yeast
in her baking trough.
CHAPTER V.
About ten o'clock in the morning, a few days later, the sun was peeping
down on the garden of Guerlitz manor-house from behind a cloud. Her
daughter, the earth, had been having a great washing-day, and she
wanted to give her beloved child a little help with the drying of the
clothes. There is nothing more delightful than to see old mother sun
looking down sympathetically, her broad kindly old face showing between
the white sheets of cloud, and to see her seizing her watering-can now
and then to sprinkle the linen. At such times she is always in high
spirits, and, in spite of her old age and experience, is as changeable
in her humour as a young girl who is in love for the first time. One
moment she is sad and tearful, and the next laughing and joyous.
The old lady laughed heartily as she looked down on the garden at
Guerlitz. "Well," she cried, scattering her golden laughter over plants
and bushes, "one sees queer things sometimes in this stupid old world!
A neat white figure used to stand there, which by my help enabled those
poor hungry children of men to know the exact time to eat their dinner,
and now a fat, awkward looking fellow has taken its place, he has
green-checked trousers on, and there is a pipe in his mouth. Nothing is
done so foolishly anywhere else as in the world!" And with that she
laughed merrily over the new squire, Mr. Pomuchelskopp, who was
standing like a sun-dial, dressed in a yellow nankin-coat, and
green-checked trousers, in the same place where the graceful heathen
god Apollo used to be, except that while the god had a lyre in his
hand, he was provided with a short pipe. The sun's face clouded over
now and then when she saw her old friend, who, for so many years, had
noted her doings faithfully, lying neglected among the rankgrass and
nettles.--And then she began to laugh again.
Pomuchelskopp laughed too. There was no smile to be seen on his face,
but when stretching himself up as high as his short stature would
allow, he gazed around him, his heart rejoiced and cried: "It is all
mine! All mine!" He did not see the sun-beams which gilded the earth,
these made no impression on him; but the sun-beam within him, which was
caused by nothing better than pounds, shillings, and pence, lighted up
his heart, though it did not show in his face. Before an expression of
amusement could be seen there something very humorous must take place,
and matter to call it forth was not wanting.
His two youngest children, Tony and Phil, had come out into the garden,
and Phil had made himself a rod of docken and nettle-stalks, with which
he beat the statue of the fallen god, and that made father
Pomuchelskopp laugh most heartily, and Tony ran into the kitchen and
got a bit of charcoal, and was just going to give him a moustache, when
his father stopped him, and said: "Tony, don't do that, you may spoil
it, and perhaps we may sell it, Tony. But you may thrash it as much as
you like."--And so they beat the statue with their stinging rods, and
father Pomuchelskopp laughed till he shook in his green-checked
trousers.
At this moment "madam" appeared, and she was Pomuchelskopp's sterner
half. She was extremely tall, and as angular as king Pharaoh's seven
lean kine, her forehead was always wrinkled into a frown, as if the
cares of the whole world were laid upon her, or as if she were always
suffering a sort of martyrdom, or as if all the crockery broken by all
the maid-servants throughout the world belonged to her, and her mouth
had such a bitter curve that one would have thought that, she was
accustomed to drink vinegar, and eat sorrel. She wore every morning, in
spite of the hot summer-weather, a black merino dress that she had
bought once when she was in mourning, and that must therefore be worn
out, and when she changed it she put on a cotton gown which she had had
dyed olive green with elder-bark; and on such occasions as
Pomuchelskopp wore a blue coat and brass buttons, she put on a cap with
so many frills and furbelows that her weazened face peering out of it,
looked for all the world like a half starved mouse in a bundle of tow;
as for the rest of her dress, she wore petticoat on the top of
petticoat, but still her poor shrunken legs looked like a couple of
knitting-needles that had lost their way in a bag of odds and ends. At
such times it was advisable that her servants should keep out of her
way, for when she went about with velvet or silken streamers, her soul
was weighed down with the constant fear, of unnecessary expense in
housekeeping details.
She was a "mother" who pondered day and night how she might best make a
waistcoat for Phil out of an old dress of Mally's. She loved her
children according to the Scriptures, and so she chastened them, and
Tony might count two slaps on the back for every stain on his coat, and
two on the legs for every stain on his trousers. Yes, she was stern to
her own flesh and blood, but still she was able to rejoice in due
measure, as for instance to-day, when she came into the garden, and saw
how her youngest olive-branches were amusing themselves, a smile then
crossed her face like a pale gleam of sunshine in February when the
earth is still frozen, and which seems to say: "Never fear, spring is
coming at last."
She was the kind of wife of whom it might be said that she never in
thought, word, or deed sinned against the letter of her duty, although
Pomuchelskopp's conduct was rather trying, for in her opinion he was
often guilty of too great levity; for instance, when he thought a joke
a good one, he would laugh at it outright, and that was not seemly
behaviour in the father of a family, and must necessarily end by
impoverishing him, and bringing her and her children to beggary. She
therefore did more than she was bound to do by her marriage-vows, she
discouraged such outward signs of mirth, and gave him of her own
vinegar to drink, and of her own sorrel to eat. She lectured him--that
is to say when they were alone--as if he were her youngest son Phil,
she treated him as if he were still a child; in short, she bullied him
after her own fashion.--She never beat him--God forbid!--She contented
herself with words. She understood how to bring him round to her way of
thinking by the mode of her address: if he were behaving with
undignified thoughtlessness, she called him coldly and hardly by the
last syllable of his name, "Kopp," for she generally addressed him by
the two middle syllables, "Muchel;" but when he was acting so as to
meet with her entire satisfaction, for instance, when he sat crossly in
the corner of the sofa, and slashed angrily at the flies, she called
him by the beginning of his name in a loving tone, "Poeking."[6]
She did not call him "Poeking" to-day. "Kopp," she said, to show her
disapproval of his undignified manner of testifying his amusement at
what the boys were doing, "Kopp, why are you standing there smoking
like a chimney? Let us go and call at the parsonage."--"My chick,"
involuntarily taking the pipe out of his mouth, "we can set off at once
if you like. I shan't be a moment in changing my coat."--"Coat? Why!
you don't suppose that _I_ am going to put on my best black silk?--We
are only going to call on _our_ clergyman."--She laid as great an
emphasis on the word "our," as if she had been speaking of her
shepherd, or as if she thought that the parson was indebted to her for
his daily bread.--"Just as you like, my Henny. I can put on my brown
overcoat instead.--Phil, don't beat the statue any more, mama doesn't
like it."--"Never mind the children, Kopp, you've got enough to do, to
look after yourself. You'll go in your nankin-coat, it is clean and
good."--"My chuck," said Pomuchelskopp, who, when he was of a different
opinion from the wife of his bosom, always began with "Henny," and
ended with "chuck," "always dress in good style, my dearest chuck. Even
if we don't do it for the sake of the clergyman's family, let us do it
for our own sake. And if Mally and Sally go with us, they ought to
dress so as to make an imposing impression on the people at the
parsonage."
This last reason was deemed a sufficient one, and gained Pomuchelskopp
leave to put on his brown coat. He was made very happy by being allowed
to have his own way, a piece of good fortune that did not often happen
to him, so he felt proportionably grateful, and being desirous of
pleasing his Henny in return for her kindness, he wished to make her
partake in his joy. Let no one imagine however that Pomuchelskopp was
so ill-bred as to give audible signs of merriment in his own house, no,
he was always humble and quiet when there. He waved his hand towards
the fields around him, and said; "Look, my chick, these all belongs
to us!"--"Muchel," said madam shortly, "you are exaggerating, that
is Puempelhagen down there."--"You are right, Henny, that is
Puempelhagen.--But," he added, his little eyes twinkling avariciously as
he looked down on Puempelhagen, "who knows?--If I am spared, and if I
sell my Pomeranian property well, and the times remain good, and the
old _Counsellor_ dies, and his son contracts debts ....."--"Yes,
Muchel," interrupted his affectionate wife with the satirical curl of
her lip, which the world had to accept as her only substitute for a
smile, for it was the nearest approach to one that ever was seen on her
face, "yes, that is just like old Strohpagel, when he said: if I were
ten years younger, and were steadier on my legs, and hadn't my wife,
you would all see what sort of fellow I really am!"--"Henny," said
Pomuchelskopp, putting on an injured expression, "how can you say such
a thing? How could I ever wish to get rid of you? I should never have
been able to buy Guerlitz without the eight thousand five hundred pounds
you inherited from your father. And what a splendid place Guerlitz is!
All that land belongs to it," and he waved his hand as he spoke.--"Yes,
Kopp," said his wife shortly, "except the glebe, which you have allowed
to slip through your fingers."--"Dear me, chuck, will you never leave
the subject of the glebe alone! What can I do?--You see I am a
straightforward, honest man, so what chance have I with a couple of sly
rogues like Hawermann and the parson? But we hav'n't done with each
other yet, _Mounseer_ Hawermann! We'll have some thing to say to each
other before long, reverend Sir!"
Three neat little maidens were seated in Mrs. Behrens' tidy parlour in
Guerlitz parsonage on the same morning. They were plying their needles
and tongues busily, for they were trying a race both in sewing and in
talking, and as they sat there they looked as sweet and rosy in
contrast with the white linen, as freshly plucked strawberries on a
white plate. And these three children were Louisa Hawermann, and the
twins, Lina and Mina Nuessler.--"Children," said little Mrs. Behrens, on
one of the many incursions from the kitchen into the parlour, "you
can't think what a pleasure it is to me in my old age when I am laying
the clean linen away in the chest, that I know exactly when I spun and
hemmed each separate piece! How differently one treats it when one
knows from experience how much trouble it has cost. Mina, Mina, that
hem's all crooked. Goodness gracious me, Louisa, I believe you've been
going on sewing without ever looking what you were about, don't you see
that you haven't got a knot on your thread! Now I must go and see that
the potatoes are boiling properly, for my pastor will soon be in," and
then she hastened from the room, only popping her head in at the door
again to say, "Mina and Lina, you are to remain to dinner," and so she
kept flying about between kitchen and parlour in measured time like the
pendulum of a clock and keeping everything in good order in both.
But how was it that Lina and Mina had joined Mrs. Behrens'
sewing-class? This was how it happened--When the two little girls had
grown so old that they could pronounce the letter "r," and no longer
cared about playing with the sand-box, but ran after Mrs. Nuessler all
day long, saying: "What shall we do now, mother?" Mrs. Nuessler told
young Joseph that it was high time for the children to have some
schooling: they must have a governess. Joseph had no objection, and his
brother-in-law Baldrian the schoolmaster, was commissioned to engage
one. When the governess had been six months at Rexow, Mrs. Nuessler said
she was a discontented old woman who did nothing but nagg at the
children all day long, and made her so uncomfortable that she scarcely
felt at home in her own house. So that governess had to take her
departure.--Kurz, the shop-keeper, chose the next, and one day, when no
one in Rexow had any suspicion of what was going to happen, the door
opened, and in marched an enormous woman, as tall as a grenadier, with
strongly marked eye-brows, a yellow complexion, and spectacles on her
nose, who introduced herself as the "new governess." She then began to
speak French to the two little girls, and finding that they were
innocent of all knowledge of that language, she addressed herself to
young Joseph in the same tongue. Such a thing had never happened to
young Joseph before, and it astonished him so much that he let his pipe
go out, and as they were drinking coffee at the time, he said, in order
to say something: "Mother, fill the new teacher's cup."--Well, in a
very short time the new governess ruled the whole house, but at last
Mrs. Nuessler who had borne it bravely as long as she could, said:
"Stop, this will never do. If any one is to rule here, it is I, for I
am the 'nearest,' as Mrs. Behrens would say," and so the grenadier had
to march.--Uncle Braesig now tried what he could do, "so that the little
round-heads might learn something." He engaged what he called a
"capital teacher," and "one who is always merry, and who is not to be
beat in playing the piano-forty."--He was right. One evening in winter
a red-faced, smiling little woman arrived at Rexow, and she had not
been ten minutes in the house before she fell upon the newly bought
second-hand piano, and beat it and thumped it as if she were threshing
out corn. When she had gone to bed, young Joseph opened the piano, but
as soon as he found out that three of the strings were broken, he shut
it again, and said: "What's to be done now?"--There was great fun and
laughter in the house in those days, for the governess played and
frisked about with the little girls, till Mrs. Nuessler came to the
conclusion that her eldest daughter Lina was on the whole a more
sensible person than her teacher. She wanted to know what the children
were taught, and therefore begged Madmoiselle to draw out a plan of
lessons, and let her see it. Next day Lina brought her a large sheet of
paper containing the plan, which was as follows: German, French,
orthography, geography, religion, Scripture history, and the other kind
of history, and Bible natural history, and at the end came music,
music, music, music.--"Ah well," said she to Joseph, "she may teach
music as much as she likes, if only the religion is all right. What do
you think, Joseph?"--"Oh," said Joseph, "it all depends upon
circumstances!"--Nothing more would have been said, if Mrs. Nuessler had
not accidentally found out from Lina that the time that ought to have
been devoted to Scripture history, was spent in playing at ball, and
soon afterwards when she happened to be upstairs at the time of the
religious lesson, she heard peals of laughter from the school-room, and
on going there to see what sort of religion was being taught, she
found--Mademoiselle playing at Tig with the children. Mrs. Nuessler
would have nothing to say to a religious lesson of that kind, and so
Mademoiselle "Jack in the box" had to beat a retreat like her
forerunner the grenadier.
The worst of it was that it was in the middle of the quarter, and Mrs.
Nuessler complained of the children being always in her way, to which
Joseph merely said: "Oh, what can I do?" but at the same time he began
to study the Rostock newspaper very attentively, and one day he put
down the paper, and desired Christian to get the phaeton ready. His
wife was rather uneasy because she had no idea what he was going to do,
but as soon as she saw that his mouth was even more drawn down to the
left than usual, which was his way of giving a friendly smile, she
said to herself: "Let him be, he has got some kindly thought in his
head."--Three days later Joseph returned, bringing with him a shadowy
lady of a certain age, and the news spread like wild-fire: "Only think,
young Joseph has engaged a governess by himself this time!"--Braesig
came on the following Sunday and looked her over, he was pretty well
satisfied with her, "but," he said, "mark my words, young Joseph, she
has got nerves."--Braesig had not only a great knowledge of horses, he
had also a knowledge of men, and he was right. Mademoiselle had nerves,
many nerves. The twins had to go about the house on tip-toe.
Mademoiselle took Mina's ball away from her because she had once thrown
it against her window by mistake, and locked the piano to prevent Lina
playing, "Our cat has nine kittens," the only air which Miss "Jack in
the box" had taught her.--
In course of time Mademoiselle had fits of rigidity in addition to her
nerves, and Mrs. Nuessler had to rush and administer all sorts of
reviving drops to her, and Frida and Caroline had to sit up with her at
night, for one would have been afraid to do it alone. "I should send
her away if I were you," said Uncle Braesig, but Mrs. Nuessler was too
kind-hearted to do that, she sent for the doctor instead.--Dr. Strump
came from Rahnstaedt, and when he had looked at the clenched teeth of
the patient, he said it was a very interesting case, and explained it
by saying that he had lately been studying "The night-side of human
nature."--Young Joseph and his wife thought no evil, except that they
had been obliged to get up in the night several times, but something
else was to come.--One day when the doctor was there Caroline rushed
down-stairs: "Mistress, Mistress, the illness is at its height. The
doctor has been waving his hands before Mamselle's face, and now she's
prophesying, and she's telling the truth too. She told me that I had a
sweetheart."--"Heaven preserve me!" said Braesig who happened to
be there. "The young woman ought to be in an asylum!"--And then
he followed Mrs. Nuessler upstairs.--After a little he came down
again, and asked: "What do you say _now_, young Joseph?"--Joseph sat
silently thinking for some time, at last he said: "It's no use,
Braesig."--"Joseph," said Braesig, striding up and down as he spoke, "I
advised you to send her away before, but now I say, _don't_ send her
away. I asked her what sort of rain we shall have to-morrow, and she
answered in her sun-and-bulist state, that we should have a regular
plump. If there is a plump tomorrow, take your perometer down from the
wall--perometers are of no more use, and yours has been standing at
'set fair' for the last two years--and then you can hang her in its
place, and so make the fortune of the whole neighbourhood."--Young
Joseph made no reply, and when he saw how frightfully it rained the
next day, he still said nothing, but pondered over the marvellous
circumstance for three days in silence. The news, meanwhile, spread
throughout the countryside that young Joseph had engaged a prophetess,
and that she had prophesied the heavy rain which had fallen on the
previous Saturday, and also that Caroline Kraeuger and Mr. Farm-bailiff
Braesig should be married before the year was out.--Naturally Dr. Strump
was not behind-hand in publishing the details of the interesting case
he was attending, and before long Mrs. Nuessler's quiet house became the
meeting-place of all the neighbourhood, every one going there either
from curiosity or to study the case from a scientific point of view;
and as Mrs. Nuessler would have nothing to do with it, and young Joseph
would have nothing to do with it, Zachariah Braesig took the case in
hand when the doctor was not there, and conducted the visitors
up-stairs to Madmoiselle's apartment, and explained the nature of
somnambulism to them. Christian, the coach-man, held watch by
Madmoiselle's bed, because he was so brave that he did not fear the
devil himself, and Caroline and Frida were too frightened to remain in
the room, even in company, and indeed they did not consider it a proper
occupation for them, for they thought a somnambulist must be a very
wicked person.--Amongst the visitors was the young Baron von Mallerjahn
of Graeunenmur, who came every day to enquire scientifically into the
affair, and who at last used to go up to see Madmoiselle without
waiting for Braesig. Mrs. Nuessler was very angry when she found out that
he did so, and told Joseph that he ought to be present at the
interviews, but her husband answered that Christian was there, and so
there was no need of him. At last however Christian came down, and said
that the young Baron had turned him out of the room because he smelt
too strongly of the stable, and that made Mrs. Nuessler cry with anger,
and if Braesig had not appeared at that moment she would herself have
ordered the Baron out of the house, but Braesig of course undertook to
do it for her. He therefore went up-stairs, and said politely, but
firmly: "My lord, will you be so good as to look at the other side of
the door?"--The Baron seemed to understand what was meant, for he
smiled rather constrainedly, and said that he was just then in magnetic
rapport with Mademoiselle. "What do you mean by a 'monetary report?'"
said Braesig, "we want none of your money here, nor your reports either;
that's the reason that Christian was told to sit here."--Now Braesig
was, without knowing it, in magnetic rapport himself, for whenever he
saw Mrs. Nuessler shed tears, it put him in a rage, so he now ended by
saying angrily: "And now, Sir, I must beg of you to go at once."--The
Baron was naturally put out at being addressed in such an unceremonious
manner, and asked haughtily, if Braesig knew that he was extremely
rude.--"If you call that rude," cried Braesig, seizing the Baron by the
arm, "I'll soon show you something else."--The noise they made wakened
Mademoiselle from her sleep, she started up off the sofa, and, seizing
the Baron by the other arm, declared that she would remain there no
longer; no one understood her except him, and she would go with
him.--"That's the best thing to do," said Braesig. "One ought always to
speed the parting guest. Two flies at one blow!" he concluded, showing
them down-stairs.
The Baron's carriage drove up to the door, and the Baron himself looked
nervous and uncomfortable, but Mademoiselle was determined. "Well,
well, what's to be done now?" said young Joseph as he watched the
departure from the window.--"Young Joseph," said Braesig as the carriage
drove out of the yard, "it all depends upon circumstances, and it's
hard to say. And, Mrs. Nuessler, let them be, the Baron will soon find
out now how to manage his monetary report."
For some time past Hawermann had been a great deal from home on his
master's business, and when he returned for a few days he had too much
to do about the farm to have time to attend to anything else. He had,
it is true, gone to see his sister once or twice, and had comforted her
by assuring her that the governess was ill, and would of course soon
get well again, but once when he came home he found that the doings at
Rexow were the talk of the whole neighbourhood. He was told that young
Joseph's sleeping Mademoiselle had run away with the Baron von
Mallerjahn, and that before she left she had infected Braesig with the
gift of prophecy, and Christian with that of sleeping, so that Braesig
now prophesied as he went about, and Christian could sleep standing.
Hawermann went to Mr. Behrens, asked him to tell him the rights of the
story, and to accompany him to his sister's house. "With pleasure,
Hawermann, I'll go with you gladly," said the clergyman, "but, to tell
you the truth, I have not taken any notice of the affair on principle.
I know that many of my brethren in Christ have tried the effect of
exorcism when such cases have fallen under their notice, but in my
opinion, in illnesses of this kind, the doctor is the proper person to
consult, and sometimes," he added with a sly smile, "the police are of
more use than any one else."
When they reached Rexow, they found Mrs. Nuessler, who was generally
able to see the bright side of everything, looking sad and weary. "Oh,
Mr. Behrens! My dear brother Charles!" she said. "That was a dreadful
woman, and I have been in great distress about her, but indeed, all the
governesses that I have tried have been dreadful people. That isn't the
worst of it. I shall get over that in time. What makes me miserable is
that my dear good little girls know nothing, and are learning nothing.
I can't bear to think that the time may come when my children may have
to sit silently amongst other young people of their own age and
standing, because they are too ignorant to join in the conversation,
and that perhaps they won't even be able to write a letter! Ah,
reverend Sir, you who are so learned can't understand how bitterly one
feels one's ignorance when one is in the company of people of one's own
station who have been properly educated, but I can understand it, and
so can you, Charles. Oh, Mr. Behrens, I'd rather send my little girls
away to school, though it would break my heart to part with them, and
Joseph and I would feel lost in the house without them, than that they
should grow up stupid and ignorant. When Louisa comes here she can
answer our questions sensibly, and she can read Joseph's newspapers.
Mina can also read, but when she comes to a foreign word she has to
spell it out. The other day Louisa read to us about 'Bordoe,' and that
I suppose is the right way to call the town, but Mina said 'B-o-r-d
Board, e-a-x oaks,' and what was the sense of calling it 'Boardoaks'
when it is always pronounced 'Bordoe?'"
During this long address of Mrs. Nuessler's the clergyman rose, and
walked thoughtfully up and down the room, at last he stood still and
said: "I have a proposal to make to you, neighbour. Perhaps Louisa is
farther advanced than your children, perhaps not. You need not part
with your little girls, if you will send them to me, and let me teach
them."--Whether Mrs. Nuessler had an undefined hope that her
difficulties would be ended in this way, or whether it was an utter
surprise to her, cannot be known, but this at any rate is certain, that
the relief was like a sudden turning from darkness to light. She looked
at the pastor with her frank blue eyes, and exclaimed: "Oh, Sir!" and
springing from her chair she went on: "Joseph, Joseph, did you hear?
Mr. Behrens says he will teach our little girls!"--Joseph had heard,
and had also risen. He wanted to say something, but not being able to
find the right words he just tried to seize the clergyman's hand, and
when he had got hold of it, he pressed it, and drawing Mr. Behrens to
the sofa, made him sit down by the little supper-table, and then when
Mrs. Nuessler and Hawermann had told the good man how happy he had made
them all, young Joseph said: "Mother, give the pastor a glass of beer."
So Mina and Lina became daily guests at Guerlitz parsonage. They were
still as like each other as two peas, except that Lina as the eldest
was a small half inch taller than Mina, and Mina was a good half inch
rounder than Lina, and, if you looked _very_ particularly, you could
see that Mina's nose was rather more of a snub than Lina's.
And now we return to when the three little girls were having their
sewing-lesson in Mrs. Behrens' parlour, on the day that the
Pomuchelskopps came to pay their first visit at the parsonage, for as
soon as the clergyman had finished his morning-lessons, his wife began
her share of the children's education.
"Goodness gracious me!" cried Mrs. Behrens, running into the parlour.
"Put away your sewing, children. Louisa, carry it all into my bed-room.
Mina, pick up all the threads and scraps that have fallen on the
carpet. Lina, put the chairs in order. The new squire is coming through
the church-yard with his wife and daughters, and will be here in a
minute--and my pastor hasn't come back from the christening at
Warnitz!" As she spoke, she involuntarily caught up her duster, but put
it down again immediately, for there was a knock at the door, and on
her calling out "come in," Pomuchelskopp, his wife, and his two
daughters, Amalia and Rosalia entered.
Pomuchelskopp tried to make a polite bow as he came in, but failed,
owing to his style of figure being of the unbending order, and said:
"We have done ourselves the honour of waiting upon Mr. and Mrs.
Behrens--and--and--hope to have the pleasure of making their
acquaintance, now--now--that we are such near neighbours."--Mrs.
Pomuchelskopp stood behind her lord as stiff and straight as if she had
swallowed the poker, and Mally and Sally in their bright silk dresses
looked, in contrast with the three little girls in their washed out
cotton-frocks, like gay butterflies beside common grubs.
Now although Mrs. Behrens was very confidential with her friends, her
manner to strangers was rather formal, and in her husband's absence it
was even more dignified than it would otherwise have been, so she drew
herself up, and her lilac cap-ribbons rose and fell under her firm
little chin with every word she spoke, as much as to say, "I am a
person to be treated with respect."--"The honour," she said, "is on
our side. I am sorry that my pastor is not at home.--Won't you sit
down?"--And she signed to Mr. and Mrs. Pomuchelskopp to seat themselves
on the sofa under the gallery of portraits, and the picture of our
Saviour with His hands raised to bestow the blessing, which, like the
rain and sunshine, falls alike on the just and the unjust.
While the elder people talked about indifferent subjects upon which
there could be no diversity of opinion, Louisa went up to the two young
ladies, and shook hands with them, and the twins followed her
example.--Now Mally and Sally were eighteen and nineteen years old, but
they were not at all pretty, for Sally's complexion was of an
unwholesome greenish gray colour, and Mally was her father's own child.
They had--alas--quite finished their education, and had been at the
Whitsun and Trinity balls in Rostock, so that their interests were of
course far removed from those of the little girls, and as they were not
particularly good-natured, they rather snubbed the children. And the
little girls either not wishing it to be remarked, or thinking it was
all right and proper, would not allow themselves to be repulsed by cold
answers, and Louisa said to Mally with great eyes of admiration: "Oh,
what a pretty dress you have on!"--All ladies however highly educated
are pleased with remarks of this kind, so Mally thawed a little, and
answered with a smile: "It is only an old gown, my new one cost thirty
shillings more with the trimming and making."--"Papa gave us our new
dresses for the Trinity ball. Oh, how we did dance to be sure!" added
Sally.--Louisa knew the proper services for Trinity Sunday, but she had
never in all her life heard of a Trinity ball, and besides that, she
had no very clear idea of what a ball was, for although Mrs. Behrens
had often spoken of what she had done in the days of her youth, and had
also confessed to having been at a ball, still when Louisa asked what a
ball was, she answered with all the dignity of a clergyman's wife, that
it was "a very silly kind of amusement," and alluded to the subject no
more.--Lina and Mina knew even less about it than she did. Their mother
had of course danced now and then when she was a girl, but only at
dances got up on the spur of the moment; and as for young Joseph, he
had certainly been at a ball once, but then he had stopped at the door
of the dancing-room, for he was so overwhelmed with shyness when he got
there, that he beat a speedy retreat without venturing further; and
uncle Braesig had described it to them in a totally incomprehensible
manner, as a number of white dresses with red and green ribbons,
clarionets and flutes, waltzes and quadrilles, and a great many glasses
of punch. When uncle Braesig told them this, he used to show them, with
his own short legs, the difference between a glissade and a hop, and
that made them laugh heartily, and was great fun, but what it all had
to do with a "ball," a ball such as their last governess had taken away
from Mina, they could not comprehend.
Mina therefore asked with great simplicity: "Do you play with a ball
when you are dancing?"--This question showed what a stupid innocent
little thing Mina was, but as she was the youngest and most
inexperienced of the party, it was unkind of the Miss Pomuchelskopps to
laugh at her as they did. "Well!" said Rosalia, "that is really too
silly!"--"Dear me, how very countrified!" said Mally, drawing herself
up, and putting on the high and mighty manner of a town-lady, and
looking as if she wished it to be supposed that she had been accustomed
to see Rostock cathedral out of her nursery-window from the time of
her babyhood, and as if she and his worship, the mayor, had been old
play-fellows.--Our poor little Mina blushed as red as a peony, for she
felt that she must have said something very foolish indeed, and Louisa
reddened with anger, for she could not bear to hear any one laughed at.
She did not mind it so much for herself, but when one of her friends,
any one whom she loved was treated so, it made her tingle all
over.--"Why are you laughing?" she asked quickly. "What is there to
laugh at in our not knowing what a ball is?"--"Look, look! What a rage
she's in!" laughed Mally.--"Dear child ....." she could not finish her
sentence, for Mr. Pomuchelskopp just then said excitedly: "I think it
is very wrong, Mrs. Behrens. I am the squire of Guerlitz, and if your
husband wanted to let the glebe....."--"My pastor has let it, and Mr.
von Rambow is an old friend of ours, and his estate, which marches as
well with our land as Guerlitz does, is also in this parish, and
then Hawermann, his farm-bailiff ....."--"Is a cunning rascal,"
interrupted Pomuchelskopp.--"Who has cheated us once already," added
his wife.--"What?" cried little Mrs. Behrens. "What?" She then stopped
short, for she remembered that Louisa was present, and she was afraid
of the child hearing and being hurt by what was said, so she contented
herself with making signs to her visitors to change the subject. But it
was too late. Louisa had heard, and was now standing before the surly
looking man and his cold-hearted wife: "_What_ did you call my father?
_What_ has he done?" And the gentle little creature who until that
moment had lived in peace with all men, was filled with burning wrath
against her father's slanderers, and her eyes flashed as she looked at
them.--It is said that the beautiful green earth will one day burst out
in fire and flame, and bury the work of men's hands and the temple of
God in ashes.--It was much the same with the child, a temple of the
living God that she had loved and reverenced was threatened with
destruction, and her sorrow found relief in an agony of tears as her
good foster-mother put her arm round her, and led her from the room.
Muchel looked at his Henny, and Henny at her Muchel; he had got into a
nice scrape now. It was quite a different thing when one of his
labourer's wives came to him weeping tears of blood, and told him a
dismal tale of starvation and misery, he knew what to do to get rid of
the woman, but now he could not think of anything to say or do, and as
he looked about him awkwardly he caught sight of the raised hands in
the Saviour's picture, and then he suddenly remembered one of the
lessons he had learnt in his boyhood, that Christ had once said:
"Suffer the little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not: for
of such is the kingdom of Heaven."--He felt extremely uncomfortable.
And even his brave strong-minded Henny was quite confounded; she had
children of her own, and had often heard them cry when she punished
them, but this was different; her Mally and Sally had often looked at
her with angry eyes, and had stamped their feet at her with rage, but
this was different. She soon recovered herself however, and said:
"Don't look so idiotic, Kopp. What was that she said about her father?
Is Hawermann her father?"--"Yes," wept Mina and Lina, "she is Louisa
Hawermann," and then they left the room to join their tears with those
of their school-fellow, for though they did not know how deeply their
little cousin felt the blow she had just received, still their love and
sympathy were so great that they longed to comfort her.--"I didn't know
that," said Pomuchelskopp, using the same words that he had done eleven
years before when told of the death of Hawermann's wife.--"A spoilt
child!" said his Henny. "Come, Mally and Sally, we will go, I don't
think that Mrs. Behrens intends to come back to us."--And so they
departed like the year 1822, of which, to carry out the illustration,
Henny might be called the 1, because she was always number 1 in her own
estimation; Pomuchelskopp the 8, because of his round portliness, and
the daughters the 2s, for they resembled, to my mind, the figure 2 that
a goose makes when it is swimming in a pond.
Just as they left the house Mr. Behrens came back from Warnitz,
accompanied by uncle Braesig. He knew from the dress of the
Pomuchelskopp family that they had come to pay a visit of ceremony, and
hastened from the carriage that he might speak to them before they
left. "Ah, how do you do! But," he added in astonishment, "where
is my wife?"--"She went away and left us," said Mrs. Pomuchelskopp
shortly.--"There must be some mistake," he said, "pray come in, and I
will rejoin you in a few minutes." He went away to look for his
wife.--Meanwhile Braesig had approached his old acquaintance
Pomuchelskopp. "Good morning, Samuel. How are you?" he said.--"Thank
you, Mr. bailiff Braesig, I am very well," was the answer.--Braesig
raised his eye-brows, looked him full in the face, and whistled, and
when Mrs. Pomuchelskopp curtsied to him before going away, she might
have spared herself the trouble, for he had already turned his back
upon them, and was entering the house. "Come, Kopp," said his wife
crossly, and they went home.
Mr. Behrens found no one in the house; so he went into the garden, and
shouted, and very soon the twins appeared, red-eyed, from behind the
raspberry hedge. They pointed to the hornbeam arbour with anxious
faces, as much as to say that he would find the cause of their sorrow
there. He went to the arbour, and there he found his Regina sitting
with Louisa on her knee, comforting her. As soon as she saw her pastor
she put the child gently on the bench, and, drawing him away to a short
distance, told him all that had happened.
Mr. Behrens listened silently, but when his wife repeated the cruel
words that Mr. Pomuchelskopp had used in speaking of Hawermann, his
face flushed with anger, and his eyes were full of a deep compassion,
he then asked his wife to return to the house, for he would like to
speak to the child alone.--His beautiful human flower had now been hurt
for the first time, she had had her first blow from the pitiless world,
a blow that her gentle heart would never forget as long as it continued
to beat; she had now taken her place in the eternal battle of existence
that will last as long as the human race. It must have come--it must
have come to that at last, no one knew that better than he did, but he
also knew that the great object of those who undertake the education of
a human soul is to preserve it from such rude experiences until it has
grown strong to bear, so that the blow may neither strike so deep,
nor the wound take so long to heal--and this child knew nothing
of the malice and uncharitableness of the world.--He entered the
arbour.--Thou art still happy, Louisa, in spite of all that has come
and gone, for it is well for him who in an hour like this has such a
true-hearted friend by his side.
Mrs. Behrens found Braesig in the parlour. Instead of sitting on the
sofa, or on a chair like a reasonable mortal, he had perched himself on
the edge of the table, and was working off the excitement caused by
Pomuchelskopp's snub, by throwing his legs about like weaver's
shuttles. "He had me there!" he muttered. "The Jesuit!"--When Mrs.
Behrens came in, Braesig got off the table, and exclaimed:[7] "What is
it, when one has called a man by his Christian name for forty years,
and when one on meeting that man addresses him as one has been
accustomed to do, and meets with a frigid 'Mr. Bailiff Braesig' in
return?"--"Ah, Braesig ....."--"That is what Pomuchelskopp has just done
to me."--"Let the man alone! Just fancy what he did here," and then she
told the whole story. Braesig was angry, very angry, he rushed up and
down the room puffing and blowing, and making use of such strong
language that Mrs. Behrens would have bidden him be silent, if she had
not been in as great a rage as himself; at last he threw himself into a
corner of the sofa, and stared moodily at the opposite wall without
uttering another word.
The clergyman soon afterwards joined them, and his wife looked at him
enquiringly. "She is watering the flowers," he said with a reassuring
smile, and then he began to pace the room thoughtfully. At length,
turning to Braesig, he said: "What are you thinking about, my
friend?"--"The punishment of hell--I am thinking of the punishment
of hell, reverend Sir."--"And why?" asked Mr. Behrens.--Instead
of answering, Braesig sprang to his feet, and said: "Is it true,
Sir, as you once told me, that there are mountains that vomit
fire?"--"Certainly," said the pastor.--"And is it a good or bad thing
for man that they do so?"--"The people who live near these mountains
regard it as a good thing, because it saves them from having such
violent earthquakes."--"Ah, well," said Braesig, apparently rather
dissatisfied with the answer he had received. "But," he asked, "do the
flames come out of a mountain such as that in the same way as out of
one of our chimneys when it is on fire?"--"Something like it," replied
the clergyman, who had not the faintest idea what Braesig was aiming
at.--"Then," said Braesig with a stamp of his foot, "I wish that the
devil would seize Samuel Pomuchelskopp, and put him on the top of a
horrible fire-spouting mountain such as you have described, and roast
him there for a little."--"Ugh!" cried little Mrs. Behrens. "Braesig,
you are nothing better than a heathen. How dare you express such a wish
in a Christian parsonage?"--"Mrs. Behrens," said Braesig, throwing
himself once more into the corner of the sofa, "it would be a benefit
to humanity, and it is just the sort of benefit that I should be the
first to grant to Samuel Pomuchelskopp."--"Dear Braesig," remonstrated
the clergyman, "we must not forget that when those people spoke so
offensively they did not intend to hurt our feelings."--"It's all the
same to me," answered Braesig, "whether they intended it or not. He
enraged me intentionally, and what he said here unintentionally was a
thousand times worse than that. Reverend Sir, it is quite necessary to
get angry sometimes, and indeed a good farmer ought to be angry two or
three times a day, it is part of his work, but of course I don't mean a
regular passion, just enough vehemence to show the labourers that one
is in earnest. I will give you an instance. I told the carters
yesterday when I was top-dressing a field with marl, that I wished them
to drive their carts in regular order. Then I took my station by the
marl-pit, and saw that everything was done properly. Well, what do you
think happened? That scoundrel, Christian Kohlhaas--he's as stupid as
an ox--came up with his cart still full of marl! Why, you great ass, I
said, what are you doing here with your full cart? And the silly fellow
looked me full in the face, and said: he hadn't time to put the marl on
the field before the other carts left, and so, as he had been desired
to keep the line unbroken, he had just come away with his load.--Wasn't
that enough to make me angry? I was rather angry, but, as I said
before, one's rages are as different as their causes. An official
outburst, such as I have described, does one good, especially after
dinner, but this!--Pomuchelskopp and a farm-labourer are two very
different people. This is horrible, most horrible, and you'll see,
Mrs. Behrens, that I shall have another attack of that confounded
gout."--"Braesig," entreated the little lady, "will you do me a great
favour? Don't tell Hawermann anything about what has happened
to-day."--"What do you take me for, Mrs. Behrens?--But now I will go
and comfort the child Louisa, and I will tell her that as true as
the sun shines, Samuel Pomuchelskopp is an infamous wretch of a
Jesuit."--"No, no," interrupted Mr. Behrens hastily, "don't do that.
The child will get over it, and I hope that it has done her no
harm."--"Well then, good-bye," said Braesig, picking up his cap.--"Dear
me, Braesig, ar'n't you going to remain to dinner?"--"Thank you very
much, Mrs. Behrens. There is a difference. I said that anger was good
_after_ dinner, not _before_, it does me harm then. I shall just go to
work at the marl-pit at once; but take care, Christian, I advise you
not to try that dodge again with the full cart!--Good-bye." And so he
went away.
CHAPTER VI.
Hawermann never heard of what had happened at the parsonage, but from
that day his daughter was even more loving and tender to him than
before, as if she had determined that her love should wipe away the
scandalous words that had been spoken regarding him. Mrs. Nuessler of
course heard all about it from her children, but she had not the heart
to trouble her brother by telling him what would so sorely distress
him; the clergyman and his wife were silent for the same reason, and
also because they hoped that the circumstance would die out of their
foster-child's memory, if it were never alluded to; Joseph Nuessler said
nothing, and Braesig held his tongue as far as Hawermann himself was
concerned, but he indemnified himself for his silence, and for the
sharp attack of gout which came on the day after the scene at the
parsonage, by nearly raising the country-side against the
Pomuchelskopps, who so little understood how to gain the love and good
will of their neighbours, that they soon made themselves as
disagreeable in the eyes of those who lived near them as my wife's[8]
floors just before Whitsuntide--well-polished and shining as they are
at other times.
Pomuchelskopp looked upon his surroundings as a great garden in which
he might plant his self-esteem. Whether it gave him shade or flowers he
did not care; as long as what was sowed there flourished and grew
apace, it mattered not to him what form it took. He had come to
Mecklenburg for two reasons: firstly, because he thought the purchase
of Guerlitz a good bargain, and secondly, because he had an exalted
idea of his future position as justice of the peace. "Henny," he
said, "every one has the upper-hand of us here in Pomerania, and the
Sheriff is all-powerful, but in Mecklenburg _I_ shall be one of the
law-givers. And besides that, I've always heard that if rich men of the
middle-class only stick to the aristocracy through thick and thin, they
receive a patent of nobility after a time. Only think, Chuck, Mrs. von
Pomuchelskopp!--how would you like that? One mustn't crow too small in
this world!"--That was a sin of which he never was guilty. He gave up
his chief delight of making a great show with his money for fear of
having to do it in the company of tenant-farmers and bailiffs, and he
addressed old Braesig coldly and distantly, and paid a visit of ceremony
to Braesig's master, the Count, instead of to his old acquaintance. He
put on his blue coat with the brass buttons, and drove to Warnitz in
his grand new carriage drawn by four brown horses, and when he got
there he was as much out of place as a pig in a Jew's house. As soon as
he reached home again he seated himself crossly in the sofa-corner, and
flapped at the flies. His wife who was always loving to him when he was
in a bad-humour, asked him: "What is the matter with you. Poeking?"--He
growled out in reply: "What should be the matter with me? It isn't me,
it's those confounded aristocrats who are friendly one moment, and turn
a cold shoulder on one the next. He offered me a chair, and then asked
me very politely how he could be of service to me--I didn't want his
help, I'm better off than he is--but I couldn't think of anything to
say at the moment, and the silence grew so frightful that there was
nothing for it but to go away."--Notwithstanding this repulse
Pomuchelskopp did not crow any lower; he hung on the skirts of the
aristocracy as closely as the tail to the sheep, and though he had not
a penny to give any of his own people when they were in distress, or to
the poor artisans in the town who were often nearly starving, he always
had plenty of money for any extravagant young sprig of the nobility who
asked him for it; and though he prosecuted any poor man without mercy
who ventured to cross one of his corn-fields, yet he gave Braesig's
master, the Count, leave to hunt over his land in harvest-time; and
though he treated his clergyman scandalously with regard to the
Easter-lamb, he allowed the Count's keepers to shoot a roe-deer at his
very door without a word of remonstrance. Yes, Samuel Pomuchelskopp had
high aims!
Hawermann kept out of his way, for he was of a quiet disposition and
disliked quarrelling, he was contented with his lot, and had plenty to
do. He felt like a storm-tossed mariner who had at last reached port,
and he had nothing to trouble him but anxiety about his master's
affairs.--A short time before he had received a letter with a black
seal, and written in an unknown hand, in which the Squire informed him
that he had had a slight stroke of paralysis, and had lost the use of
his right hand, and that a still greater misfortune than even that had
happened to him, his wife had died suddenly, and when apparently quite
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