Chapter XIII
Walpurga's thoughts were of home, and she tried to picture to herself how it would be when her letter arrived there. But she had been away so long that she found it difficult to do so. The letter had arrived at dusk, and Hansei, who was out in the backyard, chopping wood, was called in. He hurriedly lit the lamp, and Stasi read the letter to them. The grandmother wept, and the child on her lap moved about restlessly, as if it felt that the words it heard were its mother's. Nor could they help noticing that it had twice pulled the letter out of Stasi's hand, and that, in order to finish reading it, she had been obliged to move her seat. The child had, nevertheless, remained restless as before. At last, the grandmother dried her tears and said: "Thank God, that I have such a child. I don't mean you," said she to her granddaughter, "I mean your mother. You may be glad if you turn out as good as she is." Hansei listened with mouth agape, and smiled all over his face when they came to the passage about Walpurga's embracing him.
When she had finished the letter, Stasi said:
"It's a sad letter for all; but she'll be so much the happier when she gets home again. I'm only sorry that I shan't meet her when she does come."
Stasi was to be married on the following Sunday, to a forest-keeper, who lived near the frontier, on the other side of the mountain.
Hansei took the letter again and was about to go away.
"Leave the letter here," whispered the mother to him. "That's not the sort of a letter to read aloud at the Chamois. There are things in it which only man and wife ought to tell each other when they're alone."
"Yes, you're right," said Hansei. "Here's the letter." He was, nevertheless, sorry that the folks would not be able to see what a pretty letter his wife could write, and how much she loved him, and how good she was, and that none in the whole village deserved to be spoken to by her, for his Walpurga was the pride of his life.
"Yes, grandmother," said he, while he stood in the doorway, "thank God, the longest time's over. I can hardly understand how we managed to live without each other so long, or how it'll be when she sits in this low room again. But that'll be all right, and there are other houses besides this."
Hansei spoke these last words quite rapidly. He wanted his mother-in-law to understand that he was about to purchase a house. It was proper that she should know of it, but there was no need of her interference, lest she should rule him. The innkeeper was quite in the right.
Hansei could hardly wait until he was again with his privy counselor, and this privy counselor was, of course, the innkeeper. He looked up at the house and the trees, as if to say: "Just keep still, and don't be afraid. She'll come back again in good time, and she still thinks of you all. She knows many a thing, and would make a better queen than many another woman, and could reign better than the strongest man--" When Hansei arrived in front of the inn, he waited for a little while, in order to get his breath, and compose himself. It is no light matter to have such an extraordinary wife; one is very apt to be thrown into the background and to be less thought of. He was proud of his wife, but he was the husband, nevertheless. He went into the inn quietly, and sat down to a schoppen of wine, as calmly as if nothing had happened.
"That's the way a man should be," thought he to himself, while he took a comfortable draught. "It won't do to tell the world everything. Keep things to yourself. That makes the master; and that's what the women can't do."
Hansei patted Dachsel and Wachsel, the landlord's two dogs, who seemed to be fond of him, for they knew their master's favorites.
"Is it long since you've heard from your queen?" asked the host, casually.
"No. Only to-day."
"What does she say?"
"All sorts of things," said Hansei, discreetly, adding, in a careless manner, "I want to ask your advice about something presently."
The other guests looked up in surprise, to find Hansei the woodcutter addressing the innkeeper in this familiar tone, and were none the less astonished that the latter did not object.
"If you've got more paper money it would be quite convenient," replied the innkeeper.
"I've none this time, but I want to talk to you about another matter."
The host went into the back room, sent his wife out to wait on the guests, and exclaimed: "Come in, Hansei." A secret council was held in the back room.
Hansei told him that his wife would return in seven weeks from yesterday, that she had written to him to come for her, and that, while he knew how to carry himself in the world--
"Yes, that you do," said the host, "it was only yesterday that the chief forester--he was sitting in the very seat you're in, now--said: 'That Hansei's a sharp fellow'."
Hansei smiled his thanks for the compliment.
"But I want to ask you about something."
"What is it?"
"Look here. You're so much--how shall I say it?--so much readier with your mouth, and more mannerly than I am, and if I have to go to the capital and stand up before the king and queen and all the grand gentlemen, why--why--why, look here, whenever I think of it, even now, it chokes me, and my opinion is that you'd better go along as my mouthpiece and say everything properly. One doesn't have such a chance more than once in a lifetime, and it won't do to forget anything."
"That's a clever thought of yours," said the innkeeper.
"You shan't do it for nothing and the journey shan't cost you a groschen."
"No, I can't go with you. At court, it won't do to say: 'This is my child's godfather, my comrade, and he's to come in, too, and speak for me.' The one who has the audience is the only one who's allowed to speak. If you want to have a little fun, and your wife's agreed, I might go as Walpurga's husband--that would do."
"No," cried Hansei, "I won't do any such thing, and my wife wouldn't, either. That won't do at all."
"Well, my dear fellow, all that remains is to go and speak for yourself."
Hansei was sad. He felt as if thrust out of doors. He had not been brought up and schooled for such things as talking to the king and queen and their courtiers, and was afraid of what he might do to them if they were to laugh at and ridicule him, for he wouldn't stand that. He would allow no one to make sport of him, in his wife's presence, for he was the husband and she only the wife.
"Don't be so faint-hearted--a man like you--" said the innkeeper consolingly, while Hansei rubbed his forehead as if to make another head out of his own. "Just pretend I was the king. What would you say?"
"You speak first."
"All right." The innkeeper placed himself in position, put his hand in the breast of his coat, balanced himself on one foot, threw his head back, and said gravely:
"Ah, and so you're the husband of--ah, what's her name--of Walpurga?"
"Yes, she's my wife."
"Have you been a soldier?"
"No, by your leave."
"You needn't say 'by your leave,' but you must add 'Your Majesty,' and always as short as possible. The high folk never have any time to spare; they're always in a hurry and everything is counted out to the very minute. But what's the use of worrying ourselves already? We'd better settle our little business now. You buy my house and fields. I'll let you have them cheap, and then when the king asks how it goes with you, you can answer: 'Your Majesty, it would go very well with me; but I still owe three thousand florins on my house and farm and they trouble me greatly.' And when you say that, you'll see that the king will give you the three thousand florins at once. But if you didn't owe it, you couldn't say it. I know you. You're an honest fellow and can't tell a lie, and you know you might just as well say four thousand, or five thousand--it's all the same--and you'll have some money over to build with. But there's no need of that, and so you can lay in a stock of wine instead."
"Yes, yes, you're right, but I think we'll make it a sham sale, for I oughtn't do it without my wife's consent. The money really comes from her, and I don't even know whether she's willing to have the inn. We'll just make it a sham sale, and, if the king gives me the money and my wife's agreed, it'll be all right."
The host had, before that, flattered Hansei on account of his cleverness, but now, when there was real occasion for his doing so, held his peace. After a pause, he said: "While the clever fellow makes up his mind, the fool has time to make up his. I'll think about it."
They returned to the inn-parlor. Hansei felt ill at ease and soon went home. On the way, old Zenza greeted him. He made believe that he neither saw nor heard her, and hurried on. How glad he was that he had not become wicked, and how would he have felt now, if he had allowed himself to be tempted. Nothing would have been left him but to drown himself in the lake before Walpurga's return.
When he reached home, he said to himself: "I can still enter here with a good conscience and, God be praised, I can bid her welcome with a good conscience." After he got into bed, he kept on repeating the words: "God be praised," to himself, until he at last fell asleep. When he awoke, the first thing he said was: "Good-morning, Walpurga." He addressed his words to the empty air, but he felt as if she must hear him, as if she were at home already, for she had sent so good a messenger in advance. The letter was like a postillion playing welcome melodies. Hansei lay there dreaming, with his eyes wide open, until late in the day. But the day was both a good and an evil one. He had promised his comrades to go out hunting with them. All at once, it occurred to him that it was time to give up such sport. He would gladly have remained at home, but feared the talk of the innkeeper and, though the hills were far away, he felt as if he could distinctly hear the innkeeper telling his comrades: "Ha! Ha! His wife's coming home, and she's the master, and Hansei will have to lie down as she bids him." He fancied that he heard his laughing comrades walking about in the woods and calling out: "Lie down, Hansei; lie down," as if he were a dog.
An advocate at the provincial court,--for Hansei now had such distinguished companions--was also with the hunting party, and would laugh and jeer more than any of them. And then, to add to the fun, the innkeeper would tell a fine story about the letter. Thank God, he hadn't had a chance to read it. That would have been too bad. If I only hadn't mentioned it; but I'm too stupid and can't keep a thing to myself. If the innkeeper knew nothing of the letter, I could turn back without feeling ashamed and without minding their jeers. But my mind's made up. I shan't go with them again. I used to get along by myself, and I will again, when she comes back. We'll need no one, then. Hansei was busy thinking, that morning. He looked back upon how he had been living all this time. He felt so homesick about his wife at first, that he could not remain in the house and was unable to eat, drink sleep, or work. So he went to the inn, where they wished him joy because his wife had brought him such good luck, and this had pleased him; and when others stopped talking about it, he would renew the subject; and the innkeeper would take him along to fairs, target-shootings and pleasure-parties. One could not help but admit it was all very pleasant and entertaining, and the folks would say: "There goes Hansei, whose wife is the crown prince's nurse." Wherever he went they showed him great respect, and it's very pleasant to be received with respect wherever you go. Before allowing him to sit down, the hostess would always wipe off the chair with her apron, and considered it a pleasure to do so. At last, a happy thought occurred to him, and he still held fast to it. He would be the very man to keep an inn, and his wife would be the best hostess from one end of the land to the other. She would know how to talk to the people; and, after all, what is there pleasanter in the world than keeping an inn?
Hansei was so long in getting up that the grandmother came to the door and asked: "Is anything the matter? Are you sick?"
"Oh no, God forbid. I'm coming directly," replied Hansei. He soon came and, in a kindly tone, said: "Good-morning. Is the child hearty?"
"Yes. All's well, thank God," said the grandmother. She was always the same, whether Hansei was rude and taciturn, or talkative and confidential.
During her daughter's absence, she had never interfered with him but once, and then she had said: "You're the husband and the father, and should know what to do, and what to let alone." She knew very well that if she attempted to induce Hansei to give up his free life and his comrades, he would be less likely to do so, if it were only to avoid the appearance of being ruled by the old woman.
"Will you be at home at noon, or are you going across the field."
"I'll stay at home," said he, "I want to split wood. We'll clear up things and make it look tidy about the house, by the time she returns."
The grandmother nodded a pleasant assent. Hansei would gladly have said more, but he always thought that another ought to speak first, and so he sat there, stuffing potato after potato into his mouth, just as if every one were an answer he had received. With every potato that he pared, he thought of the clever things he would say to the king. He felt that the latter could not escape him. Six thousand florins could be counted on; and of five thousand he felt quite sure.
"If the king gives us a good farm on a royal estate, or any other appointment, we'll move away from here," said Hansei aloud. He thought that the grandmother must know that he would gladly break loose from his comrades and begin a changed life, elsewhere.
"Yes, yes," was all that the grandmother said.
"I think we must soon write an answer, and I'll write to her, too. She seems so sad."
"Yes, yes; do so. I must go to the child."
In promising to write to his wife, Hansei had imposed a difficult task upon himself. He would have liked to write kind, consoling, hearty words; to have cautioned her not to worry so much about the few weeks that still remained, and thus, perhaps, lost sight of what advantages might present themselves. Now was the time to be in good spirits, for pay-day was fast approaching. He had all these thoughts in his head, and she would respect him for the manly advice he was about to offer. But to get these ideas out of his head and on paper, was a difficult task.
Consoling himself with the words: "There's no need of my writing. I'll see her soon, and can tell her everything far better," he gave up the attempt.
While the grandmother went into the room in which the child lay, Hansei remained sitting at the table and emptied the whole dish of potatoes, while he was, in imagination, explaining to the king how well he understood forest matters. When the last potato was eaten, he went out, took axe, mallet and wedge and, with mighty strokes, split the stumps which had been piled up along the road in front of the garden. He had just taken off his coat, for, in spite of the keen spring breeze, he didn't feel cold, when a voice said, "Ah, you're still here." The innkeeper stood behind him with his rifle slung over his shoulder and accompanied by his two dogs, Dachsel and Wachsel. "You must have overslept yourself, just as I did. If we take the road through the valley and the ravine, we can still catch up with our comrades. Come, hurry and dress yourself, and get your gun."
As if this were a command which he must obey, Hansei carried axe, mallet and wedge into the house, dressed himself, took his gun and said to the grandmother: "I think I'll go along, after all." He would have liked to say; "I shall only go this once, so that they don't think that I stay at home on account of my wife's letter," but he held his peace. It isn't necessary to tell everything, and those to whom you do tell all, have a right to interfere in all. I want to arrange everything myself, and she must respect me for doing it.
Hansei accompanied the innkeeper to the hunt. He was in a good humor and more cheerful than ever.
Chapter XIV
"How was it once? How will it be?" I prithee, darling, ask not me. Our life's the Present--hold it fast, And let each hour in joy be passed.
Lift up thine eyes, so bright and clear; To search my heart, thou need'st not fear. Come, let us gather Flora's sweets, Ere wintry storm around us beats.
Thus sang Irma, with clear, ringing voice. Nature was again decked in beauteous array. The sharp winds of early spring were still blowing, and the sunlight was often suddenly obscured by floating snow-clouds. But the grass had begun to grow in the meadows, and here and there spring flowers were blooming.
Irma had recovered, after a few days. The bulletins respecting the queen's health had ceased, and Gunther, who had lived in the palace for weeks, now returned to his own house.
The queen, who was now permitted to leave her apartment, spent much of her time in the winter-garden, where the last fête had been celebrated. The trees and flowers were again in their wonted places; the fountains plashed, the fish swam about in the marble basin, and the birds twittered in their great cages. Walpurga and the prince were allowed to remain with the queen for hours at a time. All vied with each other in offering her delicate attentions which were inspired by something more than a mere sense of what was due her rank. Irma had shown so much devotion to the queen that the latter felt like begging her pardon. She often had the words upon her lips, but could not utter them. Friendship suffers from mere suspicion, and the queen well knew that she was looked upon as weak-minded and vacillating. She determined that she would be thus no longer. She felt that the great mark of a strong character is to prevent the world from knowing every change and phase of thought and feeling, and to give it naught but results.
No one should ever know what had so troubled her heart. She would be strong.
She kept Irma about her much of the time, and the hours they spent in the green, flowering, winter-garden, reading, working, conversing or singing, were serene and blissful.
Irma, who was an excellent reader, read Goethe's Tasso to them. It accorded with their present mood, and one day, Irma said:
"Your Majesty resembles Princess Leonora in many things. You have the advantage, however, of being able to accomplish in a few weeks what, in her case, it required years to bring about."
"I don't understand you."
"What I mean is, that long confinement to the sickroom and careful nursing are apt to produce, in the invalid, a certain sensitiveness and an almost imperceptible change in manner. It is well to escape from this hothouse mood into the open air; to be once again among the trees which are proof against all weathers, and to inhale the fresh, life-giving breeze."
The king was often present during these readings, and frequently felt moved to express his thoughts on the weightiest and most beautiful passages in Tasso. Irma often trembled. Every word she uttered seemed wicked. She felt that she no longer had a right to speak of pure and holy subjects, but the king was so cheerful and unconstrained that she speedily dismissed all concern.
"You are spoiling me, and will make me quite vain," said the queen, one day. "I have another wish. I long to go from flowers to works of art. I often feel like visiting the picture-gallery and the collection of antiques. When we move among the achievements of art the deepest impression we receive is, that human beings who lived long ago, have bequeathed their best possessions to us, and that eyes long since closed in death, look down upon us with their undying glances, and are still with us."
At the words "undying glances," the king and Irma looked at each other with involuntary surprise. To them, the words were suggestive. Irma composed herself and replied:
"I cannot help joining in Your Majesty's wish: from flowers and trees to works of art! Surrounded by pictures and statues, the soul dwells in an ideal atmosphere; life everlasting environs us; we inhale the very breath of genius which, although its possessors may have vanished from earth, endures for ever. When I was forced to the conclusion that I was without real artistic talent, I envied the monarchs to whom is vouchsafed the happiness of encouraging talent and genius in others. That is a great compensation."
"How beautifully she interprets everything," said the queen, addressing her husband; and it was with a mingled expression of delight and pain that the king regarded the two ladies. What was passing in his mind? He admired and loved Irma; he respected and loved his wife. He was untrue to both. Irma and the queen went through the galleries and the collection of antiques, and would sit for hours, looking at the pictures and statues. Every remark of the queen's was met by an observation of Irma's, which was in full accord with hers.
"When I look at and listen to you two," said the king, "and think of where you resemble each other and where you differ, it seems as if I saw the daughters of Schiller and Goethe before me."
"How singular!" interposed the queen, and the king continued:
"Goethe saw the world through brown, and Schiller through blue eyes; and so it is with you two. You look through blue eyes, like Schiller's, and our friend through brown eyes, like those of Goethe's."
"It won't do to let any one know that we flatter each other so," said the queen, smiling. Irma looked up to the ceiling, where painted angels were hovering in the air. There is a world of infinite space where no one can supplant another; it is only in the everyday world that exclusiveness exists, thought she to herself.
The more the queen gained in strength, the more marked was the change from a subdued, to a bright and cheerful vein.
It seemed as if Irma's wish was about to be realized. The life-renewing power of spring which reanimates the trees and the plants, seemed to extend its influence over human life. It seemed as if the past were buried and forgotten.
It was on the first mild day of spring, and they were walking together in the palace garden, when the queen said:
"I can't imagine that there ever was a time when we did not know each other, dear Irma." She stopped and looked into Irma's eyes with an expression radiant with joy. "You once told me about a Greek philosopher," said she, addressing Doctor Gunther, who was walking after them with the captain of the palace-guard, "who thought that our souls had a previous existence, and that our best experience, in this world, is merely the recollection of what we have experienced or imagined to ourselves in some earlier state of being."
"Without accepting this fanciful theory," replied Gunther, "there is much in life which may be regarded as destiny. I believe that all living truths which we take up into ourselves, and which thus, as it were, become a part of our being, were intended for us. Our mind, the whole constitution of our being, is destined for and attuned to it. There is thus perfect correspondence between our destiny and our capacity. But I beg Your Majesty to regard yourself as destined, at present, to step into your carriage. We must not let the first walk be too long."
The queen and Irma seated themselves in the carriage which awaited them at the Nymph's Grove. They drove on slowly, and the queen said:
"You cannot imagine, dear Irma, how timid and fearful I was when I first came here." She told her how she had looked into the eyes of the multitude that surrounded her, and had asked herself: "Who of all these does, in truth, belong to you?" and how encouraged she had felt when Irma spoke to her, as it were, with her warm, brown eyes.
"And they were speaking to you," replied Irma. "I should have liked to say to you: 'Sweet being! imagine that we have known each other for years, and feel just as if we had been friends forever.' I fancy that we both felt thus because we were both timid and fearful. It was the first time I had ever been at court, and I felt as if I couldn't help taking the lord steward's staff out of his hand, and supporting myself on it."
"How strange! I had the very same thought," said the queen, "and, now that I think of it, I can still recollect that the lord steward looked at me incessantly."
The affection of the two ladies was cemented by a hundred little memories. The carriage drove on slowly, but their thoughts took in days and months. There was a turn in the road; they had just reached the place where the statue had been shattered.
"It was a terrible night," said the queen, "when that happened, and it seems to me that simple-minded Walpurga is right when she says that it is wrong for us thus to expose the undraped human figure."
"I must be permitted to differ with Your Majesty," replied Irma. "The free--why should we mince words?--the nude, beautiful human form is the only one in accord with free nature. All frippery is subject to changes of taste and fashion. The human form as shaped by the hand of nature, is alone fitted to stand in her temple."
"You are a free soul; far freer than I am," said the queen. They alighted. Irma accompanied the queen to her apartments and then returned to her own. When she found herself alone she threw up her hands, exclaiming:
"What is the greatest punishment? It is not hell, where other guilty ones suffer with us! No; to be conscious of guilt and yet condemned to remain beside a pure and happy creature; that is far worse than all the torments of hell!"
"God keep you, Irma! God keep you!" shrieked the parrot. Irma started with a shudder.
Chapter XV
Spring returned, ushered in by the merry singing of larks and finches, and bringing with it the latest Paris fashions. The queen now appeared in public, and the ladies of the capital were delighted to pattern their costumes after hers.
The queen drove out, with Irma beside her, and Walpurga and the prince opposite.
"You must not worry when you're at home again," said the queen to Walpurga.
Addressing the queen in French, Irma said, with a smile: "Countess Brinkenstein would disapprove of your manifesting any interest in the future fortunes of one whose term of service is at an end."
With a degree of boldness that surprised her two well-wishers, Walpurga said: "There'll be one advantage at any rate, for, at home, they won't treat me as if I were deaf and dumb."
"How do you mean?"
"Why, they wouldn't, while I was about, say things that I can't understand."
Irma endeavored to pacify her, but without avail. Walpurga's longing for home had made her exacting and dissatisfied. She felt ill at ease everywhere, and felt sure that the very people who had done so much to humor and spoil her would soon get along without her.
There was another and a deeper cause for her feeling annoyed when Irma spoke French. A youthful-looking nurse from one of the French cantons of Switzerland had become a member of the prince's household. She could not understand a word of German, and that had been the principal reason for engaging her. The prince was to speak French before he acquired any other language.
Walpurga and the new-comer were, as regarded each other, like two mutes. Nor was she otherwise favorably disposed toward the tall, handsome girl with the French cap. She was, indeed, quite jealous of her. What had the foreigner to do with the child? She was, at times, angry at the child itself.
"You'll soon parlez vous so that I shan't be able to understand a word," she would say, when alone with him, and would feel quite angry; and, the very next minute, she would exclaim: "God forgive me! How well it is that I'll soon be home again. I can count the days on my fingers."
Mademoiselle Kramer now told Walpurga that a chamber[2] had been prepared for the crown prince.
"He has rooms enough already," said Walpurga.
Mademoiselle Kramer was again obliged to undertake the difficult task of explaining the court custom, in such matters, to Walpurga, who made her go over the various names again and again. She would always begin thus:
"The crown prince will have an ayah--"
"Ayah? what sort of a word's that? what does that mean?"
"It means the prince's waiting-maid. And when his royal highness becomes four years old, he will have a new set of officers; and so on, as he grows older, only the new set will always be of higher rank than those who precede them."
"Yes, I can easily understand it," thought Walpurga; "new people and new palaces, constant change; how lucky that your eyes and your limbs are fast to you; if it wasn't for that, they'd be getting you new ones every year or two."
Walpurga felt reassured when she learned that Frau von Gerloff, a lady of noble birth and, hitherto, first waiting-woman to the queen, had been appointed as ayah to the prince. Walpurga had known her for a long while and said to her:
"If any one had asked me who should take charge of the prince, you'd have been my first choice. This is only another proof of the queen's wisdom and her kind heart. She gives up her dearest friend for the sake of her son."
Walpurga deemed it necessary to give Frau von Gerloff various directions as to the management of the prince. The good lady listened to her patiently. When Walpurga next saw the queen, she felt it necessary to express her satisfaction with the arrangements which had been made.
"You'd have done very well," said she to Madame Leoni, the queen's second waiting-maid; "but our good queen can't afford to part with both hands at once."
Madame Leoni smiled her thanks, although she really felt mortified and thought that she had been slighted because of her being a commoner. But the first law of court life is: "Take offense at nothing."
The slumbering infant-prince had no idea of the jealous feelings which already played about his cradle.
By degrees, Walpurga got her effects ready, and, when packing up certain articles, she would say: "No one would dream that heart's blood is clinging to you."
Doctor Gunther had given orders that Walpurga should often leave the prince for a while, in order that he might gradually grow accustomed to her absence.
Mademoiselle Kramer, who, during the first few days accompanied her on her walks, found the occupation a difficult one, for Walpurga wanted to stop at every shop window, and whenever she saw men or women whose costume resembled that worn at her home, wanted to go up to them and inquire whence they had come, and whether they knew her husband, her child and her mother. Mademoiselle Kramer soon wearied of the office of guide, and would sometimes allow Walpurga to go out alone, on which occasions she would entrust her with her watch, so that she might return at the proper time. Walpurga's great delight was to watch the soldiers parading at guard-mounting, and her route generally led her beyond the city gates. She would walk along the highway that led to her home. This comforted her, and she would often think of how she had felt when coming to the palace by that very road. It seemed to her as if ages had passed since then, and it was not without an effort, at times, that she induced herself to retrace her steps. She would often stand there listening, and imagining that she could hear her child's voice borne on the breeze. Which child? Her heart was divided and she hurried back to the prince. It was well he rested so quietly in the arms of the Frenchwoman. Walpurga, however, was vexed at this circumstance, and laughed triumphantly when he wanted to be taken by her as soon as he noticed her.
"Yes, you're a true soul," said she. "When men are good, they're a great deal better than women. Your other father, my Hansei, is very good, too, and he's coming, day after to-morrow, and you'll shake hands with him when he comes,--so."
Walpurga observed that the ayah was almost beside herself at this mode of treating the child, and that it cost Mademoiselle Kramer an effort to prevent her from putting a veto upon it; but this only made Walpurga the more wanton in her mad pranks with the prince.
"Now don't forget," said she, "that I gave you myself to feast upon. The others only give you what comes from the kitchen. We two are one, and day after tomorrow my Hansei will come, and then I'll go home, and when you're a big boy you must come and see me; and if it's in cherry time, I'll give you the best cherries. And my Hansei will go hunting with you and will carry your gun for you, and you'll shoot a great big stag and a roe, and a chamois, and we'll roast them. I'll stick a nosegay on your hat, and then we'll row over the lake together, and I'll give you a kiss, and then I'll bid you good-by."
The child laughed heartily, while Walpurga looked into his eyes and spoke to him thus. Then it laid its little head on her cheek, and Walpurga cried out:
"Mademoiselle Kramer! Mademoiselle Kramer! he knows how to kiss already: he's kissing me now. Yes, you're the right sort of a man and a king's son to boot; they always begin betimes."
It seemed as if she wanted to make known all the love she had for the child during the few days that yet remained to her at the palace, and she did this both from affection and spite, for she desired to show the Frenchwoman how very much she and the child loved one another. He would never grow to love the foreigner as much as he loved Walpurga, and then she would sing:
"Standing by yon willow tree, Scarcely weeping, thou dost see My bark put off from shore.
"As long as willows grow, As long as waters flow, Thou'lt see me nevermore."
While she sang, the boy crowed and laughed, and Walpurga protested to Mademoiselle Kramer, that she would wager her head he understood everything already.
"And besides," said she, with an angry glance at the Frenchwoman, "the language that little children speak is the same all the world over. Isn't it so? The French don't come into the world speaking gibberish." Then she would sing and dance about, and kiss the child again. It seemed as if she must repress all her sadness, and, in one outburst, give vent to all her joy.
"You excite the child too much; you will do it harm," said Mademoiselle Kramer, endeavoring to quiet her.
"That won't harm him; he's got the right stuff in him. No Frenchwoman can spoil him."
Walpurga was in a restless and contradictory mood. She had long known that the tie would be broken, and had often wished and hoped for that end. But now when the moment of separation approached, all painful memories vanished. She felt that she could never again live alone. She would always miss something, even the trouble and excitement; and, besides, everything had always come all right again. She felt hurt, moreover, that the others seemed so indifferent about her leaving them. And the child--why hadn't it sense enough to speak and say: "Father and mother, you mustn't do this; you mustn't take my Walpurga away?"
But now others controlled the child. What would they do with him? Why should she no longer be allowed to interfere, and to say things should be thus and so? She had nursed him from the first day of his life, and they had been together day and night. And how would the days and nights be when they were no longer together?
When Walpurga had finished her supper, she held up the empty dish to the child and, with a bitter tone, said:
"Do you see this? I'm of no more use now than this empty platter."
Nor did she care to sleep. She felt that she could not lose a minute of the time that was yet left her with the child. Although she did at times drop asleep, she would wake up in a fright; for, in her dream, she had heard children crying--one far off by the lane, and another beside her--and had thought she was standing between them, and that she must divide herself: must be there and here. And then, too, she had heard the cow bellowing and pulling at the rope, just as it had when fastened to the garden hedge. Walpurga saw it all, quite distinctly; and the cow had such large eyes, and she could feel its warm breath against her face. Then she would wake up and rub her eyes and all would be quiet again, and she would know that it was a dream.
It was the day before her departure. Walpurga bitterly regretted that she had not told Hansei to come sooner. He might have remained there a day, and she would then have had some one to stretch out his hand in welcome, while now she could only offer hers in farewell.
She walked the streets and looked up into the blue sky--the same blue sky that rested over her home. She went through the little street in which Doctor Gunther lived. She read the name on the door-plate and walked in. A servant conducted her into the doctor's ante-room, where many patients were waiting to see him. Walpurga gave her name to the servant. All looked at her in astonishment. She was asked to come in without waiting for her turn, and said that she had only come to say good-by. Gunther told her to go into the garden and wait there for him until his office hours were over. She did so. Madame Gunther was sitting on the steps that led into the garden. She called the peasant woman to her, and when she learned who she was, told her she might wait there. Walpurga sat down. Madame Gunther went on with her work and did not speak a word. She had a decided prejudice against the nurse. Her husband had often told her of Walpurga's peculiarities, and Madame Gunther had concluded that they were full of coquetry, and that she was trying to make a show of her simplicity. Walpurga's appearance only confirmed her in this opinion.
"You are going home again, aren't you?" asked Madame Gunther, at last; for she did not wish to be uncivil.
Walpurga told her how happy she would be at home again.
Madame Gunther looked up. She was one of those persons who are rendered truly happy when freed from a prejudice. Entering into conversation with Walpurga, she soon found that the nurse had been led to exaggerate certain traits of her strong nature, but that it was just this strength of character that had prevented her from losing herself in the new scenes through which she had passed.
Madame Gunther now urged her to keep a stout heart and to avoid making herself unhappy by comparing her home with what she had left behind her in the palace.
"How is that you know all about it?" asked Walpurga; "have you ever been among strangers?"
"I can put myself in your place," said Madame Gunther with a smile. She was rapidly winning her way to Walpurga's heart.
She asked her into the room; and, when Gunther came down, he found Walpurga on the steps, with his fatherless little grandchild on her lap.
"And now you know my wife, too," said Gunther.
"Yes; but too late."
Gunther also advised Walpurga to keep up her spirits after she got home, and, as he, too, was a native of the Highlands, he gave her a merry description of what her welcome would be.
Gunther said he would see her once more, at the palace, and his wife shook hands with her, saying:
"May you be happy at home."
"I mean to send your mother a present," said the doctor. "Tell her to try and think of the young student who danced with her at the Kirchweih[3] many years ago, when she was betrothed to your father. I'll send you six bottles of wine to-day. Tell her to drink them in remembrance of me, but not to take too much at a time."
"I thank you for my mother, and I feel already as if I had been drinking the best of wine," said Walpurga. "My Countess Irma was right, for she always said Madame Gunther would be a lady after my own heart, and now all that I can wish you is, that, to the end of your days, you may be as happy as you've made me."
No notice was taken of her allusion to Irma. Encouraged and strengthened, Walpurga returned to the palace.
Chapter XVI
The queen came to Walpurga that evening and said: "I shall not say farewell to you. Don't let us speak of parting. I only wish to thank you with all my heart, for the love you've shown me and my child."
"Oh, queen! how can you thank me. I'll tell no one on earth that the queen has thanked me," cried Walpurga. "But it's only because you're so kind and want to make parting easy to me. Believe me, I'd gladly give every drop of blood in my veins for you and our child. Oh good God! our child--I daren't say that any longer. I, must go; but when I get home, I'll have my own child again."
"Yes, Walpurga; that is what I was about to tell you. The greatest happiness on earth is to be at home, and, by this time, you must have seen that it is all one, whether that home be a palace or a cottage."
"You're right there; you can't get more than your fill of eating and sleeping, anywhere. My Hansei'll be here to-morrow morning. May I bring him to the queen and to the king, and to the good ladies and gentlemen of the court, so that he may thank them, too?"
"Never mind that, Walpurga. There's no need of it. Indeed, Doctor Gunther forbade my taking leave of you; but I may, for all that, say good-by to you again, to-morrow. Believe me, I feel very sorry to part with you."
"If the queen wishes it, I'll remain, and my husband and my whole brood can come too."
"No, you had better go home again. If I ever get into your neighborhood, I will pay you a visit. I shall not fail to tell my son how kind you've been to him. He shall never forget you."
Walpurga had put the child in the cradle and cried out;
"Just look! he's talking. We grown-up folks don't understand what the children say, but he understands us." Walpurga now joyfully related that the prince had kissed her, and tried to persuade him to give his mother a kiss, but he would not.
"I shall leave something good for you behind me," said Walpurga to the queen. "I've found something that'll be good for you." Her face glowed with pleasure, and the queen asked:
"What is it?"
"I've found a friend, one of the best of friends, for you. Madame Gunther can speak right to one's heart; just as you do, but in a different way. I think you ought to visit her right often. It would do you good if you could, once in a while, spend an hour in a good neighbor's house. You'd always feel much better after it."
Walpurga eagerly told how delightful it was to visit one's neighbors. The queen smiled at Walpurga's ignorance of the conditions of court life, and explained to her that she could only have intercourse with those who visited the palace. Walpurga was very sorry that she could not bring about a meeting of the two ladies.
The queen retired.
"Now she's gone," said Walpurga. "I've said nothing at all; and I feel as if I had ever so much to say to her." She felt as if she ought not to leave the queen--as if she were her only true friend, a faithful companion who, if others were to menace her queen with harm, would hasten to her aid.
She thought of the time the queen had kissed her. How much they had experienced together since that time. Could it be possible that it was scarcely a year ago.
Cowering beside the cradle, she was silent for a long while. At last she softly sang:
"My heart doth bear a burden, And thou hast placed it there; And I would warn e'en my life That none doth heavier bear."
Her voice trembled with emotion. The child slept. She got up and told Mademoiselle Kramer that she intended to take leave of all in the palace. Mademoiselle Kramer dissuaded her from doing this. So Walpurga only went in search of Countess Irma, but did not find her, as she had gone to a party at her brother's house. Walpurga told the maid that she intended to leave early the next morning, and that she would be very sorry if she did not have a chance to say good-by. Meanwhile, she took leave of the maid, and recommended her to take great care of the good countess so that she might always keep well. Walpurga held out her hand to the maid, but was obliged to draw it back again, for the latter had both hands in the pockets of her silk apron, and, as if mocking Walpurga, merely curtsied to her.
"The higher people are, the better they are," said Walpurga, when she got back to her room. "The queen's the highest and best of them all."
Walpurga was sent for by Countess Brinkenstein, who was standing in the same place and in the same position as when she had received the nurse, nearly a year ago. She had seen this rigid lady almost every day. In all that time she had not become more familiar, but had treated Walpurga with unvarying kindness. It now seemed as if her disposition, or perhaps her office, required her to dismiss Walpurga in a formal manner.
"You have behaved well," said Countess Brinkenstein, with a kindly motion of the hand; "their majesties are satisfied with you. And now, farewell; and keep yourself good."
She did not rise, nor offer her hand to Walpurga. She merely nodded in token of farewell, and Walpurga left.
Although this mode of dismissal was by no means over-gentle or courteous, it, nevertheless, afforded Walpurga great satisfaction. She felt as if she had received a sort of honorable discharge. Although Countess Brinkenstein had ruled with almost military severity, she had always been the same and could always be relied upon. And this consistency was not without its due influence on Walpurga's mind.
In Walpurga's room stood two large chests, filled to the very top and locked. She had received many presents during the year, and enough money to buy a moderate-sized farm. She would sit down, now on one and now on the other chest, and when she at last lay down to rest, she still cast a wistful eye on her treasures. Like wandering spirits, her thoughts roved through the apartments of the palace, and then to her cottage at home, through the garden and over the mountains, until she was suddenly awakened by the crying of the child. She was obliged to ask herself whether it was her own, or a strange child. She speedily quieted the prince, but remained beside his cradle. "Sleep shan't steal another minute of the time that's left us," said she softly.
Day dawned. Walpurga nursed the child for the last time. A tear dropped on its head; it looked up at her and then fell asleep, resting against her heart. She whispered softly into its little left hand, which she held to her lips.
She put the child in the cradle again, fixed one more sad look upon it, then, with her back turned, walked around the cradle thrice, and, at last, said to Mademoiselle Kramer:
"I'm going now; it's time."
The servants came and carried the chests away. Walpurga was in so forgiving a mood, that she even took leave of the Frenchwoman. She did not look back toward the cradle, but went downstairs, and ordered the boxes to be carried to an inn near the palace, where she had asked Hansei to meet her. She thought he would surely be on hand by that time, for she had told him the very hour when he could meet her. But Hansei was not there.
Although it was early in the day, there was life and bustle at the inn, which was frequented by the court servants. There was loud carousing, and some liveried servants were inveighing against their masters who, at Count Wildenort's soirée of the previous' night, had kept them waiting in the porter's lodge, and the coachman on the box, for nearly three hours. It was said that Count Wildenort had obtained royal permission to set up a roulette table, that there had been high play, and that the king had also been there, but not the queen.
Walpurga sat behind the screen with the hostess, and was seated on the largest of the chests. She went to the front of the house to look for Hansei, but he did not come. Baum brought her a message that she was to go to Countess Irma, but not until nine o'clock. Walpurga wandered about town as if lost. "How the people run past each other," thought she; "no one knows who the other is, and hasn't time to ask." At that hour of the day, round hats are not seen on the streets. None but the cap-wearing population is now represented. Bakers' men and butchers' boys whistling merrily while at their work, are serving bread and meat. Servant-maids stand at the street corners waiting while milk is measured out to them, and market-women from the country hurry to their posts, with baskets and hand-barrows.
"It'll be just the same to-morrow again, and you'll be gone. Indeed, it don't concern you to-day," said Walpurga to herself, while she looked on at their busy doings. Just then a large bookseller's shop was opened, and her picture hung in the window. What did it matter to her? No one concerned himself about her feelings.
"To-morrow the picture will still be hanging there; it'll be all the same, whether you're here or not. I believe it's all the same, whether you're in the world or out of it," added Walpurga, as a hearse went by and no one cared to inquire whom they were burying. Every one went his own way.
With heavy heart, Walpurga walked on, feeling as if something were drawing her back to the palace and to the child. She went on until she reached the gate by which Hansei must come. But still he came not.
"If he doesn't come at all--if the child at home is ill--if it is dead!" Walpurga was almost frightened to death with thoughts of what might be. She seated herself on a bench near the gate. Horsemen were galloping past, and a blind invalid soldier was playing a merry waltz on his organ.
A clock struck nine, and Walpurga walked through the town. At the palace gate she found Hansei, and his first words were:
"God greet you, Walpurga; you're here at last. Where have you been running to? I've been looking for you, the last two hours."
"Come in here," said Walpurga, leading Hansei into a covered way. "They don't speak so loud here."
It turned out that, in her last letter, Walpurga had told Hansei to come to the palace, and not to the inn. She begged him to forgive her, for she had been so confused while writing, and then she said: "Now let me give you a kiss of welcome. Thank God, all are well. I need lots of love and kindness."
She asked him to wait at the door of Irma's apartment, while she went in. Irma was still in bed, but, as soon as she heard Walpurga's voice, asked her to enter. The countess looked lovely in deshabille, but she was quite pale, and her loosened hair lay in wild profusion on the pillow.
"I wanted to give you something to remember me by," said Irma, raising herself, "but I thought the best thing I could give you would be money. Take what's lying there. Take it all; I want none of it. Take it; don't be afraid, it's real gold, won in honest play. I always win--always--Take out your handkerchief and wrap the money up in it."
Irma's voice was hoarse. The room was so dimly lighted that Walpurga looked about in fear, as if she were in some enchanted apartment; and yet she knew the maid, the tables, the chairs, and could hear the screaming of the parrot in the next room. She knew all this, but she could not help thinking that there might be something wrong about the money. She hurriedly made the sign of the cross over it, and then put it in her pocket.
"And now, farewell," said Irma; "may you be happy; a thousand times happy. You are happier than all of us. When I don't know where to go in this world, I shall come to you. You'll receive me, won't you? and will make room for me at your hearth? Now go! go! I must sleep. Farewell, Walpurga, don't forget me. No thanks; not a word. I'll soon come to you, and then we'll sing again; aye, sing. Farewell!"
"I beg of you, let me say only one single word!" cried Walpurga, grasping her hands. "We can't, either of us, know which of us may die, and then it would be too late."
Irma pressed her hand over her eyes, and nodded assent. Walpurga continued:
"I don't know what ails you. Something's going wrong with you, and it may go worse yet. Your hands are often so cold and your cheeks so hot. I wronged you that day--the second day after I came here. Forgive me! I'll never wrong you again, even in thought; and no one shall. No one shall ever slander you to me; but, I beg of you, leave the palace as soon as you can! Go home to--"
"Enough, enough," said Irma, deprecatingly, and holding her hands before her face as if Walpurga's words were stones hurled at her. "Enough," added she, "farewell; do not forget me."
She held out her hand to Walpurga, who kissed it. The hand was hot, as if with fever.
Walpurga left. The parrot in the ante-room was still crying: "God keep you, Irma." Walpurga started with terror, and hurried away as if some one were after her.
Chapter XVII
When Walpurga came out to Hansei, he asked:
"Shall I go in, too?"
"No, we're ready."
"I think I ought to go to the king and queen. I've got a good deal to say to them."
"No; that won't do at all."
"Why not? I know how to talk to them."
He had frequently rehearsed what he intended to say to the king and queen. He would let them know that he deserved something more for giving up his wife for so long a time.
Walpurga found it difficult to make him understand that it would not do to press the matter. Hansei was not inclined to give up the point, and was, moreover, ashamed of confessing to the innkeeper that he had not sat at the same table with their majesties, and that he had not even seen them.
Walpurga, who herself needed support, was now obliged to make a double effort in order to pacify Hansei, who threatened to become rude and troublesome.
"But I may see your prince? You still have a right to take me there?" asked Hansei.
"Yes, yes," replied Walpurga, "that can be done." She, too, was herself glad to have a chance to see the child once more, and this would furnish a good excuse. "What matters it if Mademoiselle Kramer or Frau von Gerloff make sport of Hansei? Day after to-morrow all these people will be nothing to me, and I shall be nothing to them." Her cheeks glowed with excitement, while she hurriedly led Hansei toward the prince's apartments. She was met at the door by Mademoiselle Kramer, who, when Walpurga stated her wish, answered:
"No; it can't be done. You must not go in again. Doctor Gunther is there and the child is crying and screaming terribly. Go; in God's name, go."
Mademoiselle Kramer disappeared, closing the door after her. Walpurga heard the child cry, and was not allowed to go in and help it. She was shut out--thrust out of doors. Shame at the treatment she had received in Hansei's presence, and anger at these cruel, ungrateful people struggled within her. At last, she said:
"Come, Hansei; we mustn't demean ourselves."
"Of course not," said Hansei. "It's plain enough that this is the way they treat folks when they have no further need for them."
"Nor do we need them any more. Thank God, that's over," said Walpurga.
She left the palace in an angry mood, and Hansei muttered to himself that he would thrash the first man he met on the way.
They returned to the inn where the chests had been left. They met Baum there, and Hansei again said:
"I'd swear that he's no one but Zenza's Jangerl."
"Jangerl's in America," insisted Walpurga. "I beg of you, don't trouble yourself about other matters. Let's hurry and get away from here."
"I've arranged to stay for another day. I'd like to see the sights, and would like to go to the theater for once in my life, and then--"
"Some other time--I want to get home to my child."
"You've been away so long that you needn't mind waiting a day longer."
Walpurga insisted and Hansei was obliged to yield.
"Why do you always look at me?" asked Hansei. "It seems as if you scarcely know me any more."
"I'd forgotten what true, blue eyes you have."
"Well, and so I've been so little in your thoughts that you didn't even remember how I look."
"Be quiet; I thought of you always. What sort of eyes has the child?"
"Bright and clear ones, and there's never been anything the matter with them."
Walpurga wanted to know what color its eyes were, and whether their color had changed, as had been the case with the prince. But Hansei did not know, and was quite vexed that his wife asked him questions about matters that he knew nothing of.
At last they mounted the wagon.
It drove by the palace, and, in spite of the rattling of the wheels over the stones, it seemed to Walpurga as if she could hear the prince crying.
"I, too, must wean myself," said Walpurga, weeping silently.
As soon as they had passed the city gates, Hansei began abusing the court. "They might have sent us home in a coach; but that's the way with them. They'd rather fetch our wives than take 'em back again." Whenever he said anything, he would look about as if his boon companions were present to nod their approval. "They might have let us have a pair of horses at least; indeed, they ought to have told us to keep them, for they've got more than they know what to do with, in the royal stables," said he.
Walpurga had so often told every one that her husband was coming to take her home in a wagon, that no arrangements had been made for that purpose; and now when Hansei grumbled at their want of consideration, she remembered her mistake and, without confessing it, endeavored to quiet him.
"I beg you, for all the world," said she, "don't say anything against the court. They can't help it. If the king or queen knew of these things, they'd gladly do everything. But you've no idea how little the queen knows of the world; of what costs money, of what has to be bought, or earned, or paid, she has no notion at all. She's just like the angels. They can't count money any more than she can, and have nothing to do with it. She's as dear as an angel, too. She takes the words out of your heart, and gives you such good ones in return." When she stopped and found that Hansei made no reply, she bit her lips with vexation. How she would have been praised if she had uttered such remarks to Countess Irma or Mademoiselle Kramer. But he behaved as if what she had said were nothing at all. A feeling of discontent struggled within her, but she repressed it. "Yes, I, too, must get used to the change," thought she to herself. "It's all over. Where I'm going, they'll not make much of everything I say." For a long while she was silent. She felt that looking into life-size double-mirrors was now at end. At last she thought of what the queen had told her: "When you get home, be patient with your people. The way to have peace on earth is to be patient with one another, and to do good to others without hope of recompense. Those who look for no reward are repaid sevenfold." When she left home her mother had given her a piece of bread, with which to deaden her homesickness while at the palace, but the queen had given her words and thoughts that were as bread, for they, too, were life sustaining and, moreover, long-enduring.
It seemed as if a ray from the queen's sunny nature rested upon Walpurga's countenance. She regained her composure, and calm and gentle thoughts now filled her mind. Suddenly she seized her husband's hand and said:
"Now, God be praised, we hold fast to each other again. You must have lots of patience with me. I've been among strangers, but you'll soon see that I'll be all right again at home."
"Yes, yes, it's all right," said Hansei.
Wherever they alighted by the way, Hansei would tell the folk at the inn:
"This is my wife: she's been nurse to the crown prince, and now, thank God, we're well to do."
He had become boastful, but Walpurga remained silent in the presence of others. It was only when they were in the wagon that she became talkative. She asked many questions and Hansei had much to relate, but she heard little of what was said. She was forever thinking of her child, which seemed to be dancing on the mountain peaks; just like the moon which stood in the sky in broad daylight, it ever seemed to move along with them.
"And has it blue eyes?" asked she suddenly, while Hansei was giving her a circumstantial account of the cow that was again giving milk.
"I don't know what color the calf's eyes are," said Hansei, laughing.
"Oh, don't think hard of me. I can't think of anything but our child. If we traveled as fast as my thoughts, we'd be home in a twinkling, as tailor Schneck says."
She smiled and checked herself and, soon after, continued: "Oh, how could I ever have stayed away from you so long? It isn't true. I've always been at home and now I'm coming. I'm coming to you, my child. Didn't you hear some one cry, Hansei?" said she, looking round. "I hear some one crying; it sounds like a child."
"Do be quiet. You're enough to frighten one out of his senses."
Walpurga would often look back, for it seemed to her as if she could hear a child crying.
In the city a child was crying, and those who were about it could not quiet it. Their diamonds, their gold, their soldiers, were all of no avail. Behind her and before her, Walpurga heard nothing but the crying of a child.
"Why do you shut your eyes?" asked Hansei.
"Oh," replied Walpurga, "I feel like the father of Wastl the weaver. When he was cured of his blindness, he used to say that the trees came toward him, and that everything blinded him. I too, feel as if I had seen nothing during this whole time. Look! there's the first man with a green hat, and he has his game-bag on his back; and the trees have kept on growing of themselves, while I was away. I don't know how I'll go through it all and not die, for I shouldn't like to die just now. I want to walk about with my child. Oh dear, good Hansei, don't give her a stepmother."
"Wife, wife," said Hansei, quieting her, "you're making fools of both of us. I'm quite sure that comes of your not having eaten a thing all day."
He insisted upon stopping at the next inn, where Walpurga was obliged to drink some wine. There was, indeed, wine in her chest, that is, the six bottles with silver foil, which the doctor had sent. But she wished to take that to her mother.
Although it was in broad daylight, Walpurga fell asleep in the wagon. When she awoke, she silently took her husband's hand in hers and held it for a long while. In the last little town this side of their village, they stopped again, in spite of Walpurga's protests. Hansei asserted that the grandmother did not expect them before the next day, and that they would find nothing to eat at home. He ordered a bounteous meal, as if he were laying in a supply for several days. Walpurga fell to heartily, and at last they quite forgot themselves, for Doctor Kumpan entered the inn. He was quite affable toward Walpurga and drank heartily with Hansei. He then called him aside and enjoined him to treat his wife considerately.
When they at last got into the wagon, half of the town had gathered about the inn, in order to have a look at the crown prince's nurse. Doctor Kumpan ordered the postillion, who was not in uniform, to take his post-horn with him, and the handsome, dark-eyed, lively fellow blew his horn while they drove through the little town and along the road. The merry echoes resounded from the mountains and through the forests. Walpurga was almost ashamed to drive in this style, while the people were at work along the road; but Hansei felt a childish delight in the sound of the horn.
At last they caught a glimpse of the lake. Evening was already setting in.
"Those are swallows from home," said Walpurga. "The next village is ours. I see the church, and--hark! I hear the bells! I hear them with you, my child, and soon you'll hear them, in my arms; and your voice--your voice--coachman, drive faster; no, drive gently; drive just as you please, so that we don't upset. Stop here; we'll get out now. Stop! I tell you." She alighted, but as soon as she had done so, she exclaimed: "No, I'll get in again. We'll get home sooner if we ride. But why don't mother and the child come out to meet me?"
"She thinks we won't be home till to-morrow," cried Hansei.
"Then maybe she isn't at home at all, and has gone off with the child to visit some neighbor."
"Maybe so; but I think not."
"Don't you see a child there, running across the road? Is that it? Is it?"
"No, that's not our child. It can't run yet; but it can crawl about like a young dog."
"Who cut down the willow?" suddenly asked Walpurga.
"It was blown down by the storm, last spring."
Walpurga asked questions, but heeded not what she asked nor the answers she received. "Just see, how clear the brook is, and how swiftly it flows. I think it never used to flow so quickly. And they've built a new house here, and there they've felled the trees, and, just look at the beautiful little water-wagtails. They're larger and more beautiful with us than anywhere else."
They met a boy on a gray mare which he was riding to water. "That's Grubersepp's Waldl. How stout he's growing!"
"And it's a good beginning, that the first one to meet us should be a boy," said Hansei. "Waldl!" he called out to the lad, "come over to our house this evening and I'll give you some cherries." The boy made no reply and rode on.
"The two cows grazing there near the little girl, are ours," said Hansei.
Everything comes; everything except the mother and the child.
"Mother's at home," cried Walpurga, suddenly. "Mother's at home. I see smoke rising from our chimney; and there she stands by the fire with the child on her arms. Oh mother! Oh child! How is it possible that you don't notice anything? I'm coming! I'm here! I'm home! I'm coming!"
The wagon stopped before the house.
"Mother! Child!" cried Walpurga from the depths of her heart. The mother came out of the house, with the child on her arm.
Walpurga embraced her mother and kissed her child, but it cried and would not go to her.
Walpurga went into the room and sat down beside the stove. Her hands were folded on her lap, and she was weeping. She looked about her as if she were in a strange world.
"Leave her to herself for a little while; give her a breathing spell," said the grandmother to Hansei, who had gone out of the house, and who, with the driver's assistance, had been unloading the chests.
It was but a short time that Walpurga remained in the room, a prey to sad thoughts. The sun stood high over the opposite mountains, its rays making every blade of grass in the garden glitter like burnished gold. The mountains in the west were all aglow with light, and those opposite were reflected half-way across the lake. The day had been one of great excitement to Walpurga. What she had hoped for was now realized. There was nothing more to come. She felt as if she must start off again, as if she must be up and doing. And then it suddenly occurred to her that it was wrong to remain sitting there alone, while her mother and her child were out of doors, and that it was almost a crime to pass a moment away from them.
She went into the kitchen. The grandmother, with the child on her arm, was standing by the hearth in which there was a bright fire.
"Does my child eat broth?" asked Walpurga. Attracted by the voice, the child stared at her; but, as soon as Walpurga fixed her glance upon it, it nestled close to its grandmother, as if to hide itself.
"Yes, indeed. It eats anything, and is just like you. You did so, too. It would like to take a spoon and help itself, but it can't find its mouth. I'm making soup for you, you must eat something warm."
Walpurga's looks became more cheerful. The grandmother soon brought her some soup. Walpurga ate it and said:
"Ah, mother; the first soup I eat at home. Nothing on earth tastes like it. They can't make such soup as this at the palace."
The grandmother smiled, and stroked Walpurga's head with her hand, as if blessing her. She felt that Walpurga's joy at being home again affected her every thought and action.
"The home soup--yes, indeed," said she at last, and smiled; and, moved thereto by the grandmother's cheerful looks, the child laughed, too.
Chapter I
The soft glimmer of early dawn stole through the heart-shaped opening in the shutters of their little room. Down by the reedy bank the water-ousel piped its matin song. Walpurga awoke and listened to the breathing of her husband and child. Her life, now, is a threefold breath.
"Good-morrow, day. I'm home again," said she, softly. She felt so happy at the thought of being in her own bed. Suddenly, she folded her hands and said:
"I thank Thee, Lord! Now I know how it must be to wake in heaven and feel as if home were reached at last, to have all your loved ones with you, to know that parting's at an end, and that all will remain together forever. Now we'll live happily, in kindness and in righteousness. Grant us all good health, and put all evil away from us."
She closed her eyes and indulged in retrospection. Last night the grandmother had beckoned her to follow her into the little grassy garden back of the house. When they reached there, her mother had said: "Look up to those stars and tell me: Can you still kiss your husband and your child, with pure lips? If--God forbid--it be otherwise--"
"Mother!" Walpurga had cried. "Mother, I can. I raise my hand and call God to bear me witness, I am just as I was when I left home."
Said the mother: "That makes me happy. Now I'm content to die."
"No, mother; let's live together in happiness for many years to come."
"I'm content. And now let me give you a piece of advice; and mind what I tell you. You've been out in the wide world for nearly a year. You've been riding about in carriages, while I've been here in the cottage and garden, taking care of your child. But, for all that, my thoughts went out into the world, and far beyond, where coach and four never get to. Now listen to me and obey me."
"Yes, mother; with all my heart."
"Then mind what I tell you. Give yourself time to get used to things again, and don't ask for anything out of reason. You can't expect your child to love you yet. You've been away from it so long that it doesn't know you, and has become estranged. And so you must expect to find it with everything else. Your husband's been alone for nearly a year; his lot has been much harder than yours."
Here they were interrupted. Hansei called from the window and asked them what they were doing out there so late, in the dark.
"And now go to sleep," said the mother. "I've had your bed aired these three days. Sleep well. Goodnight."
The mother led her daughter by the hand as if she were a little child, and when they had passed the threshold, she fell upon Walpurga's neck and hugged and kissed her in the dark.
Walpurga had closed her eyes, and, in thought, recalled all that had happened during the preceding night. Everything seemed double, just as with the stars that are reflected in the lake at night, making it seem as if there were two skies, one above and one in the waters below.
At the thought of the lake, Walpurga arose, quietly dressed herself, bent over her child and husband for a moment, softly opened the door, left the room, and went out of the house. She passed through the garden. The air was filled with the fragrance of the elder-bushes in the hedge The finch on the cherry-tree warbled merrily, and she would fain have called out to him: "Be quiet; wake no one till I return."
She passed on. From the reedy banks of the lake, where the water-ousel and the reed-sparrow were chirping their song, there flew up a flock of wild ducks, twittering while on the wing.
The sun rose, and the whole lake shone as if a softly undulating golden mantle had been spread over it.
Walpurga looked about her in all directions, and then, undressing herself in a trice, jumped into the lake. She dived and rose again, brushed her hair from her face and plashed about, as happy as if she were a fish at the bottom of the lake. The golden mantle of the lake assumed a purple hue, and Walpurga looked up at the purple sun, and over the glowing lake. "Thus it is," said she, "and thus it's right. I'm here again and yours again, and everything else is put away from me. I've never been away." Under the clustering willows, she hurriedly dressed herself, and felt so happy and cheerful that it cost her an effort to refrain from singing aloud. Blue and green dragon-flies hovered over the water. Swallows were flying over the lake and dipping their bills into the waters, which were gradually acquiring a paler hue, and from yonder forest resounded the cuckoo's note. A stork among the reeds seemed to watch Walpurga while she dressed herself. She noticed the bird rattling its great bill and waved it away. She hurried back to the house. The finch in the cherry-tree was still warbling its morning song, the two cows in the stable were lowing, but everything else about the house was still wrapped in silence. For a long while, Walpurga stood gazing at the flowers on the window-sill, and was delighted with the fragrance of the pinks and the rosemary. She had planted them while still a child, and before she had had a garden of her own. All the earth that she could then call her own, was contained in these flower-pots. Now she was able to buy many a broad field, but who could say whether they would give her as much joy as she now derived from these dingy, broken pots.
It seemed as if the pinks had purposely blossomed, in honor of the return of her who had planted and cared for them. There were scarcely any buds left, but even these few were putting out their little red tongues. Walpurga returned to her pinks again and again, and could not get enough of their fragrance. Suddenly, she laughed to herself at the thought of an old story that her mother had told her about blessed Susanna, who, when hungry and thirsty, could satisfy herself by smelling a flower. "Yes, but that wouldn't satisfy my folks," said she with a smile, and went back into the house.
Mother, husband and child were still asleep. Walpurga sat by the cradle for a little while. Then she went out to the kitchen, and kindled the first fire on her own hearth. Silently she watched at the rising flame, while the sounds of the matin bell of the chapel by the lake fell on her ear. She pressed both hands firmly against her heart, as if to hold fast the happiness with which it was overflowing.
Chapter II
"What! at work already?" said Hansei, entering the kitchen, and bearing in his arms the child, whose only garment was its little shirt.
"Good-morning! Good-morning to both of you," exclaimed Walpurga, with joyful voice. Her every tone and every word seemed to say that she could feed and satisfy them all with her love.
"Good-morning, my child!" said she. The baby stretched out its arms toward her, but, when she offered to take it, turned its back on her and laid its head upon Hansei's shoulder.
"Have patience with it; it doesn't know you right yet," said Hansei; "after all, such a young child is just like an animal, and don't know its mother if she's been living away from it."
As if to refute Hansei's humiliating philosophy, the child turned round again, stared at the fire, pursed up its little mouth, and blew just as when one does when blowing the fire.
"Grandmother taught her that," said Hansei. "It can do lots of other clever things. Grandmother never slept so late as she does to-day. She seems to feel that she's no longer obliged to draw the cart all by herself. No one'll grudge it to her. Yes, there never was a better woman in all the wide world, than your mother."
"Never was! isn't she so still?" asked Walpurga, in alarm.
Her mother had been so unutterably happy yesterday. Who knows but what her joy had killed her? They had been so happy that perhaps misfortune must come, for nothing is perfect in this world.
Walpurga trembled with fear while these thoughts flashed through her mind.
"I'll go look after mother," said she, and went to her room.
Hansei followed, carrying the child on his arm. And now, when the mother awoke, she said: "Well, and so they have to awaken me. Am I still a young girl who sleeps late and dreams when the elder-flower is in blossom? Yes, now I remember my dream. I dreamt that I was young again and was a servant at the farm on the other side of the mountains, and that your father came. It was on a Sunday, and he and I went off together to my brother's, in the pitch hut. We were standing by the brook where the elder grows, and father was on the other side, reaching out his hand to me, so that I could jump across, when you woke me. I can feel his hand in mine yet."
"God be praised that you're awake again," interposed Walpurga. The mother smiled and continued:
"And now, Walpurga, I've only one thing to ask of you. If you don't mind doing so, give me a florin or two. I'd like to go home once more, to the place where I was born and was in service, and where my brother lives; and I would like to have a few pence about me, to give to the poor people who are still there."
"Yes, mother; you shall have all you want. We've plenty, thank God."
"I'd like to know," said the mother, "why I dreamt of my home last night."
"That's plain enough," said Hansei. "A few days ago, when the wood-carver from your village was here, they were saying that the owner of the freehold farm there would like to sell his place. But who's got money enough to buy that?"
"You see," said the old woman to Walpurga, "what a heretic and believer in dreams your husband has become. He learned all that from the innkeeper. And now give me the child and hurry out of here. Come, you little chamois-kid, jump about and dance."
She sang to the child, and it stretched forth its arms toward her, just like a bird glad to return to its nest.
Hansei and Walpurga left the room. The child lay beside the grandmother, and the two were quite happy together.
"And now I'll milk the cow," said Hansei.
"You?"
"Yes. Who else? Mother can't do everything."
"No; let me do that now."
Walpurga went out to the stable with her husband; she wanted to relieve him of the task, but it would not do, and Hansei said:
"There's no need of it, either; that'll all soon be different. When you become landlady, we'll have two servants, at least, and they can see to the milking. We'll have room for six cows besides our own, and will be entitled to have as many more on the mountain meadow. Then you can make butter and cheese, and do what you like."
Hansei seemed to be talking to the cow. He did not care to see what sort of a face his wife would make. But now she had, at all events, heard of the matter, and they could talk it over, afterward.
Walpurga was about to reply, when the stable door opened, and a girl entered, carrying a cake on a large platter.
She removed the cloth with which it was covered, and said:
"My master, the landlord of the Chamois, sends this with his kind greetings, and his welcome to the wife."
"You silly thing!" exclaimed Hansei, jumping to his feet, and looking quite oddly with the milk-pail buckled fast to him. "You silly thing! People don't carry cakes into a stable. Take it into the room, and when you get home, give them my best thanks, and tell the innkeeper, our godfather, to honor us with a visit soon--no, we'll come to see him this forenoon; and now you may go."
Walpurga remembered that her mother advised her not to attempt to change things at once. She determined, for the present, to listen to everything, and let affairs go on in their own way, keeping her eyes open in the mean while. Time would show how the land lay.
Hansei went on milking the cows, and Walpurga said nothing.
"One can't always have the world all to one's-self, the way it was down at the lake this morning; but while there's such a bustle about my ears I must keep my own counsel," thought she.
When Hansei had finished milking, and stood there with a pail in each hand, he said:
"What do you think of it?"
"It's splendid milk; and there's lots of it, too."
"No, I mean what do you think of the landlord of the Chamois?"
"It's very polite of him, and I'm much obliged to him for it. We must try to get even with him."
"There's no need of that; we'll have to pay dear enough for the cake. But we're not so stupid, either. You'll soon see, Walpurga, I know which side my bread's buttered on as well as he does. Yes," continued Hansei, "if I'd only had a chance to talk to the king, you'd have soon have found out that Hansei's not the dullest fellow in the world."
"I knew that long ago. I don't need the king to tell me that."
At breakfast, Walpurga was delighted to find that the child would take a few spoonfuls of porridge from her: but it would not go to her, and cried as if its heart would break when she tried to take it.
"Have you counted up all we're worth? Of all the money you sent, not one penny's been taken. That is, I took fifteen florins to buy me a rifle."
"That was right," said Walpurga. And with all her confidence in him, she resolved that she would not hand Hansei the money that Irma had given her on the day she left the palace. She knew not why, but she felt a dread of the gold that had come to her in so strange a manner. She had not yet looked at it herself. Besides, she felt that it might be well to keep something in reserve for a rainy day. It might be better if all were not displayed at once. She promised to reckon it all up before noon, and expressed her regret that she had no closet in which to pack away all the pretty things she had brought with her in the chest.
"I wouldn't unpack at all, if I were you," said Hansei. "You might as well wait till we have our inn. You'll find enough chests and trunks there."
Walpurga made no answer. Hansei looked at her curiously, but she remained silent.
"Why don't you say something about the matter?" he inquired at last.
"Because you haven't told me about it right. Come now, what do you really mean?"
Hansei informed her that every one said the most sensible thing he could do would be to buy out the landlord of the Chamois. There couldn't be a better hostess in the world than Walpurga, and they would have a larger custom than any house in the land. They could alter the sign--that would be a clever stroke and would draw more than anything else. It should no longer be "The Chamois," but the "The King's Nurse," or "The Prince's Nurse," instead. There was a painter thereabouts, who would make a new sign, representing Walpurga with the prince in her arms. People would be drawn together from all parts of the neighborhood; there wouldn't be tables and chairs enough, and money would pour in on them from all sides. The bargain was a fair one; the innkeeper had named a reasonable price. "Every one says so," said Hansei, "and now what have you to say? for it's for you to decide."
"I don't care for what the people say," began Walpurga, "but tell me, frankly, have you concluded the purchase? If you have, I've nothing to say. I wouldn't have you break your word nor disgrace yourself, for all the world. You're the husband and your word must be kept."
"That's right; if only every one could have heard that."
"What need you care whether they hear it or not?"
"Why, the stupid people think that you rule everything, because the money comes from you. To be frank with you, the bargain isn't concluded; it all depends upon your consent."
"And if I were to say 'no,' would you be angry? Answer me; why are you silent now?"
"Well, it would grieve me to the heart if you did."
"I don't say 'no,'" answered his wife, soothingly. "But there's one thing we'd better have an understanding about, at once. I never want to hear another word as to where the money comes from. You were alone all that time; you've had to suffer for it, as well as I, and, take my word for it, I shan't forget it. But, as I told you before, I don't say 'no.' We're husband and wife and will talk over and settle everything together. If the money's to bring discord, I'd rather throw the whole of it into the lake and myself in after it."
Walpurga wept, and Hansei, with choking voice, said: "For God's sake, don't weep. I feel as if my heart would break when you cry. I wouldn't have you cry, no, not for ten inns. Oh Lord! to cry on the very first morning! Depend on it nothing shall be done, unless you're perfectly satisfied."
Walpurga held out her hand to him, and, with the other, wiped away the tears which had relieved her overflowing heart. They heard visitors approaching. Walpurga hurried to the bedroom, for she would have no one see that she had been weeping. While in the room, she put the gold that Irma had given her into a pillow-case, and then hid it. One piece of the money had dropped on the floor. She picked it up and looked at the image of the king stamped upon it. "Such a king's head goes everywhere," said she. "If he could only be everywhere in thought, so as to set everything to rights. But that's more than any man can do. God alone can do that--How are they getting on in the palace? What will become of them all? Is it only a day since I left there?"
Lost in reverie, Walpurga remained in the room for a long while. At last, with a deep sigh, she awakened to the fact that, in this world, none can afford to give all his thoughts to others. It was now her duty to take care of herself. Various neighbors and friends dropped in to welcome Walpurga. Hansei, who was all impatience, said that she had just gone to her room and would return in a little while. At last Walpurga came, radiant with joy and health. They all expressed themselves delighted to see her looking so well, spoke of the excellent reputation she enjoyed, and assured her that they took as much pleasure in her good fortune as if it were their own.
Walpurga thanked them heartily. The great cake which the innkeeper had sent was soon eaten up, for she offered some of it to every visitor.
"How goes it with old Zenza?" asked Walpurga.
"Just to think how good she is; she even remembers the old torment. Yes, your kindness was thrown away on her and her offspring," said several voices. She was soon informed that Zenza, with her son and Black Esther, had left the neighborhood. No one knew where they had gone, but the root-hut on the Windenreuthe now stood empty.
Nor did troops of beggars from the village and the neighboring country fail to present themselves. It must have been quickly noised about that Walpurga had returned, bringing a whole chestful of gold with her.
Walpurga was astonished to learn how many relations she had in the neighborhood. Many claimed relationship with her father, but were unable to state exactly in what degree, and some of the beggars, who disputed each other's claims, were soon involved in quarrels with each other. Walpurga dispensed modest gifts to all of them. They left in an ill-humor. What they had received had hardly been worth the trouble of going for it, and the highways and byways resounded with imprecations launched against Walpurga, who, they said, had become proud and stingy. But there were soon fresh troops of beggars. It was like scattering wheat among sparrows; more were constantly coming.
"Take your whip and drive the whole pack of beggars away," suddenly cried a loud voice from the road.
It was the innkeeper, accompanied by his two dogs Dachsel and Wachsel, who added their voices to that of their master, until at last a beggar gave one of the dogs a kick that sent him off yelping. The innkeeper now swore more violently than before, but Walpurga went out and, in quite a determined tone, requested him not to interfere, and then doubled her gifts to all of them. She thus escaped a confidential and patronizing familiarity on the part of the innkeeper. She was, as yet, uncertain how she ought to behave toward him. He was evidently Hansei's seducer. If she were to show herself angry at him at the start, it might lead to much vexation and would destroy all her influence. On the other hand, she found it difficult to force herself to greet him in a friendly manner.
When he had entered the room, he asked Hansei:
"Have you told her everything?"
"Of course."
"And is she agreed?"
"She says she'll be satisfied with anything I do."
Walpurga came into the room, and with the words, "Welcome, and many congratulations to the hostess of the Chamois," the innkeeper extended his hand to her.
"Thanks for the first; but, before I accept the second, my husband must be landlord of the Chamois."
"Heigho!" exclaimed the innkeeper, "how clever! how studied! how dignified and polite! Look here, Hansei! haven't I always told you that you've got a wife who might be a queen?"
"And why not, if my husband were a king?"
The innkeeper's fist descended on the table, and he laughed so heartily at this clever sally, that his two dogs began to bark and thus accompanied his laughter with their applause. He showed the other visitors that it would not do to weary their hosts. He left soon afterward, the rest of the company going with him.
Chapter III
"And for your mother I'll build a snug room looking toward the garden, where she can take her comfort. I always knew it before, but it wasn't till you were away, that I found out what a treasure she is to us. If the Lord only lets us keep her with us for many a year to come. Yes, your mother shall have the best room in the house."
Thus spake Hansei, with gleeful countenance. Walpurga inquired: "Where do you mean to build?"
Hansei looked around as if to express his surprise at her asking such a question. He had yielded so far as to promise that nothing should be done without his wife's consent. He thought that this was all that could in reason be expected of him, and that it was best to finish up the business at once.
With great self-command, he said:
"Why, at our inn, to be sure. I shan't do anything to this tumble-down cottage. But I've already told them that they mustn't disturb the nut-tree. You'll be surprised when you see how full it is. We shall get three measures of nuts this year, and a nut year is a good one for boys."
Walpurga clapped her hand to his mouth and, with downcast eyes, said: "You're a dear, good fellow: but, believe me, I know you better than you do yourself. I'm glad that you're much sharper than you used to. be. I often used to tell you not to be so bashful and forever keeping in the background. You've so much common sense; more, indeed, than all the rest of them. If you could only have been behind the door, when I told the queen about you; and she promised me faithfully that she'll come to see us when she visits the mountains next year."
Hansei complacently swallowed the praise that his wife bestowed upon him, and kept on smiling to himself for some time afterward.
Husband and wife praised and extolled each other--a custom more honored in the breach than the observance, at least among peasants, who would feel ashamed if they knew of it. Their coming together, after so long a separation, seemed like a new wooing and wedding. The question of the purchase of the inn prevented them, however, from fully realizing this, and even threatened to imperil their domestic happiness.
"So you're agreed that we'll be host and hostess of the Chamois?" inquired Hansei.
"I've told you already that we'd talk it over; and so you think you'll make a good landlord?"
"Not so good a landlord as you will a landlady. That's what everybody says; and the landlady's always the chief point. You'd be the best landlady, for you can earn your bread with your tongue, just as the parson does; and that'll help us to get a penny or two more for our wine and everything else. You've got a way of looking right into people's hearts, and can give and take, and that's the best sign that you're made to be a landlady."
Hansei did not understand how Walpurga could still hesitate. The highest ideal of the young mountaineer is to be an innkeeper; to supply every one with meat and drink, and to live by the profits of it; to give feasts and, at the same time, be the merriest one at them; to receive money while others spend it; to have his house the rendezvous of all, no matter how varied their pursuits and interests; to be the helper and adviser of every one; the man with whom all keep on good terms, who knows all that is going on, all about bargains and prices, and who, like the lord of the manor in the olden time, receives a profit whenever cow, or farm, or house change hands. And besides, what others eat and drink tickles his palate, too, and he doesn't grow thin upon it. And then, like the parson, he would derive profit from baptisms, marriages and funerals; to say nothing of the strangers who would come during the summer and would be obliged to pay tribute to the landlord, because the mountains are so high and the lake so deep, and because he allows them to see it all. Yes, an inn is like a great lake--all the little streams that flow from the different mountain rills concentrate there.
Walpurga stared at her husband in surprise, while she listened to his animated and yet detailed description of the advantages of innkeeping. She almost felt inclined to favor his plan, and thought to herself: "Perhaps it would be the most sensible thing after all; for I'll never feel quite at home again in the old, narrow ways of life that I once used to lead. I've grown different, and must have something different." Frankly and sincerely, she again assured him that she was not opposed to the project, but that it would be well to go about it cautiously.
"And do you know what's best of all?" asked Hansei. "We're to have a post-office here--the judge himself says so--and if it should fail us, you could easily bring it about. You'll give the village a great name. Indeed, you'll make a town of it, and the houses will be worth twice as much as they now are."
He wanted his wife to go up to the village with him at once, in order to look at the inn; but Walpurga said:
"Let me get a good rest in our old house before we go up there. The inn won't run away. I can't tell you how happy I am to be in our house again. I feel as if I must try every chair. Everything seems so good at home. It's just as if every chair and every table had eyes, and was looking at me and saying: 'Yes, we still know you, and have waited for you'; and now, I beg of you, do let me rest awhile."
"Yes, yes; just stay," replied Hansei, walking up and down the room. Suddenly, as if called by some one, he went out and split several logs which he had laid aside.
Walpurga came out and looked at him with evident satisfaction.
"Yes," said he, "work will be kept up just as it always was. I shan't be a lazy landlord--rest assured of that; and I won't take to drinking, either. Are you going up to the village with me?" he inquired at last.
"Yes; but do come in."
Hansei was soon on the road, and was not a little proud to be seen entering the village with his wife. At the fountain near the town hall, there were women and girls with their tubs. As soon as they saw Walpurga, they came up to her and offered their greetings and congratulations.
The children were just leaving school. Walpurga called several of them to her, shook hands with them, and gave them kind messages to their parents. With saddened heart, she would hear of the death of such and such a one. The other children were gathered in groups, and would stand about, staring at her with surprise. Walpurga's being sent for and taken to the palace had been as a fairy-tale to the village children; and now the fairy herself was standing there in broad daylight, and talking just as other people did.
At last Walpurga left them, but the children kept calling out her name, in order to prove that they still knew her.
When she and her husband walked on, the latter pointed toward the town hall. "Look!" said he, "I'll soon be there, too. It's almost certain that they'll elect me as one of the town council. I might even become a burgomaster. But I won't take that, for that would get an innkeeper into lots of trouble."
Walpurga observed that the idea of becoming a host had taken deep root in Hansei. She simply replied: "I find that you've seen a great deal of the world this year, but you must certainly have learned that it's every one's duty to care for his own, and that when one's poor and unfortunate, no one lends a helping hand."
"Certainly; but thank God! we don't need any one now; quite the contrary."
They were passing the house of Grubersepp, the wealthy farmer and, indeed, the richest man in the community. He was a tall, lean man, whose features always wore a sour expression. He was standing on the steps before his house, and Hansei greeted him civilly. Grubersepp, however, turned on his heel and walked off toward the stable. It would not do for a rich farmer like him to welcome a day laborer's child like Walpurga. The whole village might make fools of themselves on her account, but a rich farmer like Grubersepp knows his own importance too well. It would be mighty fine, indeed, if he were known to trouble himself about a creature who used to be glad if he would let her have a pint or two of milk on trust.
Hansei cried out aloud: "Good-day, Grubersepp! my wife's come back again."
Grubersepp acted as if he had not heard him, and went toward the stable.
The joy that Walpurga had experienced while receiving the greetings of the villagers was not enough to compensate her for her pain at the slight thus put upon her. After all, as it was only a silly, narrow-minded farmer displaying his stupid peasant pride. Hadn't the king spoken to her, and had he ever spoken to such a dolt as he? But this did not satisfy her. Grubersepp was the first in the village, and to be slighted by him, or to incur his ill-will, was no trifling matter after all.
"I'll never be hostess to you, you old pitchfork," said Walpurga, looking toward the house; "I'll never pour out a glass of wine for you and say, 'God bless you!' with it."
"What are you saying?" said Hansei, as Walpurga uttered these words to herself.
"If we could buy that silly old pitchfork's land, I'd like it much better than the inn," she answered.
"Of course, that would be much finer; but we haven't enough money for that; and, even if we had, Grubersepp wouldn't sell. On the contrary, when a poor man has his eye on a field, he buys it up before he gets a chance at it."
When Hansei and Walpurga arrived at the inn, they found quite a crowd there. A new purchase of wine had just been opened, and, as usual on such occasions, the drinking was at the host's expense.
"Ah! here comes the new landlady," exclaimed several voices.
"Thank you," said Walpurga, "my husband hasn't concluded the bargain yet."
The hunter from Zell was there also, and Walpurga saw, at a glance, that her husband was caught in a net of flatterers. She soon got out of the room. The host and his wife showed her and Hansei through all the rooms and the cellars. Walpurga found it all very good, but kept saying that they would have to build and arrange everything anew.
"You're spoiled," said the innkeeper. "Here in the country, things are different from what they are in your palace. You seem to forget that one needn't drive a nail into this house for the next fifty years." Walpurga would not permit herself to be drawn into any discussion of the subject. On the way home, she remarked to her husband, that it would be well to have the house examined by some one who knew all about building matters, for neither of them understood anything about it, and to make anything out of the innkeeper, was like drawing blood from a stone.
Hansei was vexed that the bargain had not been concluded on the spot. He felt as if he could not remain in the old house another hour. Walpurga, on the other hand, wished to stave off the matter for a while. Besides that, as Hansei was obliged to admit, she suggested many points that required careful consideration.
That afternoon, Walpurga reckoned up all that belonged to her. It was a handsome amount. There was almost enough to pay for the inn, with the fields, meadows and woods belonging to it. One or two prosperous years would enable them to clear off the mortgage which they might be obliged to leave remaining on the property.
Chapter IV
It was evening. The grandmother was in the room and, in a tremulous voice, was singing her granddaughter to sleep. She, too, was singing the song:
"Oh, blissful is the tender tie That binds me, love, to thee."
Walpurga and Hansei were the only ones at the table, and he could scarcely eat the potatoes as fast as she pared them. She would always put the best and finest before him. "Just think of it, Hansei," said she, looking so happy while she spoke; "the best things in the world--sleep, sunlight, water, eggs, boiled potatoes and salt--are all the same in the palace and in the cottage. The king and the queen can't have them better than we, and the very best of all is the same everywhere. And do you know what it is?"
"Yes; a good kiss. It wouldn't be any better from the queen's lips than from yours; and there I'm like the king, too, especially when I'm as nicely shaved as today," he added, taking his wife's hand and passing it over his smooth chin.
"You're right; but I didn't mean to say it that way. Love's the same, too. It can't be different up there from what it is here."
"I don't know what's come over you," said Hansei. "I never thought you were such a witch, so clever and so wide-awake. It provokes me that people should be so familiar with you, and treat you as if you were still the same old Walpurga."
"You ought to be glad that I'm still the same, or else I shouldn't be your wife."
Hansei stopped chewing the potato that was in his mouth and stared at his wife in surprise. At last he hurriedly bolted down the potato and said: "Now that joke don't please me at all. It's wrong to joke about such things." Both were silent.
In the next room sat the mother singing:
"My heart doth bear a burden, And thou hast placed it there";
And the song seemed to touch them both.
"I've got something to tell you," said Hansei, at last. "It's been my habit, for the last year, to go up to the Chamois after supper, and especially on Saturday evenings. Sometimes I've taken a drop, and sometimes not; and as this is Saturday and as they'll all be there, I think I'd better go up once more, just for your sake."
"For my sake?"
"Yes, for fear the people might say: 'Now he's got to duck under, for his gracious wife has come home.'"
"Why do you always worry about what the people say? Suppose they were to say: 'What sort of a man is this? His wife was gone for a year, and on the second night after her return, he runs off to the inn'?"
Hansei, unable to parry this thrust, stared at her in surprise. At last he said: "I think I'll go, after all. You won't think hard of it, will you?"
"Go, if you like," replied Walpurga, and Hansei hurried off. Walpurga looked after him, while her eyes filled with tears. "Is this what I've so longed for?" thought she to herself. "Was it for this that I thought the minutes would never end, and felt as if I must chase the hours away?"
Her mother came in and, gently closing the door, said: "She sleeps sweetly."
The ruddy glow of the rosy setting sun illumined Walpurga's countenance, in which, it was plainly to be seen, a great change had taken place since that sun rose.
The child again began to cry. The grandmother went in to it, and Walpurga stealthily hurried in the direction of the lake. It was night. The waves were softly beating on the shore; the reed-sparrow was still chattering, and the water-hens kept up their twittering. Far up on the mountain, bright fires were burning; for it was Saturday night, and the mountain lasses were looking out for their swains. And now the moon rose over the summit of the Chamois hill and shone upon the lake. Walpurga, as if lost in reverie, stood there for some time, gazing into the lake. Then she turned toward home, but, instead of going into the room, quietly stole into the cellar. With almost superhuman strength, she moved the stone cabbage-tub from its place, dug a hole in the ground, placed the money that Irma had given her in it, and shoved the cabbage-tub back into its place again.
She was washing her hands at the pump, when she noticed that her mother was lighting the lamp in the room. She went in, staring at the light.
"Why do you stare at the light so?" asked her mother.
"Well, mother, I'm not used to a single light any more; in the palace, there are ever so many."
"But the people there have only one pair of eyes," replied the mother. "No, my child; that's not why you look so troubled. Tell me honestly, what's the matter?"
Walpurga frankly confessed that it almost broke her heart to think that her husband couldn't stay at home on the second evening after her return, but must go to the inn.
"Give me your hand," said the mother. "Yes, I've been thinking about your hands. I've noticed that you wash them whenever you've touched anything. That's very nice, but it won't do here. Your hand's become soft and tender this last year, while mine's as hard as leather; and you'll soon have to harden your hands too. For God's sake, don't make your husband skittish, and don't give him an ugly word. Take my word for it, he couldn't help going up there to-night, and it's Saturday night besides. It was just as if six horses were dragging him. He's got used to it, and habits are strong things that can't be changed at will. He's not bad; I'm sure of that. Let him have his own way, just as he's used to, and he'll soon be all right again."
Walpurga made no answer. She busied herself paring potatoes for her mother, who went on to say:
"The things that are God's gifts we have just as good as they have them in the palace."
"There! we've saved one poor soul," replied Walpurga with a smile, "I said the very same words to Hansei, a little while ago."
When they had finished paring the potatoes for the next day, the mother said:
"I'll tell you what. Let's close the front door, and sit on the little seat your father was so fond of, in the grassy garden back of the house. There we can talk to each other without being disturbed, and, as the lights are out, we'll have no visitors. Nor do we want any, for we're enough by ourselves."
"Oh God! if only my husband felt so, too."
"Let him alone at the inn. Thank God that we're alone together. Don't act like a deposed queen; it only makes it so much the harder for you."
Mother and daughter went out through the back door that led to the little garden, where they seated themselves on a bench which stood against the wall and opposite the stable window, and left the back door ajar so that they might hear the child if it should cry. They heard nothing, however, except the noise, made by the cows while feeding. The moon was high, and the shimmering surface of the lake reflected its rays. Now and then, the yodel of some distant mountaineer, the barking of a dog, or the soft splash of an oar, were the only sounds that broke the silence.
"If the first two weeks were only over," said Walpurga, "I'd be better used to it."
"Don't wish for time to pass. It comes and goes of itself."
"Yes, mother; tell me everything I'm to do, I don't care to have my own will now."
"That won't do, either. Those who can walk alone must fall alone."
"I'll try to do my best."
"Very well. Tell me one thing: how is it in the palace about now?"
"About now? Dear me, it seems two years since I left there. By this time, the lamps have been lit in all the passageways, and downstairs, where the king and the queen are, they're just about leaving the table. But we have nothing to do with that. Mademoiselle Kramer is reading her book. She reads a book through every day; and my prince. O you poor child--"
Walpurga burst into tears. At the same moment, her own child began to cry and the two women hurried in.
"It was only dreaming," said the mother softly. "The child must feel that the right mother is come."
Walpurga again felt conscious of the double life she was leading.
Although she was at home, her thoughts were still at the palace. Everything seemed confused and indistinct, and when she found herself again sitting on the bench at her mother's side, she was obliged to stop and consider where she was.
"It seems to me," said the mother, "that those who possess so many worldly gifts as the king and queen and the quality have, can't take much time to think of the heavenly life hereafter."
Walpurga told her how pious they all were at court, and that the queen, although a Protestant, was especially so.
They conversed with each other in calm and gentle tones. Walpurga rested her head against her mother's heart and, at last, fell asleep there. The mother held her in her embrace, scarcely venturing to breathe, lest she might waken her. After they had been sitting there awhile, she awakened Walpurga and told her that she might catch cold and had better go to bed. Walpurga scarcely knew where she was and, while still rubbing her eyes, she asked: "Isn't my husband home yet?"
"Just go to bed, I'll help you," said the mother, and she undressed Walpurga, as if she were a little child. Then she sat down by the bed and, taking her daughter's hand in hers, said: "You see, it's a queer thing when people who belong together have lived apart for a long time. They've become used to getting along without each other, and the only thing to do is to wait till they grow used to each other again. Take precious good care that you never speak an unkind word, and don't dare to think to yourself: 'If I only were away again, and out in the world.' If you harbor such thoughts, you'll be like a tree cut off at its roots and transplanted--it must die. Mind what I tell you! Whenever you can change anything according to your own notion, do so; but you'd better not attempt to alter what can't be altered. Make up your mind that it's got to be as it is, and submit. There's nothing so silly, in all the world, as to wish for what you can't have. When the wind blows and the rain descends, you'll often hear people say: 'If it were only fine weather to-day.' We can't change the weather outside of us; but we can see to it that there's fair weather inside. And what I was going to say is: see that you have fair weather within yourself and then all will be well."
"Yes; but what am I to do?"
"Make an effort this very night. Promise me, faithfully, that if you're awake when your husband comes home, you'll say to him, cheerfully, 'God greet you, Hansei!'"
"I can't do that, mother; indeed, I can't."
"But I tell you you must be able to do it, or else you're not a true wife and mother, and every piece of gold you've brought home with you will be as if a fiery demon were lurking in it. You promised to obey me, and at the very start you refuse."
"Yes, mother; I'll try my best."
"Well, then, good-night," said the mother, and returned to her room.
Walpurga lay there in silence. Anger and sorrow kept her awake. Her child had become estranged from her, her husband had acquired bad habits and preferred the society of his comrades to hers. For whose sake had she imposed the heavy burden upon herself? For whose sake had she gone among strangers to earn all that she had brought home with her, and for whom had she kept herself so pure? She wet her pillow with bitter tears. But suddenly an inner voice said to her: "Do you mean to take credit to yourself for having been honest? Were you honest for yourself, or for others? and weren't they obliged to suffer, too, in taking everything upon themselves? Oughtn't you to thank God that they didn't die of grief?--Yes, that was all very well; but now they ought to be heartily glad and grateful--I can't expect it of the child, for that's too young to know; but my husband--he has sense enough when he feels like it. And have I gained all this only to be a hostess to the whole world? No, I've earned it, and I've a right--For God's sake! A right? There's the trouble. When the one always insists upon claiming his rights from the other, it's just like hell itself--I don't want any rights; I've got no rights; I want nothing at all. All I wish is to be an obedient wife and a good mother--Dear Lord, assist me if I'm not one."
Heavy steps were heard approaching. Hansei entered and, with cheerful voice, Walpurga exclaimed: "God greet you, Hansei! I'm glad that you've found me still awake."
"I've won the bet! I've won it!" exclaimed Hansei with a loud voice. "There's two men standing out there under the window. We had a wager together and I've won six measures of wine from them. They said that the best proof of a wife is the way she receives her husband when he returns from the tavern, or when he awakes her out of her sleep. I told them: 'I know my wife. When I get home, she'll be kind and friendly to me.' But they wouldn't believe a word of it. And so we've had a wager, and I've won it; and if all the wine in the whole world were mine, it wouldn't please me half so much as to know that I was right."
Hansei opened the shutters of the window toward the lake, and called out: "Now you've heard it, friends. You can go now; I've won the wine. Good night!"
Walpurga pulled the cover over her head. There was laughter outside, and the two men departed. For a minute or two, the bright moonlight shone into the lowly cottage, and then the shutter was closed again.
Chapter V
When Hansei awoke the next morning, the cows were already milked, and the house looked so bright and clean that it seemed as if one of the kind fairies that dwelt on the mountains had been putting things to rights. A pot of blooming, scarlet pinks stood in the center of the table, over which a neat, white cloth had been spread; and, as if to hide the dingy flower-pot from view, a garland of leaves had been twined around it.
"You've been industrious," said Hansei, and Walpurga answered: "Yes, my thoughts wandered far away into the world, and have come back again. You see, the quality have all that one can wish for, but do you know what they haven't got?"
"No."
"They've no Sunday; and do you know why?"
"I don't know that, either."
"Because they've no real workdays. In the palace, when you get up in the morning, your boots and shoes are ready at your door just as if they had blackened themselves. The coffee is ready of itself, the bread has baked itself, the paths have swept themselves clean, and everything is attended to, one hardly knows how. But to do everything with your own hands--Just see! to-day, I've already put my hand under your feet; I've cleaned your shoes."
"You mustn't do that; that's no work for you. Don't you do it again."
"Very well, I won't do it again. But to-day I've done everything, and I can hardly tell you how happy I felt when I went after the first pail of water. It went hard at first, but I managed it, after all. And now I'm longing for breakfast. Since the day I left home, I've never once been so hungry as I now am."
When the grandmother came, bringing the child with her, she, too, was surprised, and said: "Walpurga, you'll turn our cottage into a palace."
With joyful mien, Hansei told her of all that Walpurga had been doing, and the mother said: "She's right; an industrious home is the happiest home, and now, just because you've got some means, you must work so much the more. For where there's idleness riches take wings to themselves; but if you're always adding something, no matter how little, to your store, the old is likely to stay."
"I don't think we need go to church to-day," said Hansei, "mother's giving us the best benediction."
"Yes, but we'll go to church, for all that," replied Walpurga. "All the time I was away, I've looked forward to this first going to church. What a fine day it is! I don't believe there ever was such lovely weather." Their intercourse was full of happiness. The only drawback was that the child still refused to go to Walpurga.
Walpurga told her mother that everything had been well attended to during her absence, but she was displeased at one thing.
"What is it? what have I done?"
"Why, you didn't get yourself a servant."
The old woman smiled. She could never do that. She didn't know how she could ever order a servant about. And now Hansei said he wouldn't allow his wife to overwork herself, and that there must be a servant in the house.
The grandmother recommended one of her brother's children from over the mountains. So it was decided that they should send word to Uncle Peter to come, and bring one of his daughters with him.
The morning was clear and bracing, and Hansei, who had put on his snow-white shirt, said, while lighting his pipe:
"Walpurga, let your mother work a little while, and come out into the garden."
He was sitting on the bench under the cherry-tree. Walpurga soon joined him and, after the fashion of women, said that she could only remain for a short time, that she had various matters to attend to, and that they ought to be at church in good season.
She sat down beside him, and Hansei said: "Why don't you say something? you must have lots to tell about."
"I can't think of anything now. Just wait, it'll all come in time. It's happiness enough that we're together again. If we, all of us, only keep well. I think our cherry-tree has grown."
"And now that I think of it, you've had no cherries from it this year. I'll climb up and get some for you, and if I could get up, way beyond the tree, and bring down the blue sky for you, I'd do it."
He climbed up the tree, and cried out: "Shoo! you sparrows, you've had enough. My old woman's here again, but she's a young one, still, and wants some, too. You've had your wives with you the whole year, and I haven't." He hurriedly plucked the finest cherries, singing the while:
"In cherry time, you left me, dear; In cherry time, again you're here. The cherries they are black and red, And I'll love my darling till I'm dead."
Suddenly he called out: "Walpurga, I must come down, I can't get any more for you, I'm so giddy."
He was soon on the ground again and said: "That never happened to me before, in all my life, and I've been up there many a half-day at a time. I suppose it's our good fortune that makes me so giddy. I'll never climb a tree again, I promise you that. It would be a terrible thing if I were to fall down. We must take care that we keep well and hearty, and stick to each other. I don't want to break my legs. I want to dance with you yet. I'll dance with you at Burgei's wedding. It seems as if I could hear the music already. Hark! don't you hear anything?"
"No. It'll be a long while before the music for Burgei's wedding is struck up."
"And she must get a good husband; I won't have it otherwise. What do you think of a prince? but I'll be quiet, for I'm talking nothing but silly stuff. I scarcely know what I'm saying, where I am, or who I am, and--"
"We're at home, and you're my husband and that's all of it. You'll see, I have something else good in store for you."
"Tell me nothing, and promise me nothing more. I've got enough already. I can hardly believe that we've a child. It seems as if we were just married."
In a soft voice, too low for any passer-by to hear it and just loud enough for them to know they were singing, they sang:
"Oh, blissful is the tender tie That binds me, love, to thee. And swiftly speed the hours by, When thou art near to me."
Just like the finch who never wearies of repeating his song, they sang the same words over and over again. They had nothing more to tell each other, for they were unspeakably happy. The church bell now began tolling. Its sounds, floating over the lake, were echoed back from the forests and mountains. A wagon was seen coming from the village and Walpurga said: "We must get ready for church."
They went into the house. The mother had already brought Hansei his royal Sunday suit. They soon heard the cracking of a whip and a voice cried out: "Are you coming?" Hansei put his head out of the window and asked: "What's the matter?" Covering herself with a large sheet, Walpurga looked out of the low window. The innkeeper's head-servant, who was standing by the wagon out in the road, answered:
"My master sends you his wagon, so that you may drive to church."
"Walpurga, do you wish to ride?" asked Hansei, at the closed chamber door.
"No, I'll walk. I beg of you, Hansei, send the wagon away; I've had enough riding." Hansei went out. At the same moment the innkeeper, with his military medal glittering on his breast, arrived.
Hansei thanked him, but said that his wife didn't care to ride. But it was not so easy to deny the innkeeper, who waited until Walpurga came out of the house.
She was not long dressing herself, and that is saying a great deal; for this was to be her first appearance at church and she knew that all eyes would be directed upon her. When she came out, clad in tasteful attire, the innkeeper said:
"You must do me the honor of letting me drive you and your husband to church."
"I'm still quite sound on my feet, and shall be glad to have a good walk again."
"You can do that, too; but not on the first Sunday. We'd feel ashamed before the folks who live in the wilderness and out at the Windenreuthe, if we didn't show them that we know how to treat a woman like yourself with proper respect. We're all proud of you."
"Thanks. Don't think hard of it, but I won't ride."
Walpurga was not to be moved. The innkeeper was about to give vent to his anger, but, fearing the consequences, he restrained himself, and, with smiling mien, said:
"I ought to have known as much. Walking's a great treat to the quality. Yes, indeed!" He laughed at his own cleverness and sent the wagon home again. He kept smiling till he had a chance to turn his back on Hansei and Walpurga, when his face assumed quite an angry expression. He went home, took off his coat with the medal, hung it up in the closet, and wished he could hang himself in the same manner. Who could tell but what Walpurga would interfere both with all his fun and the handsome receipts he expected that day.
Walpurga and Hansei started off by the road along the lake, the grandmother, with the child on her arm, standing at the garden hedge and looking after them. She softly repeated to the child: "mother," and it suddenly called out "mother" in a loud voice. Walpurga turned round and wanted to hug the child, but it again tried to hide from her, and cried when she attempted to kiss it. Hansei stood by, and was so vexed that he raised his hand as if to strike the child, but Walpurga pacified him and said: "We must wait."
The second bell was ringing, and they hurried on. On the way, they were joined by men, women and children coming from the village and various farms in the neighborhood. Hansei longed to drive them away, and he once said, softly, "I'd like to go with you, alone."
"Be patient," said Walpurga, "don't begrudge them their delight in our happiness." She was affable to all. Hansei looked out over the lake, then up at the sky, and then again at his wife, as if to say: "She's here again." He smiled when he heard the children saying: "She's the grandest peasant now--she comes right after the queen."
The third bell, or the ringing in, which generally lasts a full quarter of an hour, had just begun, when Hansei and his wife reached the church. Many churchgoers were standing about in groups and welcomed them. There was still time to remain there, chatting for awhile; but Walpurga took her husband's hand and went into the church with him. They were the first to enter. Walpurga took her usual seat in the place allotted to the women, and Hansei went into that assigned to the men. Thus they were together and yet apart. The bells overhead were still ringing out their merry peal, while they sat there in silent introspection. Once only did Hansei nod to his wife, but she shook her head deprecatingly.
The playing of the organ began, and the people poured into church. Walpurga knew that such and such a one was near her, but she did not wish to be welcomed or greeted by any one in such a place. She felt that the eye of the Invisible One was resting upon her.
The pastor preached of the return to the everlasting home. It seemed as if his words were intended for Hansei and Walpurga; as if he were speaking only to them.
When the sermon was over and prayers were offered for the king, the queen and the royal family, there was strange whispering in the church. Walpurga felt that all eyes were directed upon her, and did not look up.
The service was over. The congregation left the church, and Walpurga was now welcomed by the latecomers.
The sexton came to Walpurga and Hansei, and said that the pastor wished to see them in the vestry. They went in. The pastor again welcomed them, spoke of their good fortune, and admonished them to be humble.
"Yes, yes," said Hansei, "my mother-in-law said almost the same thing."
The pastor promised to visit them before long, and said that he was proud to have such a woman among his parishioners. Hansei put out his hand as if to check him, and felt like answering: "What's the use of your warning us against pride when you tell us such things yourself?" The pastor motioned him to be quiet, and went on to say: "I shall visit the capital next week, and you must do me the favor, Walpurga, to give me a letter to Countess von Wildenort."
"With all my heart," said Walpurga.
When they were out of doors again, Hansei looked at his wife from head to foot. And so even the pastor would ask his wife to intercede for him. Yes, she was a splendid wife, if all that couldn't turn her head.
"Oh Hansei," said Walpurga suddenly, "what a pack of fools they all are. They do all they can to make one proud, and if one were to become so, they'd do nothing but abuse you."
Hansei was on the point of saying that he had thought the very same thing, but, before he had a chance to do so, he saw Schneck the tailor coming down the mountainside, and carrying his great bass viol. The weak and delicate-looking man, with the great instrument on his back, presented quite an odd appearance.
"Heigho! why here's the wedding party," exclaimed the tailor, while he left the meadow path and ran up the road to shake hands with Hansei and Walpurga.
"What's the matter? what are you going to do?"
"I'm going to play for you to-day."
"For us? Who ordered you?"
"What a pity my wife didn't live to see this day. How happy it would have made her. Don't you know about it? There's going to be a great feast at the Chamois, in honor of your return, Walpurga, and the innkeeper has engaged me and six other musicians. The forest keeper, the chief forester, all the judges of the court, and everybody for six leagues around, have been invited. How stupid that I've only got my bass viol with me, or else I'd play you a piece, right here on the road."
"There you have it," whispered Walpurga to her husband, "the innkeeper makes money out of everything. If he only could do it, he'd have fiddle-strings stretched over my back, and have the skin drawn off of you to make drum-heads with."
"Go on; we'll follow," said Hansei to the tailor. He was annoyed when others joined them on their way home. He wanted to be alone with his wife. No one should have a share of her; she belonged to him alone.
"It'll soon be a year since we sat on this pile of stones. Do you remember? It must have been somewhat about here," exclaimed Hansei, with joyous voice.
Walpurga gave an evasive answer. She told Hansei that she thought it a stupid piece of business for the innkeeper to make a festival of her return, but that she wouldn't put foot in the Chamois for all his music.
Hansei had not thought so ill of the projected entertainment; on the contrary, he had found pleasure in the idea of sitting in the midst of the crowd, with his wife by his side and all the people frisking about him. That was more than Grubersepp, with all his money, could get. It was not without a struggle, that he, at last, said: "Just as you please; you ought to know best whether it's proper for you."
As soon as the afternoon service was over, crowds, on their way to the Chamois, were seen hurrying through the village in carriages, on horseback, or afoot. The sound of the music could be heard from afar, and the tones of tailor Schneck's bass viol were heard over all.
"If I could only hide myself from them," said Walpurga.
"That's easily done," said Hansei, triumphantly, "that's all right. Let us go off together, by ourselves."
He went out through the back door and into the back garden and loosened the boat from the spile. While the chain rattled over its side, Walpurga laid her hand on her heart and said:
"You've loosened a chain from my heart."
They got into the boat and pushed oft, and, like an arrow, the slender bark shot out over the smooth water of the lake.
"The pastor meant to come," said Walpurga, when they had gone some distance.
"He can come some other time; he won't run away," thought Hansei. "We're rowing together, just as we did when we were betrothed."
Walpurga also seized the oars. She and Hansei sat face to face. The four oars rose and fell as if it were a single hand that plied them. Neither spoke a word; there was nothing to be said. The happy glances they bestowed on each other were full of eloquence, and the equal stroke of the oars told the whole story.
When they reached the middle of the lake, they heard loud music from the shore, and, looking back, saw a great crowd, accompanied by the band, in front of their house.
"Thank God! We've escaped that," said Hansei.
They rowed on, further and further, and went ashore on the opposite bank where, holding each other by the hand, they walked up the hill. They soon reached a bluff, where they rested for awhile. At last, Hansei said:
"Walpurga, it seems to me that you don't want to be the landlady of the Chamois. Tell me frankly, is it so?"
"No, I don't; but if you're really bent upon it--"
"I want nothing that doesn't suit you."
"Nor do I want anything that displeases you."
"And so we'll let the innkeeper go his own way?"
"Gladly."
"We can wait."
"We can remain as we are, for the present."
"We'll soon find a good chance."
"The money won't grow moldy."
"Nor will you. I've got a bran-new wife. Hurrah! hurrah!"
Their voices joined in merry song, and they felt as if relieved from a self-imposed burden.
"They may make sport of me, as much as they please, as long as we're happy together," said Hansei.
"Hansei, I'll never forget you for that. There's something else coming, too."
"There needn't be anything more. All I ask for is that we may keep what we have."
They sat there for a long while, and at last Walpurga said:
"Oh! how beautiful the world is. If we could only always remain together thus. There's nothing more beautiful than to sit here and look at the lake, through the green leaves and the gray boughs. There are two skies, one above and one below. Hansei, we have two heavens, too, and I almost think that the one on earth is the lovelier of the two."
"Yes, but joy has made me hungry and thirsty; I must have something to eat."
They descended to a quiet, desolate-looking village that lay near by. Here and there people were seated before their doors, chatting and yawning, to while away the sultry hour of noon. But Walpurga said:
"Oh, Hansei, how beautiful everything is! Just look at that wheelbarrow, and that pile of wood, and that house--I don't know what's the matter with me, but I feel quite dizzy, and as if everything were smiling at me."
"You must have something to eat and drink; you're quite beside yourself."
They found the inn-parlor untenanted except by myriads of flies.
"They've got lots of guests here, but they don't pay anything," said Hansei, and they both laughed with all their might. They were so happy that the merest trifle provoked them to laughter.
After repeated calls the landlady appeared, bringing some sour wine and stale bread; but it was quite palatable, nevertheless.
They left and, when evening came on, rowed about the lake for a long while. The evening dews were already falling, when Hansei, pointing toward a distant bare spot in the forest, said: "That's our meadow."
Walpurga seemed busied with other thoughts. She rested her oars and exclaimed:
"The little house over there is our home, and there's our child. I don't know how it is--" She could not express her feelings, but it seemed as if she must fly away and hover over the sea and the mountains, with all that belonged to her. She gazed earnestly at Hansei, until he at last said:
"Of course it's our little house; and our cows, and our tables, and our chairs, and our beds, are all there. Walpurga, you've become a foolish thing; everything seems strange to you."
"You're right, Hansei. Only have patience with me. I'm just coming home to it all again."
She had, at first, almost felt mortified at Hansei's words. He had taken her expressions so literally, and had not appreciated her high-strung feelings. But she quickly regained her self-control, and realized how changed she had become, and that all this was out of place here.
They returned home, and slipped into the house through the back door. They found everything quiet and in good order. They did not care for the people outside, or for their merry-making. They were enough to each other.
Chapter VI
Were these the same villagers who had talked so scandalously of Walpurga when, at Christmas time, the new clothes had come for Hansei and the mother? Had they suddenly become kind and loving?
It seemed, at first, as if they had really raised themselves to the noblest height, that of pure sympathy.
But now-- If there had been a weathercock to mark the feelings of men, it would have turned quite suddenly.
It all came about quite naturally.
There were few amusements still left to the villagers. The church and state authorities had ruled with a severe hand. It was, therefore, no trifle that the members of the provincial court would permit music in midsummer, in honor of the prince's nurse, for the sanction of the authorities was required, even for music.
All were delighted except, of course, Grubersepp, who made a wry face at their noisy doings, and, after he had taken his comfortable afternoon nap, went out to his fields. Such a noise and fuss about nothing at all, would do very well for the little farmers, the woodcutters, the boatmen and the fishermen; but it should not interest a rich, sober-minded farmer.
But when they found that Walpurga and Hansei had gone away, and that the cream of the joke was thus spoiled; when even the country justice said that their behavior was shameful, there was quite a revulsion of sentiment, and many who had gone to the cottage by the lake in order to do honor to its inmates, now began to think of what tricks they might play Hansei and his haughty wife. There were many ways of annoying them, such as cutting off the cows' tails, nailing up the doors, breaking the windows--they were quite ingenious in inventing all sorts of mean tricks, but the presence of the justice acted as an uncomfortable restraint. So the crowd returned to the inn and amused themselves by inveighing against the he-nurse and his stupid wife. By degrees, however, another change in feeling took place. There are many who rejoice in another's misfortunes, and they chuckled over the landlord's disappointment. The feast, and the great earnings he had expected, had both been failures, for the better portion of the company soon drove off, leaving him enough roast meats and cakes on hand to last a week. Out in the kitchen, the hostess was weeping with anger and vexation, which she would gladly have vented upon her husband. There was lively talking on all sides, and they found it a great joke to make sport of the innkeeper, and to advise him to add the day's loss to the price of the house.
"I shan't sell at all," said the host. "Such people shan't enter my house again."
When Walpurga awoke, early on Monday morning, Hansei was nowhere to be seen. The week's work had begun. Before daylight, he had taken his scythe and gone out to his mountain meadow, where he was now mowing the dewy grass. He worked with such joy, such pleasure and calmness, that it seemed as if an invisible power were guiding his hand. When the breakfast was ready and Walpurga had searched for her husband everywhere, and thinking that he might have gone fishing, had called out for him back of the house and down by the lake, she went out into the garden again and looked up into the cherry-tree. Perhaps he was up there, although this constant plucking of cherries would be too much of a good thing. At the same moment, she looked toward the hill, and saw Hansei coming home, his scythe glittering in the sun. Walpurga beckoned to him. He quickened his pace and told her how much he had already done. "Ah!" said he, stretching his limbs while he seated himself at the breakfast-table, "it does one good to work before breakfast, and then come home and find wife and child and mother, with something warm and good to eat, waiting for you--Ah! that tastes good. Sunday's beautiful, but a workday's much finer. I wouldn't care to be one of your quality, who have Sunday all the year round. If I only had lots of fields and meadows and forests, so that I could always work on my own land."
"We'll have them, God willing," answered Walpurga.
They were a happy party at breakfast, and the child was full of life. They had been sitting together for a little while, when the innkeeper's servant entered and brought Hansei his beer-mug with his name engraved on the pewter lid, and signified that the innkeeper desired no further visits on his part.
Hansei sent word to the host that he had better return the two hundred florins that he still owed him. He did not like to send such a message by the servant, but he felt that he ought to give him tit for tat.
"And tell him, besides," he called out to the servant, "he's often been warned that he might get hold of the wrong fellow. Just tell him that I'm the wrong fellow."
Hansei could not help feeling sad while he looked at the empty beer-mug. Who knew how long it would remain empty. Perhaps forever. And it's no trifling matter to be excluded from the village inn. It's almost as hard as to live in a small capital where the prince gives entertainments, and to be unable to take part in them because you are not admitted at court. "There's a new tap," they'd say; "there's a new wine purchase; there are entertaining strangers there--" He was now excluded from the best thing there was in the village. When he looked at his tankard it was with sad thoughts, and with a prophetic sense of the thirst which in future he would be unable to quench.
Before long, woodcutters, on their way to the forest, stopped to see Hansei and tell him of all that had been said of him and his wife on the previous day. They roundly abused those who, in order to please the innkeeper, had spoken ill of an honest man, one against whom nothing could be said.
"There's no harm done," replied Hansei; "on the contrary, it makes one wiser to see how people will talk when their tongues are loosened."
"And your comrades, the huntsmen, said they had only let you go with them in order to have fun at your expense."
"That doesn't matter. I'll soon show them that I've learnt wisdom from them."
"Wasn't there one who spoke well of us?" inquired Walpurga.
"Yes, yes," replied Wastl the weaver, who felt kindly inclined toward Hansei, but feared to incur the displeasure of the innkeeper--"the doctor. He's a real friend of yours. He said: 'Walpurga was perfectly right; it's the most sensible thing she's ever done'--and he also said that he and his wife would soon come on purpose to welcome you."
And now the woodcutters cautioned Hansei, and told him that there were others who thought just as they did, that the old inn had been of little account for a great while, and that he would do well to apply for a license. He couldn't fail to get one, and then he could run the host of the Chamois so dry that the hoops would fall from his casks.
Hansei nodded his cheerful approval. "Just wait, we'll show you, yet," he muttered to himself, clenching his fists, stretching out his arms, and raising his shoulders as if he would fell the innkeeper to the earth with a blow that would make him forget to rise again. But Walpurga said: "We'll harm no one, and we'll let no one harm us."
"Haven't you something to drink?" inquired the woodcutters. They wanted a reward for the news they had brought.
"No, I've nothing," replied Hansei. "I must be off to the meadow to turn the hay."
The men left, and had gone a great ways before they ceased abusing Hansei. "That's the way with a beggar on horseback. He won't even give you a drink when you bring him news."
Wastl the weaver had not the courage to contradict them, although he knew that Hansei would gladly have given him something to drink if the rest of the company had not been present.
Hansei gazed at his forlorn tankard for some time. At last he said:
"I don't care. I wanted to be all alone with you, Walpurga, and now we are alone, I ask nothing of the world."
"The innkeeper's not the whole world," said Walpurga, consolingly.
Hansei shook his head, as if to say that a woman can't understand what it is to be shut out of the inn, just like a drunkard whom the law prevents from going there.
"He's got no right to keep me out," said he, angrily. "I know my rights. The landlord must give drink to every guest who enters his house. But I shan't do him the honor to go there."
Walpurga, whose thoughts followed the woodcutters, conjectured they were speaking ill of them.
"We ought to have given the woodcutters something to drink. They're surely abusing us now."
"We can't stop every one's mouth," replied Hansei. "Let them talk; and don't begin to repent now. We must be firm. What's done is done." With a changed tone he added:
"The sun's burning hot on the mountain, and if we stick at our work, we can get our hay in this very evening. In such weather as this, the grass turns into hay as fast as it falls from the scythe. But there's something brewing in the lake. There may be a storm before we know it; and so I'd like to get the hay in under cover. Won't you go along?"
Walpurga was delighted to go. The mother also wished to accompany them, and so, taking their dinner with them, the whole family set out for the mountain meadow. Hansei carried the child, Walpurga took the barrow, and the grandmother carried the dinner basket. As soon as the dog saw them start, he followed after them, and was constantly running backward and forward, from one to the other of the party. The dew had already disappeared from field and meadow, when they entered the shady forest.
"I'd rather push a barrow," said Walpurga, "than ride in a coach."
When they began to ascend the hill, they changed about. The grandmother took the child, Walpurga the dinner, and Hansei the wheelbarrow. It was not until the child was asleep that Walpurga could take it on her arm, and she felt happy while carrying it through the green wood. Once, it opened its eyes and looked at her, but soon closed them again and went to sleep.
When they reached the meadow, they laid the child in a shady spot, where they could always have it in sight, and the dog remained there guarding it. Hansei and the two women worked assiduously. Hansei called out to Walpurga that she must not turn the hay so quickly, or she would soon tire herself, for she was no longer used to such work. So she went about it more slowly.
"This meadow was bought with your money," said Hansei.
"Don't say that. Promise me you'll never say such a thing again."
"I promise."
They found it warm work, and when Hansei came near Walpurga again, she said:
"The same sun that dries the grass makes us wet with perspiration. At the summer palace, they mow the grass every week. They never let it grow high, and take great care that there are no flowers in the grass; but they tell me that it doesn't make good fodder."
"You think of so many things," replied Hansei. "Aren't you tired yet?"
"Oh no; I've been resting so long. Do you know what pleases me most of all? Just look," said she, showing him that her hands were becoming hardened by labor.
They heard the bell down in the valley striking the hour of eleven. This was the signal to prepare dinner. Hansei hurriedly brought some wood, a bright fire was kindled, and the child was so lively that the grandmother had to exert all her strength to keep it on her lap. While the soup was being warmed, Hansei sat by smoking his pipe. The three sat on the ground eating out of one dish. After dinner, Hansei stretched himself out and said: "I'll sleep for a quarter of an hour."
Walpurga also lay down, but the mother remained awake, watching the child.
Hansei slept but a short time. He looked pleased when he saw his wife lying on the ground, sleeping by his side. He motioned to the mother that she should not awaken Walpurga. The child was placed in the basket beside its mother, who slept on quietly, while Hansei and the grandmother were at work further down the hillside. The sun was already sinking when Walpurga awoke. She felt something touching her which thrilled her strangely. She opened her eyes, and they met those of her child. Its hands were stroking her cheeks. The child had crept out of its basket and had crawled up to her. Walpurga kept perfectly still. She scarcely ventured to breathe, and closed her eyes, lest she should frighten the child away. "Mother," cried the child. She still restrained herself, though she felt as if her heart must burst. "Mother! Mother!" it cried, more eagerly than before; and now she raised herself and embraced the child, and it let her do with it as she liked. Her heart overflowing with happiness, she sank on her knees and held her little, laughing child on high.
She sprang to her feet, held the child up with both her hands, and, hurrying to her people, exclaimed: "Hansei! mother! the child's mine!" and the little one held her tightly in its arms.
"Moderate yourself!" said her mother. "You'll spoil the child if you show that you care for it so much. That's enough, Burgei," said she to the little one. "Put it down, Walpurga, and come help us."
Walpurga followed her mother's advice, but could not help looking toward the child. It did not turn toward her. It was playing with the dog, who had made good friends with it. Presently it tumbled down from the pile of hay. Walpurga shrieked; but the mother exclaimed, "let it alone!" The child lifted its head, laughed, crawled over to the grandmother, and then looked over at its mother.
The hay was dry. Hansei hurried off to fetch his cow team, as he was anxious to get the load home betimes. The wagon could not come nearer than the road, and so they were obliged to carry the hay down the hill and to pile it up in heaps. Walpurga said that she had slept enough and had been idle for a long while, and allowed her mother to help her but little.
Hansei returned. They loaded the wagon. Grandmother, Walpurga and child sat on top of the load of hay, and Hansei, at last, got up, too. Evening had set in. The lake began to assume a darker hue, and it was only here and there that a streak of light played upon its surface.
"And now the people may say whatever they please," said Walpurga, "here, we're far above them all."
The mother and Hansei looked at each other, and their glance meant: "How wonderful it is that Walpurga should have such strange thoughts about everything."
It was soon quiet in the little cottage by the lake. Its tired but happy inmates were sleeping, and the whole house was fragrant with the odor of the new-mown hay.
Chapter VII
The folks in the cottage slept on peacefully, knowing nothing of the whirlwind of dust, the dark clouds that overcast the sky, the mighty storm, or the violent rain that followed. When Hansei put his head out of the window next morning, it was still raining. He turned to Walpurga and said: "Do you see? I was right, yesterday. The weather's changed. Thank God! our hay's under cover."
"Yes," replied Walpurga. "What a day it was. It was all sunshine."
It rained all day. A sharp wind was blowing, the waves of the lake rose on high and lashed themselves against the shore.
"How good it is to have a roof over one's head," said Walpurga. Hansei again looked at his wife with surprise. Walpurga discovered everything anew. But now she was happy, for her child clung to her. It called her "mother," and called the grandmother "mamma."
Walpurga, with the child on her arm, was standing at the stable door and throwing bread-crumbs to the finches, who could find no food that day. The birds picked up the crumbs and flew away to their nests with them.
"They've got young ones at home, too," said she. Suddenly, she interrupted herself and said: "Burgei, we've been in the sun together, now we'll go into the rain together." She ran out into the warm rain with her child and then back again into the stable. She dried herself and the child and said: "There! wasn't it lovely? and now it's raining on our meadow and fresh grass will grow, and my child must grow too, and when we gather the aftermath, you'll be able to run alone."
Walpurga felt so happy that the child had become attached to her that she hardly knew what to do for joy. The child, too, was happier than it had ever been before. The young mother could play with it far better than the grandmother could. Her laugh was so bright, and she would count its little fingers and renew all those wondrous, childish plays which overflowering maternal love invented.
Walpurga did not care to eat anything all that day. She merely tasted a spoonful of the broth before giving it to her child. It rained incessantly. Hansei was out in the shed, chopping wood. Suddenly, he came into the room and said: "How careless we were yesterday. They all know that you brought home so much money with you, and we went off and left the house alone. Have you looked to see if it's still here?"
Walpurga was filled with alarm, but speedily satisfied herself that all was still there.
"It must be put in a safe place before long. At all events, one of us must always stay at home, now," said Hansei, and returned to his work.
Time passes slowly on rainy days, and what better employment is there in such seasons than to sit together and abuse those who are absent? At noon, Hansei said: "The Chamois must be crowded, all day long." It worried him to think that he could not be there. What a merry time he might have had. They might have drunk those six measures of wine, and now he must let the rogues get off without paying their wager.
Walpurga added: "Yes, and, from what I know of the people, I'm quite sure they're abusing us, because, thank God, we're doing well. It seems as if I'd never known people before, except by their outsides; but now I can see through them."
"Didn't you say that you wouldn't care what people thought?" replied Hansei.
Walpurga had a wonderful knack of divining the ideas of others. Her thoughts now penetrated every house, wandered to the pump by the courthouse, and into the inn itself, in order to discover what the people there were saying against her and hers. She was not obliged to wait long for confirmation. The joiner who, on the day of Walpurga's departure, had offered to sell his house and farm, now came to borrow money from Hansei, as he had received notice to pay off his mortgage. As an introduction, he thought it best to assure Hansei that he was his only friend, and the only well-wisher left him in the village.
Hansei plainly told him that he wouldn't lend money to any one, for that changed one's friends into foes. The friendly tale-bearer soon took his leave.
Living in the village had ceased to be a pleasure to them. The closing of the inn doors against Hansei was only the beginning. No one, of his own accord, bade him or his wife "good-day," and their greetings were scarcely returned. Walpurga, who had grown accustomed to being praised and esteemed by those about her, was often very sad. What vexed her most of all was that the story of the wager had been passed from mouth to mouth, and had become so distorted that it was scarcely fit to be repeated. It seemed as if the privacy of the marital chamber had been revealed to the world and discussed in the market-place. She felt insecure in her own house. Every noise frightened her, though it were merely a barking dog, or the elder-bush brushing against the roof. Every night, before going to sleep, she would try the window-shutters, to see that they were firmly closed.
"I don't believe," said she, "that great folk are half so bad as villagers."
"Indeed!" said the mother. "I don't know anything about them; but from what I've heard, the quality are just as good and just as bad as the common folk. It don't depend on the clothes."
"You're just like Countess Brinkenstein. If you'd been obliged to spend all your life in the palace, you'd have been just like her." thought Walpurga to herself, while she looked at her mother.
Walpurga's mind was agitated by contending emotions. She was obliged to reconcile two distinct spheres of life; the court and the village, and, in imagination, would often transplant villagers to the court and vice versa.
She was sometimes quite bewildered, and scarcely able to distinguish what she had only imagined from what she had really experienced.
Hansei would listen to his wife and her mother discussing people and, with a smile, would think to himself:
"How changeable the women are; there's nothing consistent about them."
After Hansei had, for two or three evenings, resisted his inclination to go to the inn, he was merrier than ever.
"I'm glad," said he, "that I can give up a habit, if necessary. I really think I could give up smoking, too."
Those dull days served to show the difference between the dispositions of Hansei and his wife. To the superficial observer, Walpurga, so cheerful and wide-awake, would seem the superior of her sullen, awkward husband. Her temperament was suggestive of life among the mountains; for there, when it is dull and rainy, everything is covered with darkness, but, as soon as the sun breaks forth, every object is lighted up afresh--the green meadows are brighter, the lake acquires a darker blue, every mountain height and every forest stream is revealed anew in clear and perfect lines. Like a beautiful flower, opening and revealing all its beauty in the glowing sunshine, Walpurga was always better and brighter in fair weather. Hansei remained steady and, indeed, gained in firmness while the bad weather lasted. When the storm raged, swaying branches and boughs to and fro, he resisted, as it were, and maintained his ground. He had something in common with the rough-barked, weather-beaten oak. The monarch of the forest does not don its robes of green with the first mild rays of the spring sun. Its boughs remain bare long after its neighbors are decked with foliage, but, in the end, it surpasses them all in strength and beauty.
The past year had indeed wrought a greater change in Hansei than in Walpurga.
The tree growing on a rock, drawing scanty nourishment from the thin crust of earth around it, and exposed to wind and storm, will, when transplanted to a rich soil, seem to languish at first; but it will soon shoot forth with new strength. Thus had it been with Hansei. The sudden transition, from a life of care and toil into a new sphere, had almost ruined him. But in a little while, all was well with him again. And now his firmness and self-possession stood him in good stead, for he was obliged to prevent Walpurga's kind but strongly self-conscious nature from gaining ascendency over his.
Walpurga was, at first, almost vexed at her husband's insensibility. She would go about in an angry mood, would curl her lips and clench her fists. She felt as if she must do something to punish the villagers. Hansei remained calm; it was not his habit to trouble his head with much thinking. It gradually dawned upon Walpurga's mind that Hansei was far stronger than she. Like a plant deprived of sunshine, and in spite of her happy home, she would have withered and languished because of the averted glances of her neighbors. She was so possessed by her anger that she was only sensible to that which, feeding it, provoked her the more. Hansei was quite calm, and Walpurga, for the first time, became fully aware of his strength of character. No one could make him change his gait. He was like a horse which jogs on, regardless of the dog barking at its heels, or which, when going up hill, will suffer no one to urge it into a trot.
In true humility, Walpurga bowed to her husband. He might have been wittier, readier, and more sprightly, but none could be better nor steadier than he.
Chapter VIII
The village council were in session.
Hansei was summoned to the town hall. The messenger who came for him told him that there was to be a new assessment, and that higher taxes were to be levied upon him, now that he had come into property.
"You needn't tell everything to the last kreutzer," said he.
"I'll tell them all. Thank God, I've got something to pay taxes for," replied Hansei.
Walpurga listened with eager interest. She had been boiling with rage for many days, and now the time had come when her anger could find vent in words. She said she would go along to the town hall where they were all assembled, and would, then and there, tell them what she thought of them. Hansei persuaded her that that wouldn't do, and now the messenger seemed the very man to serve her purpose. She burst forth in a torrent of abuse of the villagers, and asked the messenger to go to them and repeat every word he had heard. She threatened them with the house of correction and the king, as if both were at her service, besides mentioning other punishments which were quite new and of her own invention.
"Come along," said Hansei to the messenger. While on the way, he gave him some drink-money, and told him that his wife had not yet become used to things at home, and that, naturally enough, many a thing worried her. The messenger reassured Hansei by saying that, in an office like his, one was obliged to hear and see much which it was best to seem ignorant of afterward, and that women were very queer. Their great delight was to unburden themselves; after that, they were all right again.
Hansei was detained at the town hall for a long time. The innkeeper, who was one of the councilmen, was seated at the table, and found great pleasure in trying to get him into a tight place. His office protected him as with a shield. He tried to provoke Hansei to insult him, so that he might put him in jail and thus, at one stroke, disgrace the haughty beggar and his wife. Hansei saw what was in the wind, and every one was astonished at the polite manner in which he expressed himself. He never addressed the innkeeper except as "Mr. Councilman." "He must have learned that from his wife, who got her education at the palace," whispered the councilmen to each other.
In spite of the pouring rain that lasted during the whole of the meeting, Walpurga waited and watched outside of the town hall. If there should be any trouble up there, thought she to herself, she would go up and tell them all what they were. She was insensible to the rain penetrating her clothes, for she was all aglow with excitement. At last she heard a noise on the stairs. Many were coming down, and she hurried home.
Hansei returned home, full of self-confidence. He had conquered himself, and the victory had been a greater one than if he had laid about him with cudgels. At home, he found everything in great confusion.
Walpurga, after walking about in the rain, had suddenly hurried home as if some one was after her, and had fainted as soon as she entered the room where her mother was sitting. She had recovered, but was still in a high fever, and her teeth were chattering. Once she opened her eyes, but quickly closed them again.
Hansei wanted to go for the doctor at once, but the mother advised him to stay at home and send a messenger in his stead. Before the doctor came, Walpurga was sitting up in bed and telling her own story.
Hansei informed her how he had killed the innkeeper with politeness. Walpurga's face suddenly lit up with joy, and she held out her hand to him, saying:
"You're--you're a splendid fellow," and then she wept until the tears streamed down her cheeks.
"That's right," said the grandmother to Hansei; "that'll clear her head. I was afraid it had gone to her head, but now it's all right. You can go now."
Hansei left the room. He stood at the window for a while, looking out at the rain. "If your wife were to die, or if she should live and be worse than dead. If she--" He did not dare to think of the word.
The mother came out into the room and said: "Thank God! she's sleeping. When this is well over, the danger's past. It was no trifle to leave the palace as she's done, where they all petted her and showed her great respect, and to come here among these coarse, spiteful people. She'd become filled with anger and hatred, and it had to come out some day. Thank God, it's out now. It's lucky for us that the people have shown themselves so mean. Take my word for it--with all her goodness, she would have found fault with everything in the house, and nothing would have suited her, if this hadn't come in the way."
The mother thus consoled Hansei, who nodded approval of her words.
Walpurga slept. Her cheeks were scarlet. Hansei, with the child in his arms, stood at his wife's bedside for a long time, looking at her.
The doctor did not come until the next morning. He found Walpurga lively, but very weak. He prescribed drastic remedies, and, in the course of a few days, she was quite restored. She now saw what danger she had been in, and how luckily she had escaped it.
It was not until then that she felt quite at home and perfectly happy.
Walpurga and her mother were down by the lake, washing clothes.
"Yes, it's our business to keep things clean," said Walpurga. "When I look up at the mountains, I see the rocks and forests which only men, with their chisels and axes, can shape into houses. Men's work is with whatever's strong and powerful. Even if others do flatter us, and we persuade ourselves that we're ever so great, we women are less than they are."
The mother smiled and said: "Oh child, your thoughts are far-fetched, but you're right, for all."
"My Hansei's a real steady man," continued Walpurga.
"That he is," answered the mother, with joyful mien.
"He doesn't talk as much as others do, but when it comes to a pinch, he knows what he has to do and how to do it, and that's just the way your blessed father was. You're very lucky to find this out so soon after the birth of your first child. I didn't know it till after my third, or, indeed, till I'd lost all my children except yourself."
"Good-day to you all!" suddenly said a little needy-looking man.
"Why, it's Peter!" cried the grandmother; "you here already? That's good. And is this your daughter? What's her name?"
"Gundel."
"God greet you both," said the grandmother, who kept wetting and wiping her hand again and again, before offering it to her brother.
The little man's features expressed great surprise. It was long since any one had been so glad to see him; but, of course, he had come to a house that was overflowing with joy.
The grandmother took her brother by the hand, and led him toward the house. She felt sad when she looked at the poor little man, for his appearance betokened great poverty.
She forthwith gave her brother and her niece something to eat. When they had finished, she took Gundel out to the wash-tub by the lake.
"Just work there till dinner-time, and then you'll know where you belong." She went back to her brother and again bade him welcome. The little man complained that life went hard with him. The grandmother went into the other room with Walpurga, and asked her:
"How much money did you mean to give me for my journey home?"
"As much as you want."
"No.--Tell me how much."
"Would ten florins be enough?"
"More than enough. Give them to me at once."
Walpurga gave her a ten florin piece and said:
"Mother, I haven't given you a present since I came back."
She gave her mother several florins in addition to the ten which she had already handed her, and said: "Take this and give it away. I know that your greatest pleasure is in giving to others."
"Oh, my child! you know me well. Oh God! I can now give something to others; that's the best thing in the world. You see, I've never been able to do anything for the poor."
"Don't say that, mother; how often you've watched, day and night, by the sick."
"That's nothing; that's not money."
"It's far better than money."
"May be it is with God, but with men-- Just think of it!--to be able to give money and money's worth to others! You make me ever so happy. I've had gifts, too, in my time. You don't know how it is, when the hands of the giver and the receiver touch. And some gifts are like hot bread in one's stomach. It stills your hunger, but it lies there like so much molten lead. But there are some good people whose gifts do one good. Grubersepp's father once came to me and gave me something, and so did Count Eberhard Wildenort, who lives on the other side of the Chamois hill."
"Why, that's the father of my countess," said Walpurga, interrupting her.
"Thank God! Then he'll live to be rewarded for it by his children. I never forget a name. Yes, I received presents from them both, and now they're again bestowing gifts through me. My child, I'll never forget you for this. To be able to give is heaven on earth. But while we stand here chattering, my poor brother's waiting out there like a poor soul at heaven's gate. Come along."
They went into the room. The mother put the ten florin piece into her brother's hand, and said:
"There, take it. I needn't go to my home now, for it has come to me, and if I never get there again, it's enough for me that I've seen my brother once more. There, Peter; that was to have been the money for my journey."
"Tsch-st-st-st--" with these sounds, resembling the hissing of a pot on a fire, did the little pitchman receive the gift.
"What does that mean?" asked Walpurga and her mother, in one breath.
"Tsch-st-st-st," answered Peter.
"What's the matter with you? are you crazy?" asked the mother, whose face had suddenly assumed a serious expression.
"Tsch-st-st-st," replied the little pitchman again.
And now it was Walpurga's turn to become angry and to inquire: "What do you mean by such capers?"
"Oh, you piece of palace wisdom!" said Peter at last, "don't you know how it hisses when a drop falls on a hot stone, and, d'ye see? it's just the same with me and the money."
The mother told him that he was ungrateful, and that the people thought that Walpurga had now enough money to make every one rich. He ought to feel very happy, for he had never before had so much at any one time. But the little pitchman, without making further answer, continued to repeat the strange, hissing noise. Walpurga went out and soon returned with another ten florin piece, which she gave to the little pitchman, who then said:
"There! it's out now; I can pay all my debts and buy me a goat, besides," and, striking the pieces of money together, he sang:
"What's the best? aye, what's the best? To be free from debt or care, And have a little money to spare-- That's the best; aye, that's the best."
The mother was now quite happy again. She resolved to be prudent and economical in dispensing her gifts. In imagination, she already saw the people whose want she could now alleviate, and perhaps remove. The joyful glances of those who were to be gladdened by her bounty seemed reflected in her calm and happy face.
"Oh you women!" said the little pitchman, as if sermonizing, while he looked with sparkling eyes at his two pieces of money, "you women can't know what money is. I shall put small change for a florin in my pocket, and always keep it with me. Hurrah! what a jolly life I'll lead. What do you know of such things? You go by a public-house on Sunday, put your hand in your pocket and there's nothing there. But I'll go in and won't begrudge myself a treat, and wherever there's an inn, I can make myself at home. Wine and beer await me, and host, hostess, daughter and servant treat me kindly, and ask how it goes with me, where I've come from and where I'm going to; and when I leave, they go with me part of the way, and ask me to come again. And why do they do so? Just because I've got money in my pocket."
The old man shouted for joy. The grandmother cautioned him not to become dissipated, and Peter laughed until his face was nothing but wrinkles. He declared that he had made it all up, and that now he was less likely to go to the public-house than before. "When you've got money in your pocket," he said, "it's great fun to go and quench your thirst at the pump in front of the inn."
"My countess told me," said Walpurga, seating herself near her uncle, "that you knew her father."
"And what countess is it?"
"Wildenort."
"Of course I know him. He's a man; the right sort of a man; a German of the old sort; a gentleman, a real gentleman. He ought to be king, he--" Heavy footsteps were heard approaching. Hansei entered. Peter quickly put the money in his pocket and whispered: "I shan't say anything to Hansei about it."
"You needn't tell him; we'll do it, ourselves," replied Walpurga.
Chapter IX
Hansei did not stand on ceremony with his uncle. He had known him for a long while. They had often met up in the mountains, where Hansei had worked as a woodsman and Peter had gathered pitch. But they had not made much ado of their friendship; an occasional charge of tobacco had been the only exchange of courtesy between them.
Hansei now had something more important to relate.
"I was working out by the garden hedge that the band and the rest of the crowd almost tore down last Sunday, and, all at once, I heard some one say: 'You're quite industrious, Hansei'; and, when I looked round, who do you think it was? You can't guess."
"Not the innkeeper?"
"You'll never guess. It was Grubersepp, and he said: 'I hear you've stopped going to the Chamois,' and I said: 'That's nobody's business but my own.'"
"Why did you answer so rudely?" asked Walpurga, interrupting him.
"Because I know him. If you don't show your teeth to such a fellow, he'll hold you mighty cheap--'See here,' said he. 'It'll be six years, come Michaelmas--ever since Waldl was born--and in all that time I've never once set foot in the Chamois, and I'm still alive for all. You'll find it'll do you good to stay away, just as it did me. I've laid in beer of my own, and if you ever feel like having a glass, send for it, or come yourself. Maybe you'll want a word of advice as to what you'd better do with your money, and let me tell you one thing, lend nothing to any one--' Now tell me, mother, tell me, wife, who'd have thought of such a thing? Who'd ever expect as much from old Grubersepp, who's always afraid he might waste a word? Now, Walpurga, you can see that the people aren't all wicked; good and bad are mixed together in the palace as well as in the village. When they find that Grubersepp keeps company with me, they'll come flocking back, just like bees to a mellow pear."
It was indeed a great event. A resident of the capital could not feel more highly favored if accosted by the king in the public street, than Hansei and his whole family now were.
Walpurga wanted to go up to Grubersepp's at once, and to acknowledge that she had done him wrong, but Hansei said:
"There's no need of being in such a hurry about it. I'll wait till he comes again; I won't go one step to meet him."
"You're right," replied Walpurga, "you're the right sort of a man."
"I've got my full growth," said he. "Isn't it so, uncle? I'm done growing."
"Yes," replied the uncle, "you've got your full size. But do you know what you ought to be? You ought to own a large farm. You'd be the very man, and Walpurga the very woman for it; and now that I think of it, have you heard that the owner of the freehold at our place wants to sell? They say he's obliged to. You ought to go there; you'd be better off than the king, then. If you've got the ready money, you can buy the farm at half-price."
The uncle now praised the farm, with its fields and its meadows, and said the soil was so rich and in such good condition that it was almost good enough to eat; and as to the timber, no one knew how much it was worth. The only trouble was that one couldn't get at it everywhere.
The uncle was a pitchburner, and knew the woods well.
Walpurga was quite happy, and said:
"It won't do to lose sight of this."
Hansei seemed quite indifferent about the matter. Walpurga took his hand in hers, and whispered: "I've something more for you."
"I don't need anything. There's only one thing I ask of you: let me attend to the purchase of the farm, and don't let uncle see that you snuff at it so. I really think the farmer must have sent him here. We must be hard, and make believe we don't care for it at all. I shan't neglect the matter, you may depend upon that. And, besides, I've been a woodcutter long enough to know something about timber land."
Hansei let the uncle go away alone and merely said, in a casual manner, that he would take a look at the farm some time or other.
Grubersepp came that evening, according to promise. A maid-servant, carrying a large stone jug of beer, followed him. A wealthy farmer visiting the cottage by the lake, and bringing his beer there of an evening--such a thing had never been heard of as long as the village existed.
His whole manner seemed to say: "I've got sixty cows pasturing on the mountain meadows." No one had ever heard a word of praise pass his lips. He was a sour-visaged fellow, and was chary of his words. He was what is called a drudging farmer. All that he cared for was incessant work, and he never concerned himself about others.
Walpurga kept out of sight. She was afraid lest she might humble herself too much, and thus vex Hansei, who behaved as if Grubersepp had been visiting the family for years.
Grubersepp inquired for Walpurga. Hansei called her, and when she came, the rich farmer shook hands with her and bade her welcome.
After Walpurga had left the room, they spoke of the best way of investing the money.
Grubersepp was a great enemy of the public funds.
"Yes," said Hansei, at last. "I've had an offer of the farm on the other side of the lake, six leagues inland. My mother-in-law is from that neighborhood."
"I know the farm. I was there once. I was to have married the farmer's daughter, but nothing came of it. They tell me that the property is in a poor condition. If you want to reap good from land, you must give it something in return. The soil requires it, and, if you should purchase, don't forget that a good portion of the meadow land had best be sold. My father always used to say that the meadows of a farm are like a cow's udder."
Hansei was astonished at the amount of wisdom which Grubersepp had inherited, and marveled at his carrying it all about with him and making so little ado of it.
Grubersepp added: "The matter will bear thinking over, at all events, and I'd be glad if some one from our village should get so fine a property."
"But you wouldn't let me have anything toward it?"
"No. I don't owe you anything. But if you can use me in any other way--"
"Well, how? Will you go bail for me?"
"No; that I won't either. But I understand the matter better than you do, and I'll give you a whole day of my time. I'll drive over there with you and value the whole property for you. I'm glad that you've concluded not to take the inn. The weather's clearing, and I'll have all my hay under cover by to-morrow noon. If you need me for a day, I'm at your service, and we'll ride over there. You know that when I say a thing it's so, for I'm Grubersepp."
"I accept it," said Hansei.
Radiant with joy, Walpurga stood at the garden hedge the next day, watching the wagon in which Hansei and Grubersepp were sitting. She was glad that so many people happened to be coming from work at about the time the two drove off together.
"Now let 'em burst with anger; the first man in the village is my Hansei's comrade."
It was no small matter for Grubersepp thus to give a whole day of his time, and in midsummer at that. He meant it kindly enough, but his main object was to show that the innkeeper and his pack could not make a man of one, while he, Grubersepp, could. He felt quite indifferent as to what people thought of him, but, nevertheless, it does one good to let them know who's the master, as long as it costs nothing to do so. When it costs nothing--that was the chief point in all that Grubersepp did.
The nearest route lay across the lake and straight up the mountain on the other side. But Grubersepp had an unconquerable aversion to the water, and so they drove round the lake and then up the mountain.
It was late on the following evening when Hansei and Grubersepp returned. Hansei reported that the farm was a fine one, and that it would be quite a fair purchase, although not so wonderfully cheap as the uncle had vaunted it to be. The place had been sadly neglected; but that wouldn't stand in the way, for he could put all that to rights again. Still, he wouldn't buy, because he'd be obliged to leave too much remaining on mortgage, and he'd rather own a smaller farm and be out of debt.
Then Walpurga said:
"Come, I've been wanting to tell you something for a great while, and you'd never listen to me. I've something more for you."
She led Hansei down into the cellar and, with a mighty effort, removed the stone cabbage-tub, after which she dug up the earth with her hands, and displayed to the astonished eyes of Hansei the pillow-case filled with gold pieces.
"What's that?"
"Gold! Every bit of it."
"Good God! you're a witch; that's--that's enchanted gold!" exclaimed Hansei. He was so startled that he upset the oil lamp which Walpurga had placed on an inverted pail.
They both stood there in the dark, shuddering with fear.
"Are you still here?" cried Hansei, trembling.
"Of course I am. Don't be--don't be--so--so superstitious. Strike a light. Have you no matches about you?"
"Of course I have."
He drew them from his pocket, but let them all fall on the ground. Walpurga gathered them up. Several of them caught fire, but immediately went out again. The sudden flash of blue light seemed weird and dismal. At last they succeeded in lighting the lamp, and went upstairs into the room, where Walpurga lit a second lamp, lest the darkness might again frighten them. Hansei hurriedly removed the pillow-case, and the glittering gold met his eyes.
"Now tell me," said he, passing his hand over his face, "have you any more? Don't try that again."
Walpurga assured him that this was all. Hansei spread the gold out on the table, piled it up in little heaps, and counted it with his fingers. He always had a piece of chalk in his pocket, and he now took it out and reckoned up the money. When he had finished, he turned and said:
"Come here, Walpurga. Come, there's your first kiss as mistress of the freehold."
Hansei put the gold back into the pillow-case, and when he went to bed he placed it under his pillow, saying: "Oh, what a good pillow; one can sleep sweetly on it."
Chapter X
When Walpurga awoke the next morning, she found the sack of gold in bed beside her, but Hansei had disappeared.
"Where is he? What's become of him?"
She dressed herself in a hurry, hunted for him, and went all over the house calling for him; but he was not there. She hurried over to Grubersepp's, but they had seen nothing of him. She returned home, but Hansei had not yet arrived.
What could it be? If Hansei had done some harm to himself--If having so much money had turned his head--Oh, that terrible money! It had been lying in the earth, and there was now nothing wrong about it, for what has once been in the ground is purified.
She went out to the lake. It was still storming; its waves were high, and the sky was covered with dark gray clouds.
Maybe Hansei's destroyed himself--maybe he's floating in there.
She stood by the water's edge and cried "Hansei" with all her might.
There was no answer. She returned to the house, and, as coherently as she could, told her mother of her grief. Her mother consoled her.
"Do be quiet. Hansei took his axe with him--the one that always hangs up there. I suppose he had something to do in the forest. He never shirks work. When he comes home don't tell him how foolish you've been. The palace still clings to you. You worry too much about everything. Take my word for it, the world's quiet and peaceful enough as long as we're quiet and orderly. Hush! I hear him coming. He's whistling."
Hansei approached whistling, and bearing his axe on his shoulder.
Walpurga could not go forward to meet him. She felt so weak in her limbs that she was obliged to sit down.
"Good-morning, Mistress Freeholder!" cried Hansei from afar. "Good-morning, Freeholder!" replied Walpurga. "Where have you been?"
"Out in the woods. I cut down a pine-tree, a splendid one that must have felt my strokes. It did me good. But, first of all, give me something to eat, for I'm hungry."
"He can still eat; thank God for that," thought Walpurga to herself, while she hurried to fetch the porridge. She sat down beside him, delighting in every spoonful which he took. She had much to tell and to ask about, but she didn't wish to disturb him while he was eating, and when the dish was half empty she held it up for him, so that he could fill his spoon.
"Now tell me," said she, when the dish was emptied, "why did you go out so early and steal away so?"
"Well, I'll tell you. When I awoke, I thought it was all a dream, and when, after that, I found the money, so much of it, I thought I'd go crazy. Hansei, the poor fellow who used to save for months at a time, and felt so happy when he could buy himself a shirt and a pair of shoes, had all at once become rich, and it seemed as if some one were turning me round and round and driving me crazy. Then I felt like waking you up, that we might consider what I'd better do with myself. But you sleep so soundly that I thought--Pshaw! is your wife to help you? Just you wait, Hansei; I'll show you--and so I got out and took my axe and went up the mountain. Day was just breaking. Although I was quite alone, I felt, all the time, as if there was a great crowd of people after me. Still I went on till I reached the pine. It was marked out to be felled long ago. I threw off my jacket and set to work, and when the chips began to fly, I felt better. Afterward, Wastl came up and helped me, but he kept saying, all the time: 'Hansei, you never worked as you do to-day'; and he spoke the truth. We felled the tree and it came down with a crash. That did me, good, and I felt better and better. We chopped off the branches and did three times as much as we generally do in the same time, and so, little by little, all the foolish notions and giddiness left my head. Now I'm here again and happy, and I'm with you, Walpurga, my old sweetheart. I've been a woodcutter again, in downright earnest, and now I'm to become a farmer--that is, if all goes right."
And it all came to pass.
The mother had a wonderful way of disappearing when she knew that Hansei and Walpurga had anything to settle between themselves. One could almost have fancied that the cottage was provided with secret doors and subterranean passages, so suddenly would she vanish. She would reappear just as suddenly, and no one would know where she had been or how she had returned.
According to her wont, she had disappeared. Walpurga and Hansei searched through the house for her, but found her nowhere. When they returned to the room, she was there.
"Mother, we've good news for you," said Walpurga.
"I see what's best of all, already," she replied, "and that is that your hearts are truly united. I don't care to know any more."
"No, mother, you must know this. Did you ever imagine that you might be mistress of the freehold at which you once were a servant?"
"No, never."
"But now it is so."
Walpurga and Hansei, relieving each other by turns, told her that they had enough money to pay the cash down for the farm, and that the purchase was as good as concluded, because Hansei had obtained the refusal of it for eight days.
Mother Beate could not utter a word in reply. She folded her hands, and her features assumed an expression of sadness.
"Mother, aren't you pleased at it?" asked Walpurga.
"Not pleased? You'll soon see. But I'm old, my child, and can't jump about, the way you do. Look at the mountains over there. As long as they've been standing there, no one has ever felt happier than I do. I don't know what the Lord means by giving me so much happiness on earth. He knows what He is doing and I accept it calmly and patiently. When you came home to us again, I thought my cup of happiness was full, but now I see there's more coming. Well, let what will come, I'm going home again."
The mother was obliged to stop, but Hansei said:
"Yes, mother; you shall see something that you've never seen before in all your life." He went into the room, returned with the sack of gold, and opened it.
"Just look at that!" said he. "How it shines and sparkles. You can hold it all in two hands, and yet there's enough there to buy a farm, with house and fields and forests, and cattle and tools and everything."
"That's a great deal of money," said the mother. She laid her hand on the gold, while her lips moved silently.
"Put your hand into it," urged Hansei. "Oh, how good it feels to stir about in the gold that way."
The grandmother did not comply with his wish, but kept murmuring to herself.
The child in the next room cried, and Hansei called out:
"The freeholder's daughter's awake. Good morning, freeholder's daughter!" said he, while the two women went out to the child. Then he took up the bag of gold, shook it, and said:
"Just listen; you never heard such music before."
The grandmother lifted the child out of the bed and said: "Hansei, just do as I tell you, and put the gold in the warm crib of the innocent child. That'll bless it, and no matter whose hands the gold may have been in, that consecrates it and brings a blessing with it."
"Yes, mother; we can do that." Turning to Walpurga, he added: "Mother always has such pretty notions. You know it'll do the gold good in the warm nest. Yes," said he to the little child, "they've put lots of gold in your cradle. We'll take one piece and have a hole drilled through it, and you shall get it when you become confirmed. Only keep good."
"But now I must go over to Grubersepp's," said he, at last.
Walpurga was obliged to tell that she had already been looking for him there, that morning. She now realized how prone she was to give way to exaggerated fears, and determined to break herself of the habit.
The grandmother, Walpurga and the child were happy together at home, and the mother related that just three months before Walpurga was born, she had been at the farm for the last time, and that was to attend her brother's wedding.
"They can bury me up there," added she. "It's a pity I can't rest beside your father, for the lake never gave him up again. Oh if he'd only lived to see this!"
Our highest joys and our deepest sorrows are closely allied.
Grubersepp came back with Hansei, and was the first to congratulate Walpurga and the grandmother. He advised them, however, to say nothing of the matter until the purchase was legally consummated.
Chapter IX
On Sunday, Hansei, Walpurga, and the mother, went to church together. The child remained at home with Gundel. They walked along the shore of the lake in silence, thinking of how often they had gone that way in joy and in sorrow, and how they would feel when walking along another path and to another church.
The churchgoers whom they met on the way greeted them coldly, and the grandmother said:
"Don't let us take evil thoughts against others into church with us. We must leave them outside."
"But when one comes out again, they're there all the same, just like the dogs that wait at the church door," replied Walpurga sharply. The mother looked at her and she shook her head, while she said: "Take my word for it, the people are not nearly so bad as they make believe to be. They think it makes them look grander and more important, if they show that they can be angry and spiteful; but let that be as it may, if we can't make others good, we can make ourselves better."
"Give me the umbrella, mother--I can carry it better than you," said Hansei. This was his manner of expressing his assent.
The innkeeper drove by. Hansei saluted him, but the only answer he heard was the cracking of the whip.
"That's the way," said Hansei. "If he's angry, it's no reason why I should be."
The mother nodded her approval.
Although the service had both edified and satisfied them, it did not prevent Hansei from having a mighty appetite at dinner that day, and he said:
"I think the freeholder can eat more than ever, but I'll see to it that he works right bravely, too."
Hansei was quite merry, but he did not climb the cherry-tree again.
The doctor and his wife paid them a visit that afternoon. Walpurga showed the pretty gifts she had received, and Frau Hedwig was all admiration.
"I shall lay this beautiful dress aside for my child's wedding. You can't begin thinking of the outfit too soon."
The doctor had brought a good supply of bottle food. He placed the bottles on the table and said:
"Hansei, they tell me that you're doing dry penance, and as I'm a heretic, I'll pour out the wine for you."
He proceeded to do so most generously.
Walpurga brought one of the silver-sealed bottles of wine that Doctor Gunther had given her.
Doctor Kumpan knew how to open the bottles. He praised the wine, but bestowed still greater praise on Gunther.
"I think," said Walpurga, "that we ought to tell our honored guests what we have in view. They're honorable people and won't carry it further."
"You're right," said Hansei, and told them about the farm. The doctor and his wife congratulated them, and were only sorry that such good people were about to leave the neighborhood. Encouraged by the wine, Hansei asked:
"Doctor, might I--be so free--? You see, you're really the cause of our good fortune. Would you do us the honor to accept a present from us?"
"Let's hear what it is. How many thousand florins will you spend on me?"
Hansei was quite frightened; he had not meant to go that far.
"You're a merry gentleman; you're full of fun," said he, collecting his wits. "What I meant to say was--I've got three cords of wood out in the forest. I only finished cutting it last week, and I'd like to take it to your house."
"I'll do you the favor of accepting it. I see you're a real farmer already. You have an itching palm and money clings to it. Take care to remain so."
That Sunday had other honors in store for them, for when the afternoon service was over, the pastor called. He told them that he intended to leave for the capital on the following day, and reminded Walpurga of her promise to give him a letter to Countess Wildenort. Laughing heartily. Doctor Kumpan exclaimed:
"Ah! so her highness Countess Wildenort is your friend, and the pastor--"
"Doctor, I'd like to speak a word with you," said Walpurga, interrupting him. "Come, as quickly as you can."
She had learned one lesson at court: viz., that a firm yet polite manner enables one to check or avert many an ill-natured remark. There was a certain grandeur in her manner when she told the doctor that, in her house, she would allow no one to speak ill of Countess Irma, just as she would allow no one to say anything against the doctor. That would be just as false as what was said about the countess, who, while she was merry enough to be his comrade, was just as good as he was. Walpurga added that she hoped he would not grieve her by speaking ill of the countess.
The doctor looked at Walpurga in astonishment. When he came back into the room, he said to Hansei:
"You've got a great wife; one whose friendship is an honor to any one."
Walpurga went to her room and wrote:
"My Dearly Beloved Countess:
"I take this opportunity to write to you. Our pastor is going to the city, and has promised to be kind enough to take the letter with him and deliver it to you. I don't know what else he wishes to do, but rest assured that whatever he wants is all right. He's very kind to me, and particularly so since I've come home again. And now I'd like to write you how things are going with me. I couldn't ask God to make them better. To have one's husband, mother, child, and one's daily work besides! We've already made our hay, but not make-believe, as it used to be with us on the lawn at the summer palace. Don't you remember?
"Dear me! I say with us, and who knows whether any one at the palace still thinks of me?
"Yes, I am sure you do, my good countess; and my child, I mean the prince, and the queen and Mademoiselle Kramer and her father too.
"Pray give my love to them all, the doctor and Baron Schoning and Countess Brinkenstein. She's good, too, and Madame Gunther, also, if you should meet her. Oh, what a woman she is! I'm sorry enough that I only made her acquaintance the day before I left. You ought to go to see her every day. Your blessed mother must have been just such a woman as she is; and do me the favor and write me how my prince is getting on. He's fond of you, too, and if you get married, let me know, and, if there's an opportunity. Mademoiselle Kramer might send me the beautiful distaff. It would be a great pity if it had to lie up there in the garret.
"My husband was very sorry that he didn't get to see you, and I was sorry, too. I must always try to forget how you looked that morning, and when I try to picture my beautiful countess and good friend to myself, I have to pass over that.
"My mother sends her respects; she remembers your mother and says that when one looked into her face it was like looking at the sun.
"My child was quite stubborn at first. You saw, by the prince, how stubborn children can be when they don't like a person; but my child and I are very good friends, and the best thing in the world, after all, is to have a child, something to do, and a little property besides. Ah! to walk about with one's child is to have a fountain of life with you; one from which you can drink pure happiness at any moment.
"It often seems like a dream, when I think that I've been away; and it's well that it's past. I feel that I couldn't go through it again, and all that I wish for now is to live happy.
"I kiss this sheet, for your hands will touch it.
"From your true friend,
"WALPURGA ANDERMATTEN.
"Postscript.--I've got some new songs here, but they're not pretty. I've no time to sing during the day, and if I didn't sing my child to sleep of an evening, I'd never have a chance to sing at all.
"Excuse me for writing so badly, but my hands have become hard already, and the paper and ink are very bad. Yes, that's what all bad writers say. Once more, farewell! I'm writing in haste and the pastor's waiting in the other room, and the doctor and his wife are here too. They're mighty good people, and if there are many wicked and envious folks in the world, they harm themselves more than they do others. My dear Countess, you can't imagine how much good you've done us. You'll be rewarded for it--you, your children, and your grandchildren. It's as good as certain that we won't stay here; but there's the same sky everywhere. And when you see your father, give him my mother's respects. She hasn't forgotten his kindness to her, and you are his daughter, and have your good heart from him and your mother. All that I wish is that you still had such a mother as mine. But mother's right: she says that there's no use wishing for what you can't have. I feel as if I had to write you a great deal more, but I can't think of anything else, and they're calling for me from the other room. Farewell! my best wishes, thousandfold, for your health and happiness. From my very heart, I wish you all that's good. Oh, if I could only go to you with this letter. But I'm glad to be home and mean to remain as long as I live. Farewell, all you good people out in the world."
Walpurga handed the letter to the pastor, who left soon afterward. He was not fond of being with the doctor, who was a sad heretic. Toward evening the doctor and his wife left, and Walpurga was not a little proud of the fact that all the villagers knew of the distinguished visitors who had called at the cottage. None of their neighbors could boast of like honor.
The week went by quietly. Hansei was absent for several days, during which time he concluded the purchase.
The little pitchman had asked permission to be present when the money for the farm was paid, and had requested this as an especial favor. His face brightened when he saw the heaps of gold, and when Grubersepp asked: "Do you like it?" he answered, as if waking from a dream:
"Yes, it's true; I couldn't have believed it. I've often heard, in old stories, of such heaps of gold. The whole lot of stuff doesn't weigh more than a couple of pounds, and you can get the whole farm for it. Yes, yes. I'll remember that to the end of my days."
Grubersepp laughed heartily. The little, gray-haired man must have thought himself quite young to talk thus of the end of his days as a thing of the remote future.
On Friday, the pastor returned. He had not seen Countess Irma, as she had accompanied the court to a watering-place. He had left the letter at the palace, and was told that it would be forwarded to her.
Chapter XII
The weathercock turned again and indicated fair weather. The sky was almost cloudless. With men's minds it was just the same. It was rumored in the village that Hansei had bought the farm on the other side of the lake, and that he had paid for it in ready money. How could any one harbor ill-feeling against a man who was able to do that? No; it was shameful, on the part of the innkeeper, to drive a man like Hansei, and such a woman as Walpurga, from the village. They were a credit to every one, to say nothing of the advantage it is to have such rich and good people in the place--people, moreover, who have themselves been poor and know how the poor feel.
Hansei and Walpurga now received kindly greetings wherever they went, and all spoke of their intended departure as if it grieved them to think of it.
The ringleader on the Sunday that the band had come to the house, the very one, indeed, who wanted to play a trick on Hansei, now came and offered to engage with him as a farm-hand. Hansei replied that, for the present, he would keep the servants who were at the farm, and that, in the beginning, he would require people who knew all about the neighborhood and the farm itself. He said that he might be able to employ him later. Hansei was obliged to travel back and forth quite frequently. There were many legal matters to be arranged, and, besides, there was an old resident on the property who had a life-claim against the estate, for maintenance and support, and whom money would not induce to quit the house.
"And do you know," said Hansei, one day, "who helped me ever so much? We had quite forgotten that Stasi lives up there near the frontier, about three leagues from the farm. Her husband is the under-forester at that district. He showed me the forest, and he's quite right when he says that paths can be made, so that beams and planks may be brought down. Won't you go with me some time, and take a look at our new home?"
"I'll wait till we go there for good," answered Walpurga. "Wherever you take me to, I'll be satisfied, for we'll be together, and you can't imagine how happy mother is."
Although the grandmother had, before this, rarely thought of dying, she often complained that she wouldn't live long enough to move to the farm with them, and thus, as mother of the farmer's wife, return to where she had once been a servant.
All day long, she would tell Walpurga of the beautiful apple-trees in the great garden there, and of the brook whose water was such that the articles washed in it would become as white as snow, and that, too, without using a particle of soap. She also extolled the virtue of the people who were living there, and cautioned Walpurga to use good judgment in dispensing the gifts which it would now be her duty to bestow on others. She knew the old pensioner, and was indeed distantly related to him. They must treat him kindly, and thus bring blessings on the house.
Time sped by, and the hour of departure gradually drew near.
Walpurga had already packed the clothing and household utensils, but was obliged to unpack them again, as they were needed.
As the time for their departure drew near, the villagers became even more kindly and affable toward them, and Walpurga complained to her mother:
"I feel just as I did when I was about to leave the palace. I was always anxious to get away, and when the time came, I felt worried about leaving."
"Yes, child," said the mother, consoling her, "it will be just the same when you leave the world. How often one would like to go, but when the time comes, one isn't anxious to leave. Oh, my child! I feel as if the whole world were speaking to me and as if I understood it all. Everything, men and women especially, seems at its best when you have to part from it. That's the way it is when one parts with life. For it isn't till then that we begin to understand how beautiful the world is, after all, and how many good hearts we leave behind us."
Walpurga and her mother were now able to talk with each other to their heart's content, for they no longer got an hour of Hansei's company. He spent much of his time with Grubersepp, whom he accompanied into the fields, and from whom he received much advice and instruction.
One evening a messenger came, asking Hansei to come to Grubersepp's at once. He hurried off and did not return until late. Walpurga and her mother, curious to know what was going on, sat up for him. It was near midnight when he returned, and Walpurga asked: "What's the matter?"
"Grubersepp has got a colt."
Walpurga and her mother almost split their sides with laughter.
"What is there to laugh at?" asked Hansei, almost angry. "And besides, the signs are that it'll be a white one."
They burst out laughing again, and Hansei looked amazed. He told them, in great earnest, that Grubersepp had sent for him, so that he might learn all about it, and he was just about to acquaint them with the latest bit of information he had acquired: namely, that foals are never born white. But he thought better of it; for it occurred to him that it wouldn't do to tell the women all he knew, for they laughed so stupidly at everything. Besides, a rich farmer ought to be on his dignity with the women; he wouldn't forget that Grubersepp was so.
Hansei received various offers for his cottage, and was always provoked when it was spoken of as a tumbledown old shanty. He always looked as if he meant to say: "Don't take it ill of me, good old house; the people only abuse you so that they may get you cheap." Hansei stood his ground. He wouldn't sell his home for a penny less than it was worth; and, besides that, he owned the fishing right, which was also worth something. Grubersepp at last took the house off his hands, with the design of putting a servant of his, who intended to marry in the fall, in possession of the place.
All the villagers were kind and friendly to them--nay, doubly so, since they were about to leave--and Hansei said:
"It hurts me to think that I must leave a single enemy behind me. I'd like to make it up with the innkeeper."
Walpurga agreed with him, and said that she would go along; that she had really been the cause of the trouble, and that if the innkeeper wanted to scold any one, he might as well scold her, too.
Hansei did not want his wife to go along, but she insisted upon it.
It was on the last evening in August, that they went up into the village. Their hearts beat violently while they drew near to the inn. There was no light in the room. They groped about the porch, but not a soul was to be seen. Dachsel and Wachsel, however, were making a heathenish racket. Hansei called out:
"Is there no one at home?"
"No. There's no one at home," answered a voice from the dark room.
"Well, then, tell the host, when he returns, that Hansei and his wife were here, and that they came to ask him to forgive them if they've done him any wrong, and to say that they forgive him, too, and wish him luck."
"All right; I'll tell him," said the voice. The door was again slammed to, and Dachsel and Wachsel began barking again.
Hansei and Walpurga returned homeward.
"Do you know who that was?" asked Hansei.
"Why, yes; 'twas the innkeeper himself."
"Well, we've done all we could."
They found it sad to part from all the villagers. They listened to the lovely tones of the bell which they had heard every hour since childhood. Although their hearts were full, they did not say a word about the sadness of parting. Hansei at last broke silence:
"Our new home isn't out of the world, we can often come here."
When they reached the cottage they found that nearly all of the villagers had assembled, in order to bid them farewell, but every one added: "I'll see you again in the morning."
Grubersepp also came again. He had been proud enough before; but now he was doubly so, for he had made a man of his neighbor, or had, at all events, helped to do so. He did not give way to tender sentiment. He condensed all his knowledge of life into a couple of sentences, which he delivered himself of most bluntly.
"I only want to tell you," said he, "you'll now have lots of servants. Take my word for it, the best of them are good for nothing; but something may be made of them, for all. He who would have his servants mow well, must himself take the scythe in hand. And since you got your riches so quickly, don't forget the proverb: 'Light come, light go.' Keep steady, or it'll go ill with you."
He gave him much more good advice, and Hansei accompanied him all the way back to his house. With a silent pressure of the hand, they took leave of each other.
The house seemed empty, for quite a number of chests and boxes had been sent in advance by a boat that was already crossing the lake. On the following morning, two teams would be in waiting on the other side.
"So this is the last time that we go to bed in this house," said the mother. They were all fatigued with work and excitement, and yet none of them cared to go to bed. At last, however, they could not help doing so, although they all slept but little.
The next morning, they were up and about at an early hour.
Having attired themselves in their best clothes, they bundled up the beds and carried them into the boat. The mother kindled the last fire on the hearth. The cows were led out and put into the boat, the chickens were also taken along in a coop, and the dog was constantly running to and fro.
The hour of parting had come.
The mother uttered a prayer and then called all of them into the kitchen. She scooped up some water from the pail and poured it into the fire, with these words: "May all that's evil be thus poured out and extinguished, and let those who light a fire after us, find nothing but health in their home."
Hansei, Walpurga and Gundel were, each of them, obliged to pour a ladleful of water into the fire, and the grandmother guided the child's hand, while it did the same thing.
After they had all silently performed this ceremony, the grandmother prayed aloud:
"Take from us, O Lord our God! all heartache and homesickness and all trouble, and grant us health and a happy home where we next kindle our fire."
She was the first to cross the threshold. She had the child in her arms and covered its eyes with her hands, while she called out to the others:
"Don't look back when you go out."
"Just wait a moment," said Hansei to Walpurga, when he found himself alone with her. "Before we cross this threshold for the last time, I've something to tell you. I must tell it. I mean to be a righteous man and to keep nothing concealed from you. I must tell you this, Walpurga. While you were away and Black Esther lived up yonder, I once came very near being wicked and unfaithful--thank God, I wasn't. But it torments me to think that I ever wanted to be bad; and now, Walpurga, forgive me, and God will forgive me too. Now I've told you and have nothing more to tell. If I were to appear before God this moment, I'd know of nothing more."
Walpurga embraced him and, sobbing, said: "You're my dear, good husband," and they crossed the threshold for the last time.
When they reached the garden, Hansei paused, looked up at the cherry-tree, and said:
"And so you remain here. Won't you come with us? We've always been good friends and spent many an hour together. But wait! I'll take you with me, for all," cried he, joyfully, "and I'll plant you in my new home."
He carefully dug out a shoot that was sprouting up from one of the roots of the tree. He stuck it in his hatband and went down to join his wife at the boat.
From the landing-place on the bank, were heard the merry sounds of fiddles, clarionets and trumpets.