Landolin

Anton returned home troubled. He said to himself: "Have I let Landolin tell me what I saw? Shall I lose my heart to the daughter, and my conscience to the father? It would be better if the marriage had not been broken off, for then I could refuse to testify."

CHAPTER XXII

The farmer's wife had often visited her husband in the presence of the examining magistrate. Peter had several times accompanied his mother, but Thoma did not come. Her father was too high-spirited to inquire for her, or ask why she staid away. Perhaps she disapproved of his obstinacy in staying in prison; perhaps she approved of his pride, for Landolin had told the judge, "I will not go out with a halter round my neck, for people to make sport of me; one to pull it tight, so as to choke me a little, and another to graciously loosen it. I will only go as a free man. And didn't you say that I am to appear in court next week?"

So he staid in prison, and was not obliged to see any one but his wife, his son, the examining magistrate, and his attorney. But one pair of eyes he saw, that looked more friendly at him than the eyes of a child or a sister. The district judge's wife had obtained permission to visit the prisoners.

And the hearts must indeed have been hard that were not gladdened when that lady entered the cell, while the guards waited at the open door.

Madame Pfann-for by this simple title did the judge's wife allow herself to be called-Madame Pfann was exceedingly happy in her marriage. Although her husband could not forbear occasionally laughing at her missionary zeal, nevertheless he willingly allowed her her own way in everything. He delighted in the many successes she achieved, but above all other things, in the unwavering faithfulness with which she fulfilled the duty she had taken upon herself.

They had an only son, who in July, 1870, entered the army as a volunteer, was promoted to a lieutenancy on the field of battle, and had remained in the service. Madame Pfann had not waited for some great event before she set herself to work. Years before she had commenced the work of philanthropy, and carried it out with a zeal that was universally acknowledged. She was the daughter of a plain professor in the gymnasium at the capital; and she took pleasure in saying that she owed her capacity for her work to her father's simple and noble character.

She was aware that people called her conduct eccentric and sentimental; but she cared nothing for that.

An old-time saying tells us that on the path of heroic deeds a man has to battle with giants and monsters. Madame Pfann had had to battle with a great and noble intellect. She remembered Goethe's cynical words, that finally the world would be bereft of all beauty, and each one would be only his neighbor's benevolent brother.

Veneration for our great poet was an heir-loom in her girlhood's home. Fierce was the conflict before she overcame the mighty coercion of the master mind, but she gained at last that liberty which shakes off the fetters of an undue veneration. She was convinced that even a Goethe cannot give precepts for all time. Our age has made the unity of human interests its law, and no longer tolerates a mere æsthetically selfish life. Yes, out of a life devoted to the common welfare, springs a new beauty of being.

Madame Pfann often met with rudeness and thoughtlessness where she least expected it, so that her experiences were sometimes painful; but she remained steadfast.

In her visits to the prisons, she refused to interfere in the least degree with the course of the law. She only desired to comfort the prisoners; to make them at peace with themselves; and above all things she wished to help their friends who were left destitute at home. Here, too, she had sorry experiences. Rascals imposed upon her, and amused themselves in sending her on fruitless missions, and would even give her directions whose baseness she could not suspect.

She knew that baseness and uncleanness existed, and yet clung to her faith in greatness, nobility, and purity.

In the course of time she settled upon a regular method of talking with the prisoners. She sought to learn of their early life, but she found that they distrusted her motive, suspecting that she was seeking to discover some crime which they might have committed, and she had to contend with their cunning, which led them to tell her falsehoods.

Often, however, she succeeded in bringing the most hardened to better thoughts and feelings, so that they spoke with tremulous voice of the paradise of youthful innocence.

When Madame Pfann visited Landolin in prison, she found her task easier than usual, for she had long known him and his family. He quickly gave her to understand that he did not value her visit very highly, as she honored the commonest prisoner in the same way.

He listened attentively for her answer, and was not surprised when she replied, with a smile:

"I cannot double myself when I visit you; but I will come oftener if you like."

It now happened, as it often had before with prisoners, that Landolin looked for her visit as a diversion, and that was something gained.

"Has Titus been here, and taken a look at the tower where I shut am up? Or perhaps he has not wanted to see me. I'll say beforehand I won't see him," said Landolin, angrily.

Madame Pfann saw that his thoughts were occupied with his rival, so she said that no one should rejoice in another's misfortune, for every one has his own secret sorrow.

"Has he? Has anything happened to him?" asked Landolin, eagerly.

The lady said: "No!" and then turned the conversation to his childhood. He related his boyish pranks, and laughed heartily over them; but still he censured his father for having yielded to him in everything, except once when he wanted to marry the Galloping Cooper's sister, for whom he had had a fancy. He even complained of his wife for having always yielded to him. He said he was the most grateful of men when any one kept him from his wild pranks, even though at first he rebelled against the restraint. Then he stopped short. He was afraid he had betrayed himself, and protested solemnly that he was innocent of Vetturi's death.

Madame Pfann asked, "Would you like me to have some flowering plants brought here?"

Landolin laughed aloud and said: "I don't want anything with me except my dog."

She promised to see that he should have it. She soon found that it really was a very deep grief and trouble, that Thoma did not come to see him.

Madame Pfann went to Reutershöfen, and listened patiently to his wife's lament that her life was changed since her husband's hat hung no longer on its accustomed nail. When Thoma came in after a long delay, the kind-hearted lady was touched by her appearance, and told her that she could well imagine her grief, in having been plunged in one day from the highest joy to the deepest sorrow.

Thoma trembled. She had never before placed the two events so close together. Madame Pfann felt the awkwardness of her remark, and endeavored to reassure her by saying that she had no doubt that she could adjust the difficulty with Anton, for he had great confidence in her. Thoma soon became more composed, but she was still silent.

Madame Pfann urged her strongly to lighten her father's imprisonment by visiting him.

"You mean it well, I know," replied Thoma, "you are very good, but I cannot; I cannot go down the road, and up the prison stairs, and I should be no comfort to my father, quite the contrary. It is better as it is."

"It is not better, only more comfortable, more easy for you; you will not conquer yourself."

Thoma was silent.

Madame Pfann arranged for Tobias to take the dog to its master.

She then went to see Cushion-Kate, who called out:

"You went to Landolin's first. I'll not let you into my house."

She bolted the door and Madame Pfann went quietly homeward.

CHAPTER XXIII

"The house is changed when the husband's hat no longer hangs on its accustomed nail," the farmer's wife often said. Her thoughts were not many, but those she had she liked to repeat like a pater noster.

When, on the morning after her husband's arrest she said this for the first time, and was about handing Thoma the keys, Peter called out:

"Mother, give me the keys; I am the son of the house, and I must take the reins now."

If the stove had spoken they could not have been more astonished. Peter, whom they had all looked upon as a dull, idle fellow, who did only what he was told, and never undertook anything of himself-Peter of a sudden gave notice of what he was and what he wanted, and even his voice, generally heavy and drawling, became somewhat commanding and energetic. In reality a transformation had begun in Peter. He ceased to be taciturn and became almost talkative. His natural effort to aid his father had called forth a latent energy, which no one, least of all himself, had ever suspected, and which once aroused, continually grew in strength. Other awakenings assisted in changing his trouble into a joyous sense of courage; yes, almost of presumption. It was not only at home, but in the whole neighborhood that people saw with astonishment how his father's absence had changed him. The head-servant, Tobias, smiled as he went about his work at the thought that he had had a hand in helping Peter into the saddle. And, indeed, Peter was, literally, much on horseback, riding everywhere on the bay mare, to tell the people who were at the house congratulating Thoma at the time of the accident, what they had seen. Some of them thought they knew all about it; and some, on the other hand, declared they had seen nothing; for they did not want the trouble of testifying in court.

Wherever Peter went the people said, "No one knew that you were such a smart fellow. Thoma used to be the only one talked about, just as though there were no such person as you." Peter smiled craftily when he heard this; he put on a grieved, troubled look, and shook his head, but was nevertheless pleased to hear people add, "Your father rather put you down."

Peter was not unassuming; quite the reverse, for he looked upon all men as his debtors. They had allowed him to grow up in simplicity and honesty for three and twenty years without revealing to him how sweet knavery tastes. But now, he was finding out for himself.

"Look! Look! There comes Peter of Reutershöfen!" was heard up and down the mountain side.

"What Peter?"

"Landolin's Peter."

"Yes, people did not know what kind of a fellow he was; they thought he couldn't count three; and now he turns out to be one of the sharpest fellows possible."

It was true; he had not been exactly a blockhead; but dull and unsympathetic. And what had he now become?

It may, perhaps, seem unnatural, but nevertheless it was a thoroughly logical development; he had become an accomplished hypocrite.

Once, at a fair, when Peter had taken an electric shock, a strange something ran through his frame. He had very much the same feeling the first time that Tobias said to him, "We must act as though we had seen everything so, and seem thoroughly honest about it, and then we shall be able to make other people think so."