The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 07

I find the six hens all correct,
The cheeses too without defect;
The eggs delivered are freshly laid,
And all the dues were promptly paid.
And so the Lord preserve your farm
From famine, fire, and other harm!
He is beloved of God and man
Who pays his debts as best he can.

After that the Justice made a deep bow as a sign of thanks. The Sexton's wife and the maid carried the baskets out and packed them in the wagon. At the same time the Hunter saw a maid carrying some dishes and plates out of the room in which the clergyman had eaten, into the entrance-hall, where she washed them before the eyes of the latter, who had stepped up to the threshold of the room. After she had finished this washing she approached the clergyman, who drew a small coin out of a piece of paper and gave it to her.

In the meanwhile the Sexton was drinking his coffee with relish, and when a cup was brought for the Hunter too, he sat down with it beside the Sexton.

"I am a stranger here," said the young man, "and do not entirely understand the customs which I have been witnessing today. Will you, sir, be good enough to explain them to me? Is it obligatory for the peasants to supply the Pastor with these products of nature?"

"It is obligatory as far as the hens, eggs and cheeses are concerned, but not the rolls. They represent merely goodwill, but have always been paid without objection," replied the Sexton with great seriousness. "Three peasant communities are affiliated with the diaconate or head pastorate in the city, and part of the Pastor's and Sexton's income is derived from these dues, which are collected every year from the various farms. In order to do this collecting, as has been done every year since time immemorial, we make annually two trips or rounds, namely, this short summer trip, and then a long winter trip, shortly after Advent. On the summer trip the hens, eggs and cheeses come due, one farm paying so much, another so much. The first item, namely, the hens, is payable, however, only pro Diaconatu, the Sexton having to content himself with eggs and cheese only. In the winter, corn, barley, oats and rye fall due; we come then with two carts, because one would not hold all the sacks. Thus twice a year we go the rounds of the three communities."

"And where do you go from here?" asked the Hunter.

"Straight home," answered the Sexton. "This community is the last of the three, and this Oberhof is the last farm in this community where the customary dues are collected."

The Sexton was then called away, for the horses were hitched to the cart, and the clergyman, with cordial handshakes and good wishes, was taking leave of the Justice and his daughter, who were now standing before him with the same air of friendly reverence that they had shown for him during all the other proceedings of the day.

The procession now went rocking off between corn fields and high hedges along another road than the one it had come by. The peasant, with the whip in his hand, went on foot in front of the horses, and the cart rolled heavily along behind him. In addition to the two women, the Sexton now sat in among the baskets with a feather pillow propped against his stomach for protection. The Hunter, who had modestly stood back during the preparations for departure, now, when the wagon had advanced a short distance, hurried after it with hasty steps. He found the Pastor, who had also remained behind his accumulation of property, waiting for him in a pleasant spot under some trees. Here, unrestrained by the ceremonial of the Oberhof, they embraced each other, and the Pastor said, laughing:

"I'll wager this is something you never expected—to discover in your former acquaintance, who used to conduct his young Swedish Count so neatly about on the slippery ground of science and elegant life in the big city, a figure who must remind you of the Reverend Lopez in Fletcher's Spanish Curate. As for the proceedings which you have witnessed today, it was absolutely necessary for me to go through with them in person; my entire relation with the people would be broken if I manifested any squeamishness about participating in the old custom. My predecessor in office, who was not a native of these parts, was ashamed of these regular trips and refused downright to have anything to do with them. What was the result? He got himself into serious difficulties with these rural parishes, which even had an influence on the decadence of school and church affairs. He had finally to petition for his transference, and I immediately made up my mind, when I received my appointment, that I would adapt myself in all things to the customs of the place. In pursuance of this policy I have so far got along very well, and the appearance of dependency which these trips give me, far from damaging my prestige, rather enhances and secures it."

"How could it be otherwise?" cried the Hunter. "I must confess to you that during the entire ceremony, in spite of the comical atmosphere which your Sexton spread over it, I was really touched and the feeling never once left me. Somehow I saw on the one hand, in your acceptance of these most simple and material gifts, and, on the other, in the reverence with which they were bestowed, the most pious and unpretending symbol of the church, which must have its daily bread in order to exist, and of the faithful who supply her earthly needs in the humble conviction that by so doing they will gain something of high and eternal value. Hence on neither the one side nor the other does a sense of servitude arise, but rather on both sides there is a deep feeling of the most perfect mutuality."

"I am glad," said the Pastor, pressing the Hunter's hand, "that you so regard it, since another person would perhaps have made fun of the whole business. For that reason—I can now own up to it—I was at first not at all pleased to have you appear so unexpectedly as a witness of those scenes."

"God forbid that I should make fun of anything that I have seen in this country!" replied the Hunter. "I now rejoice that a mad freak brought me here to these woods and fields, for otherwise I should probably never have learned to know the region; for it has very little reputation abroad, and there is, in fact, nothing here to attract exhausted and surfeited tourists. But the feeling has gripped me here even more strongly than in my own home—this is soil which an unmixed race has trod for more than a thousand years! And the idea of the immortality of the people was wafted toward me in the rustling of these oaks and of this surrounding vegetation in an almost, I might say, tangible form."

A long conversation resulted from this remark, which was carried on alternately by both the Hunter and the Pastor, as they walked slowly along behind the cart.

When they took leave of each other the young Suabian was obliged to make his friend a promise that he would visit him for a few days in the city. After that they separated and went off in opposite directions.

CHAPTER VIII

THE STRANGE FLOWER AND THE BEAUTIFUL GIRL

The sun was still high in the heavens. The Hunter felt no particular inclination to return to the Oberhof so early in the day, so he stepped up to one of the highest hedges to obtain a general view of the region. From there he saw rising, a short distance away, the bushy summits of a group of hills, through which he thought he could probably make his way and get back to his quarters before late in the evening.

His foot trod the fresh, damp green of a meadow bordered by bushes, under which a stream of clear water was flowing. Not far away appeared some small rocks, over which ran a narrow slippery path. He walked across, climbed down between the cliffs, tucked up his sleeves, and put his arm in the water; it sent a pleasant thrill through him and cooled his hot blood. Thus, half kneeling, half sitting in the damp, dark, rock-begirt spot, he glanced aside into the open. There his eyes were fascinated by a glorious sight. Some old tree stumps had rotted in the grass, and their black forms protruded from the surrounding vivid green. One of them was entirely hollowed out, and inside of it the rotted wood had formed a deposit of brown earth. Out of this earth and out of the stump, as from a crater, a most beautiful flower was growing. Above a crown of soft, round leaves rose a long, slender stalk which bore large cups of an indescribably beautiful red. Deep down in the cups of the flower was a spot of soft, gleaming white which ran out to the edge of the petals in tiny light-green veins. It was evidently not a native flower, but an exotic, whose seed some chance—who knows what?—had deposited here in this little garden-bed, prepared by the putrefactive powers of Nature, and which a friendly summer sun had caused to grow and blossom.

The Hunter refreshed his eye in this charming sight. Intoxicated by the magic of Nature, he leaned back and closed his eyes in sweet reveries. When he opened them again the scene had changed.

A beautiful girl in simple attire, her straw hat hung over her arm, was kneeling by the flower, gently embracing its stalk as if it were her sweetheart's neck, and gazing into its red calyx with the sweetest look of joyful surprise. She must have approached quietly while the Hunter was lying back, half asleep. She did not see him, for the cliffs hid him from her sight; and he was careful not to make any motion that might frighten the vision away. But after a while, as she looked up from the flower with a sigh, her sidewise glance fell upon the water, and she caught sight of a man's shadow! The Hunter saw her color pale, saw the flower drop from her hands—otherwise she remained motionless on her knees. He half arose between the cliffs, and four young eyes met! But only for a moment! The girl, with fire in her face, quickly got up, tossed her straw hat on her head, and with three swift steps disappeared into the bushes.

The Hunter now came out from among the cliffs and stretched out his arm toward the bushes. Had the spirit of the flower become alive? He looked at it again—it did not seem as beautiful as it had a few minutes before.

"An amaryllis," he said, coldly. "I recognize it now—I have it in my green-house."

Should he follow the girl? He wanted to—but a mysterious shyness shackled his feet. He grasped his forehead. He had not been dreaming—he was sure of that. "And the occurrence," he cried at last with something like an effort, "is not so extraordinary that it must necessarily have been a dream. A pretty girl, who happened along this way, was enjoying a pretty flower—that is all!"

He wandered about among unknown mountains, valleys and tracts of country, as long as his feet would carry him. Finally it became necessary for him to think of returning.

Late, in the dark, and only through the help of a guide whom he came across by accident, he reached the Oberhof. Here the cows were lowing, and the Justice was sitting at the table in the entrance-hall with his daughter, men and maids, about to begin his moral talks. But it was impossible for the Hunter to enter into them—everything seemed different to him, coarse and inappropriate. He repaired immediately to his room, wondering how he could pass away any more time here without knowing what was going to happen. A letter which he found there from his friend Ernst in the Black Forest added to his discomfort. In this state of mind, which robbed him of part of his night's sleep and even the following morning had not yet left him, he was glad indeed when the Pastor sent a wagonette to bring him to the city.

Even from a distance, towers, high walls and bulwarks made it evident that the city, once a mighty member of the Hanseatic League, had seen its great days of defensive fighting. The deep moat was still extant, although now devoted to trees and vegetables. His vehicle, after it had passed under the dark Gothic gate, moved along somewhat heavily on the rough stone pavement, and finally drew up in front of a comfortable-looking house, on the threshold of which the Pastor was standing ready to receive him. He entered a cheerful and cosy household, which was animated by a sprightly, pretty wife and a couple of lively boys whom she had presented to her husband.

After breakfast they went for a walk through the city. In the course of it the Hunter told his friend about his adventure in the woods.

"To judge by your description," said the latter, "it was the blond Lisbeth whom you saw. The dear child wanders around the country getting money for her old foster-father. She was at my home a few days ago, but would not tarry with us. The girl is a most charming Cinderella, and I only hope that she may find the Prince who will fall in love with her little shoe."

CHAPTER IX

THE HUNTER SHOOTS AND HITS THE MARK

After a sojourn of several days in the city the Hunter returned to the Oberhof, and found the Justice repairing a barn door. The Hunter informed him that he was going to depart soon, and the old man replied:

"I am rather glad of it; the little woman who had the room before you sent word to me that she would be back today or tomorrow; you would have to give way to her and I couldn't make you comfortable anywhere else."

The entire estate was swimming in the red light of evening. A pure summer warmth pervaded the air, which was uncharged with any exhalations. It was quite deserted around the buildings; all the men and maids must have been still busy in the fields. Even in the house he saw nobody when he went to his room. There he picked up and arranged what he had from time to time written down during his stay, packed up his few belongings, and then looked around for his gun. After a short search he discovered it behind a large cabinet where the peasant had concealed it. He loaded it, and in two steps he was out of the house and headed for the "Open Tribunal," bent on shooting the restlessly heaving visions out of his soul. By the time he was traversing the fragrant, golden oak grove he had recovered his high spirits.

When he reached the Freemen's Tribunal up on the hill he felt quite cheerful. The ears of grain, heavy and plentiful, were nodding and rustling, the large red disk of the full moon was rising over the eastern horizon, and the reflection of the sun, which had already sunk in the west, was still lighting up the sky. The atmosphere was so clear that this reflected light shone a yellowish green.

The Hunter felt his youth, his health, his hopes. He took his position behind a large tree on the edge of the forest.

"Today," he said, "I will see whether fate can be bent. I'll fire only when something comes within three paces of the muzzle, and then if I should miss it, there would needs be magic in it."

Behind him was the forest, before him the low ground of the "Freemen's Tribunal," with its large stones and trees, and over opposite the solitary spot was shut in by yellow corn fields. In the tree-tops above him the turtle-doves were cooing now and then a faint note, and through the branches of the trees by the "Freemen's Tribunal" the wild hawk-moths were beginning to whir with their red-green wings. Gradually the ground in the forest also began to show signs of life. A hedgehog crept sleepily through the underbrush; a little weasel dragged his supple body forth from a crevice in the rocks no broader than a quill. Little hares darted with cautious leaps out from the bushes, stopping in front of each to crouch down and lay their ears back, until finally, growing more brave, they mounted the ridge by the cornfield and danced and played together, using their fore paws to strike one another in sport. The Hunter took care not to disturb these little animals. Finally a slender roe stepped out of the forest. Shrewdly thrusting its nose into the wind and glancing around to the right and left out of its big brown eyes, it stalked along on its delicate feet with an easy grace. The gentle, wild, fleet animal now reached a point just opposite the hidden Hunter's gun, and so close to him that he could hardly fail to hit it. He was just about to pull the trigger when the deer took fright, faced about in a different direction, and made a leap straight for the tree behind which the Hunter was standing. His gun cracked, and the animal, unwounded, made off with a series of mighty leaps into the forest. But from amid the corn he heard a loud cry, and a few moments afterwards a woman's form staggered out of the fields on a narrow path which lay in the line of his aim. The Hunter threw down the gun and rushed toward the form; when he saw who it was he nearly collapsed.

It was the beautiful girl of the flower scene in the woods. He had hit her instead of the roe! She was holding one hand over the region between her shoulder and left breast, where the blood was gushing out copiously beneath her kerchief. Her face was pale, and somewhat drawn, though not distorted, by pain. She drew a deep breath three times and then said with a soft, weak voice:

"God be praised! The wound can't be very dangerous, for I can draw breath, even though it hurts me. I will try," she continued, "to reach the Oberhof, whither I was bound on this short-cut when I had to go and meet with this accident. Give me your arm."

He had supported her only a few steps down the hill when she collapsed and said:

"It won't do—the pain is too severe—I might faint on the way. We must wait here in this place until somebody comes along who can fetch a stretcher."

In spite of the pain of her wound she was clutching tightly in her left hand a small package; this she now handed to him and said:

"Keep it for me—it is the money that I have collected for the baron—I might lose it. We must prepare ourselves," she continued, "to remain here for some little time. If it were only possible for you to make a place for me to lie down and to give me something warm, so that the cold won't penetrate to the wound!"

Thus she had presence of mind both for herself and him. He stood speechless, pale and immovable, like a statue. Utter dismay filled his heart and let not a single word escape from his lips.

Her appeal now put new life into him; he hurried to the tree behind which he had hidden his hunting-bag. There he saw, lying on the ground, the unfortunate gun. He seized it furiously and brought it down on a stone with such strength that the stock was shattered to pieces, both barrels bent, and the lock wrenched from the screws. He cursed the day, himself, and his hand. Then, rushing back to the girl, who had sat down on a stone in the "Open Tribunal," he fell at her feet, kissed the hem of her dress, and with passionate tears flowing from his eyes in a torrent, besought her forgiveness. She merely begged him to please arise; he couldn't help doing it, the wound was surely of no significance, and the thing for him to do now was to help.