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

During these preparations the bride never once said a word, while her friends were all the more talkative. They praised her finery, extolled her piled-up treasures, and every now and then a furtive sigh led one to suspect that they would rather have been the adorned than the adorning.

Finally both girls, with solemn mien, came bringing in the bride's crown; for the girls in that region do not wear a wreath on their wedding-day, but a crown of gold and silver tinsel. The merchant who provides their adornment merely rents the crown, and after the wedding-day takes it back. Thus it wanders from one bride's head to another.

The bride lowered her head a little while her friends were putting on the crown, and her face, when she felt the light weight of it on her hair, became, if possible, even redder than before. In her hair, which, strange enough, was black, although she lived among a blond people, the gold and silver tinsel glittered gaily. She straightened herself up, supported by her friends, and the two broad, gold bands which belonged to the crown hung far down her back.

The men were already standing in front of the door ready to carry her dotal belongings down into the entrance-hall. The bridesmaids seized their friend by the hand, and one of them picked up the spinning-wheel, which likewise had a definite function to perform in the coming ceremony. And thus the three girls went slowly down the stairs to the bride's father, while the men seized the chests and bags and started to carry them down into the entrance-hall.

Then the bride, escorted by both bridesmaids, entered the door, holding her head stiff and firm under the quivering gold crown, as if she were afraid of losing the ornament. She offered her hand to her father, and, without looking up, bade him a good morning. The old man, without any show of feeling, replied "Thank you," and assumed his previous posture. The bride sat down at the other side of the door, put her spinning-wheel in front of her and began to spin industriously, an occupation which custom required her to continue until the moment the bridegroom arrived and conducted her to the bridal carriage.

In the distance faint notes of music were heard, which announced the approach of the bridal carriage. But even this sign that the decisive moment was at hand, the moment which separates a child from the parental house and shoves the father into the background so far as his child's dependence is concerned, did not produce any commotion at all among the people, who, like models of old usages, were sitting on either side of the door. The daughter, very red, but with a look of unconcern, spun away unwearyingly; the father looked steadily ahead of him, and neither of them, bride or father, said a word to the other.

The first bridesmaid, in the meanwhile, was out in the orchard gathering a bouquet for the bridegroom. She selected late roses, fire-lilies, orange-yellow starworts—a flower which in that locality they call "The-Longer-the-Prettier" and in other places "The Jesus Flowerlet"—and sage. The bouquet finally grew to such proportions that it could have sufficed for three bridegrooms of high rank—for peasants must always do things on a large scale. But all together it did not smell any too sweet, for the sage emitted a strange odor, and the starworts a positively bad one. On the other hand, neither of them, especially the sage, could be left out, if the bouquet was to possess the traditional completeness. When she had it ready, the girl held it out before her with proud enjoyment, and tied it together with a broad, dark-red ribbon. She then went to take her place beside the bride.

CHAPTER XI

THE HUNTER AND HIS PREY

While the ceremony was thus monopolizing the entire Oberhof, there were, wholly without ceremony, two young people together upstairs in the room which the Hunter had formerly occupied. The young girl was sitting at a little table by the window and hemming a beautiful kerchief which the Hunter had bought for her in the city and given to her for a wedding-day adornment. She pricked her finger more often today than on the evening when she was helping the bride with her linen. For when the eyes do not watch the needle, it is apt to take its own malicious course.

The young man was standing before her and working at something; he was, namely, cutting out a pen for her. For at last the girl had said she would of course have to send news as to where she was, and request permission to remain a few days longer at the Oberhof. He stood on the opposite side of the little table, and in a glass between him and the girl a white lily and a rose, freshly cut, were emitting a sweet perfume. He did not hurry unduly with his work; before he applied the knife he asked the girl several times whether she preferred to write with a soft or a hard point, fine or blunt, and whether he should make the quill short or leave it long. He plied her with numerous other questions of this kind, as thoroughly as if he were a writing-master producing a calligraphic work of art. To these detailed questions the girl, in a low voice, made many indefinite replies; now she wanted the pen cut so, now so, and every once in a while she looked at him, sighing each time she did it. The youth sighed even more often, I do not know whether it was on account of the indefiniteness of her answers, or for some other reason. Once he handed the pen to her, so that she might indicate how long she wanted the slit to be. She did so, and when she handed the pen back to him, he seized something more than the pen—namely, her hand. His own hand grasped it in such a way that the pen fell to the floor and for a moment was lost to their memories, all consciousness on both their parts being directed to their hands.

I will betray a great secret to you. The youth and the girl were the Hunter and the beautiful, blond Lisbeth.

The wounded girl had been carried to her room on that night, and the Justice, very much perturbed—something he seldom was—had come out of his room and sent immediately for the nearest surgeon. The latter, however, lived an hour and a half's ride from the Oberhof; he was, moreover, a sound sleeper, and reluctant to go out at night. Thus, the morning had already dawned when he finally arrived with his meagre outfit of instruments. He removed the cloth from her shoulders, examined the wound, and made a very grave face. Luckily, the young Suabian's charge had merely grazed Lisbeth; only two shot had penetrated her flesh, and these not very deeply. The surgeon extracted them, bandaged the wound, recommended rest and cold water, and went home with the proud feeling that if he had not been summoned so promptly and had not so cheerfully done his duty, even in the night, gangrene would inevitably have resulted from the wound.

Lisbeth, while they were waiting for the doctor, had been very calm; she had scarcely uttered a complaint, although her face, which was deathly pale, betrayed the fact that she was suffering pain. Even the operation, which the surgeon's clumsy hand caused to be more painful than was necessary, she had undergone bravely. She asked for the shot and presented them jokingly to the Hunter. They were "sure shot," she said to him—he should keep them, and they would bring him luck.

The Hunter accepted the "sure shot," wrapped them in a piece of paper, and gently withdrew his beautiful victim's head from his encircling arms to let her sleep. In these arms Lisbeth had rested with her pain, as up on the "Open Tribunal," ever since entering the room in the Oberhof. With sorrowful eyes he had gazed fixedly into her face, and had now and then met a friendly return-glance, which she directed up to him as if to comfort him.

He went out into the open. It was impossible for him to leave the Oberhof now; he had, he said, to await the recovery of the poor wounded girl, for human nature, he added, demanded that much. In the orchard he found the Justice, who, having found out that there was no danger, had gone on about his business as if nothing had happened. He asked the old man to furnish him with quarters for a longer stay. The Justice bethought himself, but knew of no room to accommodate the Hunter. "And even if it is only a corner in the corn-loft!" cried the Hunter, who was awaiting the decision of his old host as if his fate depended on it. After much deliberation it finally occurred to the Justice that there was a corner in the corn-loft, where he stored grain when the harvest turned out too abundant for the usual storing-places. At that time it was empty, and to it the old man now conducted his young guest, adding, however, that he would probably not like it up there. The Hunter went up, and although the bare and depressing room received its small amount of light only through a hole in the roof, and there was nothing but a board and a chest to sit on, nevertheless he was well satisfied. "For," he said, "it is all the same to me, if I can only remain here until I feel certain that I haven't done any lasting damage with my accursed shooting. The weather is fine, and I shan't need to be up here much of the time."

And, as a matter of fact, he was not up there in his nook much of the time, but down with Lisbeth. He begged her forgiveness for his act so often that she grew impatient, and told him, with a frown of annoyance which became her very well, to just stop it. After five days the wound had completely healed, the bandage could be removed, and light reddish spots on her white shoulder were all that remained to show the place of the injury.

She remained at the Oberhof, for the Justice had previously invited her to the wedding. This event was postponed a few days because the dowry would not be ready at the time appointed. The Hunter remained too, although the Justice did not invite him. He invited himself to the wedding, however, by saying to the old man one day that the customs of the country seemed to him so remarkable that he wished to learn what they were on the occasion of a wedding.

Soon there were just two times in the day for the Hunter, an unhappy and a happy one. The unhappy time was when Lisbeth was helping the bride with her linen—and this she did every day. The Hunter then was absolutely at a loss what to do with his time. The happy time, on the other hand, began when Lisbeth rested from her work and took the fresh air. It was then certain that the two would come together, the Hunter and she. And were he ever so far away behind the bushes, it would always seem as if somebody were saying to him, "Lisbeth is now outdoors." Then he would fly to the place where he suspected she was, and behold! his suspicions had not deceived him, for even from a distance he would catch sight of her slender form and pretty face. Then she would always bend over sideways after a flower, as if she were not aware of his approach. But beforehand, to be sure, she had looked in the direction from which he was coming.

And now they would walk together through field and meadow, for he would beg her so earnestly to do it that it seemed almost sinful to her to refuse him so small a request. The further away from the Oberhof they wandered in the waving fields and green meadows, the more free and happy would their spirits grow. When the red, setting sun lighted up everything about them, including their own youthful forms, it seemed to them as if anxiety and pain could never enter into their lives again.

On these walks the Hunter would do everything possible to please Lisbeth that he could guess from her eyes she wanted him to do. If she happened accidentally to look toward a cluster of wild field-flowers that were blooming on a high hedge at some distance from the road, before the wish to have them had even had time to enter her mind, he had swung himself up on the hedge. And in places where the road dropped off somewhat abruptly, or where a stone lay in their way, or where it was necessary for them to cross an insignificant bit of water, he would stretch out his arm to lead and support her, while she would laugh over this unnecessary readiness to help. Nevertheless she would accept his arm, and permit her own to rest in it for a while, even after the road had become level again. On these quiet, pleasant walks the young souls had a great deal to impart to each other. He told her all about the Suabian mountains, the great Neckar, the Alps, the Murg Valley, and the Hohenstaufen Mountain on which the illustrious imperial family, whose deeds he related to her, originated. Then he would speak of the great city where he had studied, and of the many clever people whose acquaintance he had made there. Finally, he told her about his mother, how tenderly he had loved her, and how it was perhaps for that reason that he afterwards came to cherish and revere all women more, because each one of them made him think of his own deceased mother.

Lisbeth, on the other hand, had only the story of her own simple life to tell him. In it there were no big cities, no clever people, and, alas, no mother! And yet he thought he had never heard anything more beautiful. For every menial service which she had performed, she had rendered noble by love. Of the young lady and the Baron she had a thousand touching things to tell, in all the little haunts in and behind the castle garden she had had adventures to relate, and she had read in the books which she had secretly brought down from the garret all sorts of astounding things about strange peoples and countries and remarkable occurrences on land and water—and all this she had retained in her memory.

Thus their days at the Oberhof passed, one after the other. The Justice, to be sure, looked upon it all with different eyes, but was, of course, obliged to let things which he could not prevent go on. But he often shook his head when he saw his young guests walking and talking with each other so much, and would say to himself: "It isn't right for a young nobleman like that!"

CHAPTER XII

THE DISTURBANCE. WHAT HAPPENED IN A VILLAGE CHURCH

Finally the Hunter finished cutting the pen. He pushed a sheet of paper toward her and asked her to try it and see if it would write. She did so, but could not make it work very well; it had teeth, she said. He looked at what she had written; it was her own name, in the clearest and most regular lines. The fine letters delighted him.

Then the door opened and the bridesmaid entered with a dress and a request that Lisbeth be the third bridesmaid.

Outside the music, varied by the ringing of bells, was coming nearer and nearer, and now the bridal carriage, drawn by two strong horses, hove into sight at the farther end of the road leading through the oak grove. The first bridesmaid stood demurely beside the bride, with her large and rather malodorous bouquet; the men stood by the chests and bundles in the entrance-hall, all ready to seize them for the last time; the Justice was looking about anxiously for the second and third bridesmaids, for if the latter were not on hand before the appearance of the bridegroom to take the place which the day assigned to them, the entire ceremony, according to his notion, was done for. But finally, exactly at the right time, the two awaited girls came down the steps and took their stands on either side of the first, just as the carriage turned in toward the open space in front of the house.

With an expression of unconcern on his face, like that of all the principal persons of this ceremony, the bridegroom alighted from the carriage. Some young people, his most intimate friends, followed him, adorned with ribbons and bouquets. He slowly approached the bride, who even now did not look up, but went on spinning and spinning. The first bridesmaid then fastened the large bouquet of sage to the breast of his wedding-jacket. The bridegroom accepted the bouquet without thanks, for thanks were not included in the traditional routine. He silently offered his hand to his father-in-law, then, just as silently, to his bride, who thereupon arose and placed herself with the bridesmaids, between the first and second and in front of the third.

In the meanwhile, the servants had carried the dowry to the wagon. The scene assumed a rather wild aspect, for the people with the baggage, in hurrying back and forth among the cooking-fires, kicked from its place many a burning fagot which crackled and showered sparks in the very path down which the bridal pair were to walk. After the loading of linen, the flax, and the various pieces of wearing apparel, the bride, with the three bridesmaids and the spinning wheel, which she carried herself, took a seat in the carriage. The bridegroom sat down apart from her in the back part of the vehicle, and the young fellows were obliged to follow on foot, as the dowry occupied so much room that there was none left for them. One of them made this the subject of traditional facetious remarks, which he addressed to the Justice, who replied to them with a smirk. He walked along behind the young men, and the Hunter placed himself at his side. Thus two men walked together, who on this day were cherishing the most radically opposed feelings. For the Justice was thinking of nothing but the wedding, and the Hunter of anything but the wedding, although his thoughts were hovering about the bridal carriage.

Now let us allow the latter to drive slowly to the home of the bridegroom, where already the entire wedding-company is waiting for it—men, women, girls and youths from all the surrounding estates, in addition to friends from the city, the Captain and the Collector. There the carriage is unloaded. Meanwhile let us go on ahead to the church, which, shaded by walnut-trees and wild chestnuts, stands on a green hill in the centre of the entire community.

Inasmuch as it was the proper time, and as the people had already gathered in the church, the Sexton began to play the customary "Battle of Prague" on the organ. He knew but one prelude, and this was that forgotten battle-hymn which perhaps a few elderly people will recollect if I recall to their memories that the musical picture begins with the advance of Ziethen's Hussars. From this march the Sexton managed to swing over, with transitions which, to be sure, were not infrequently rather bold, into the ordinary church melodies.

While the hymn was being sung the Pastor entered the pulpit, and when he chanced to cast his eyes over the congregation, they met an unexpected sight. A gentleman from court, namely, was standing among the peasants, whose attention he was diverting because they were all constantly looking up from their hymnals and glancing at his star. The aristocratic gentleman wanted to share a hymn book with some one of the peasants, in order to join in the singing, but since each one of them, as soon as the gentleman drew near to him, respectfully stepped aside, he was unable to accomplish his purpose, and succeeded only in causing an almost general unrest. For when he sat down in one of the pews, every one of the peasants seated in it moved along to the extreme farther end, and when he moved along toward them they finally deserted the pew altogether. This moving along and getting up was repeated in three or four pews, so that the aristocratic gentleman, who was attending this little country service with the best of intentions, was finally obliged to give up the idea of taking an active part in it. He had business in the region, and did not want to miss an opportunity of winning, by means of condescension, the hearts of these country people for the throne to which he felt himself so near. For that reason, as soon as he heard of the peasant wedding, the idea of attending it affably from beginning to end immediately occurred to him.

The sight of the gentleman did not make a pleasant impression on the Pastor, who knew him to be a member of one of the brilliant social circles in the capital. He knew what a peculiar custom would follow the sermon and feared the gentleman's ridicule. For that reason his thoughts lost some of their usual clearness, his feelings were somewhat concealed, and the more he talked the further he digressed from the subject. His distraction increased when he noticed that the gentleman was casting appreciative glances at him and occasionally nodding his head in approval; this last happened usually when the speaker was most dissatisfied with what he was saying. He consequently cut short certain parts of the nuptial address and hurried along to the formal ceremony.

The bridal pair were kneeling, and the fateful questions were being put to them. Then something happened which gave the aristocratic stranger a violent shock. For, looking to the right and left and before and behind him, he saw men and women, girls and youths drawing out thick clubs of twisted sack-cloth. Everybody was standing up and whispering and looking around, as it seemed to him, with wild and malicious glances. As it was impossible for him to guess the true meaning of these preparations, he completely lost his composure; and since the clubs seemed to indicate incontestably that somebody was to be the recipient of blows, he got the notion into his head that he himself was going to be the object of a general maltreatment. He remembered how fearsomely the people had moved away from him, and he thought to himself how rough the character of country people was, and how perhaps the peasants, not understanding his condescending motive, had resolved to get rid of the disagreeable intruder. All this went through his soul like a streak of lightning, and he was at a loss to know how he was going to protect his person and dignity from the horrible attack.

While he was helplessly wrestling for a decision, the Pastor concluded the ceremonies, and there immediately arose the wildest tumult. All the bearers of clubs, men and women, rushed forward yelling and screaming and flourishing their weapons; the aristocratic gentleman, however, in three sidewise bounds over several pews, reached the pulpit. In a trice he had ascended it, and from this elevated position called out in a loud voice to the raging crowd below:

"I advise you not to attack me! I cherish the kindest and most condescending feelings toward you all, and any injury done to me will be resented by the King, as one done to himself."

The peasants, however, inspired by the object they had in view, did not listen to this speech, but ran on up to the altar. On the way this and that person received some unpremeditated blows before the intended object of them was reached. This was the bridegroom. Clapping his hands over his head, the latter with great exertion forced a passage for himself through the crowd, who rained blows on his back, shoulders and wherever there was room. He ran, violently pushing people aside, to the church door; but before he got there he had received certainly more than a hundred blows, and thus, well covered with black-and-blue marks, he left the church on his wedding-day. Everybody ran after him; the bride's father and bride followed, the Sexton closed the door immediately after the last one had passed through it and betook himself to the vestry, which had a private exit. In a few seconds the entire church was empty.

All this time the aristocratic gentleman had remained in the pulpit, while the Pastor stood before the altar, bowing to him with a friendly smile. The gentleman, when he saw from his Ararat that the blows were not meant for him, grew calm and dropped his arms. When it was quiet, he asked the clergyman:

"For heaven's sake, Pastor, tell me what this furious scene meant; what had the poor man done to his assailants?"

"Nothing, your Excellency," replied the Pastor who, notwithstanding the dignity of the place, could hardly help laughing at the nobleman in the pulpit. "This act of beating the bridegroom after the marriage ceremony is an old, old custom which the people refuse to give up. They say that it is intended to let the bridegroom feel how much blows hurt, so that in the future he will not abuse his rights as a husband toward his wife."

"Well, but that is certainly a most remarkable custom," mumbled his Excellency, descending from the pulpit.

The Pastor received him very courteously below and conducted his aristocratic acquaintance into the vestry, in order to let him outdoors from there. The latter, who was still somewhat frightened, said that he would have to think it over, whether or not he could take part in the further proceedings of the ceremony. The clergyman, on the way to the vestry, expressed profound regret that he had not been previously advised of his Excellency's design, because he then would have been in a position to inform him of the beating custom, and thus to avert so great a fright and shock.