The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 08

"Yes, yes, it's evidently worth while to talk with you. But I notice that you have a swollen face; there's no point in your tying your head up, if you continue to go about barefoot like that."

"I am used to it," replied Barefoot, "but I will follow your advice.

Thank you."

Footsteps were heard approaching.

"We will talk together again," said the young man, and then he went away.

"I thank you, swollen cheek," said Barefoot to herself, stroking her disfigured face; "you have done me a good turn. Through you I can talk to him as if I were not here; I can speak behind a mask, like a clown on Shrove Tuesday. Hurrah—that is merry!"

It was wonderful how this inward cheerfulness almost counteracted her bodily fever. She felt merely tired—indescribably tired; and she was half-pleased and half-sorry when she saw the foreman greasing the wheels of the Bernese chaise-wagon, and heard that her master was going to ride out with the stranger immediately. She hurried into the kitchen, and there she overheard the farmer saying to John in the parlor:

"If you care to take a ride, John, that would be fine. Then, Rose, you can sit with me in the Bernese chaise, and you, John, can ride alongside of us."

"But your wife is going too, isn't she?" inquired John, after a pause.

"I have a child to nurse, and cannot go away," said the farmer's wife.

"And I don't like to be driving about the country on a working-day," said Rose.

"Oh nonsense! When a cousin comes, you may take a holiday," urged the farmer; for he wanted Rose to go with him at once to Farmer Furche's, that the latter might entertain no hopes for his own daughter. Moreover he was aware that a little excursion of this kind does more to bring people together than a week's visit in the house.

John was silent; and the farmer in his urgency nudged him, and said in a half-whisper:

"Do you speak to her; maybe she will be more apt to do as you say, and will go with us."

"I think," said John aloud, "that your sister is quite right in preferring not to be driving about the country in the middle of the week. I'll harness my white horse with yours, and then we can see how they pull together. And we shall be back by supper-time, if not before."

Barefoot, who heard all this, bit her lips to keep from laughing.

"You see," she thought to herself, "you have not even got him by the halter yet, much less by the bridle. He won't let himself be driven about the country like a betrothed man, and then not be able to get back."

She felt so warm with joy, that she was obliged to take the handkerchief from her face.

It was a strange day in the house. Rose repeated half-angrily the peculiar questions that John had asked her. Barefoot rejoiced inwardly; for all that he wanted to know—and she knew well why he wanted to know it—could have been satisfactorily answered by her.

"But what good does it all do?" she asked herself. "He does not know you, and even if he did know you, you are a poor orphan and a servant, and nothing could ever come of it. He does not know you, and will not ask about you."

In the evening, when the two men came back, Barefoot had already been able to remove the handkerchief from her forehead; but the one she had tied over her temples and under her chin, she was obliged to keep on still, drawn tightly around her face. John himself seemed to have neither tongue nor eyes for her. But his dog was with her in the kitchen all the time, and she fed the creature and stroked it and talked to it.

"Yes, if you could only tell him everything, you would be sure to tell him the whole truth." The dog laid its head on Barefoot's lap, and looked up at her with intelligent eyes; then he seemed to shake his head, as if to say: "It is too bad, but unfortunately I cannot speak."

Barefoot now went into the bed-room and began singing to the children again, although they had long been asleep; she sang various songs, but most of all the waltz to which she had danced with John. John listened to her as if bewildered, and seemed to be absent-minded when he spoke. Rose went into the room, and told Barefoot to be quiet.

Late at night, when Barefoot had just drawn some water for Black Marianne and was returning to her parents' house with the full pail on her head, John met her as he was going to the tavern. With a suppressed voice she bade him a "Good evening."

"Oh, it is you!" said John. "Where are you going with that water at this time?"

"To Black Marianne."

"Who is that?"

"A poor woman, who is sick in bed."

"Why, Rose told me that there were no poor people here."

"Good heavens! there are more than enough. But Rose no doubt said that, because she thought it would be a disgrace to the village. She's good-hearted, you may believe me—and she's fond of giving things away."

"You are a loyal friend. But you mustn't stand there with that heavy pail. May I go with you?"

"Why not?"

"You are right; you are doing a kind deed, and nothing can harm you. And you need not be afraid of me."

"I am not afraid of anybody, and of you least of all. I saw today that you are kind."

"When did you see that?"

"When you advised me how to cure my swollen face. Your advice was good—you see, I have my shoes on now."

"That's a good thing that you are obedient," said John with an approving glance; and the dog, too, seemed to notice his approval of Barefoot, for he jumped up at her and licked her free hand.

"Come here, Lux!" cried John.

"No, let him alone," said Barefoot. "We are already good friends—he has been in the kitchen with me all day long. All dogs are fond of me and of my brother."

"So you have a brother?"

"Yes, and I wanted to appeal to you very earnestly to take him as a servant on your farm. You would be doing a very charitable deed, and he would be sure to serve you faithfully all his life."

"Where is your brother?"

"Down yonder in the woods; just now he is a charcoal-burner."

"Why, we have few trees and no kiln at all. I could more easily find work for a field-laborer."

"He'd be able to do that work, too. But here is the house."

"I'll wait until you come out," said John. Barefoot went in to put down the water, and arrange the fire, and make Marianne comfortable in bed.

When she came out John was still standing there and the dog jumped up at her. For a long time they stood under the parental tree, which rustled quietly and bowed its branches. They talked of all kinds of things; John praised her cleverness and her quick mind, and at last said:

"If you should ever want to change your place, you would be the very person for my mother."

"That is the greatest praise that anybody in the world could give me!" Barefoot declared. "I still have a keepsake from your mother." And then she related the incident of their meeting his mother, and both laughed when Barefoot told how Damie could not forget that Dame Landfried owed him a pair of leather-breeches.

"And he shall have them," John declared.

They then walked back together as far as the village, and John gave her his hand when he bade her "Good night." Barefoot wanted to tell him that he had shaken hands with her once before, but, as if frightened by the thought, she fled away from him and ran into the house; she did not even return his "Good night." John, puzzled and thoughtful, returned to his room at the "Heathcock."

The next morning Barefoot found that the swelling in her face had vanished as if by magic. And never had she caroled more gaily through the house and yard, through the stable and barn, than she did today. And yet today was the day when it was to be decided, the day that John was to declare himself. Farmer Rodel did not want to have his sister talked about by any one, in case it should all come to nothing after all.

Nearly the whole day John sat in the room with Rose, who was making a man's shirt. Toward evening Mistress Rodel's parents came, along with other relatives. It must be decided one way or the other today.

The roast was sputtering in the kitchen, the pine wood cracking and snapping, and Barefoot's cheeks were glowing, heated by the fire on the hearth and the fire that was burning within her. Crappy Zachy walked back and forth and up and down with an air of great importance, and made himself very much at home—he even smoked Farmer Rodel's pipe.

"Then it is settled after all," said Barefoot to herself, mournfully.

Night had come. Many lights were burning in the house, and Rose, in festive attire, was hurrying back and forth between the room and the kitchen, though she did not know how to give any help. Everything was ready.

And now the young farmer's wife said to Barefoot:

"Go upstairs and put on your Sunday dress."

"Why?"

"You must wait on the table today, and you'll get a better present."

"I would rather stay in the kitchen."

"No, do as I tell you—and make haste."

Amrei went up to her room and sat down for a moment on her box in order to get her breath. She was dead tired. If she could only go to sleep now and never wake up again! But duty called. Hardly had she taken the first piece of her Sunday dress in her hand, when a feeling of joy came over her; and the evening sun, sending a red beam into the little attic, shone upon a pair of glowing cheeks.

"Put on your Sunday dress!" She had but one Sunday dress, and that was the one she had worn that day at the wedding in Endringen. Every flutter, every rustle of the dress reminded her of the happiness she had experienced, and of the waltz she had danced on that eventful day. But as darkness followed the setting of the sun, so did sorrow follow gladness; and she said to herself that she was thus adorning herself only to do honor to John, and to show how much she valued whatever came from his family, she at last put on the necklace.

Thus, adorned as she had been on the day of the wedding at Endringen, Amrei came down from her room.

"What is this? What did you dress yourself up like that for?" cried Rose angrily. She was already anxious and impatient because the visitor was so long in making his appearance. "Why do you put all your possessions on? Is that a fit necklace for a servant, with a coin hanging to it? You take that off directly!"

"No, I shall not do that; for his mother gave it to me when I was a little child, and I had it on when we danced together at Endringen."

Something was heard to fall on the staircase; but nobody heeded it, for Rose screamed out:

"What! You good-for-nothing, horrible witch! You would have perished in rags if we had not taken you up! And now you want to take my betrothed from me!"

"Don't call him that until he is your betrothed," replied Amrei, with a strange mixture of feelings in her voice.

"Wait! I'll show you what you've got to do!" shrieked Rose. "Take that!" and she dragged Barefoot down to the ground and struck her in the face.

"I'll take my things off! Let me go!" screamed Barefoot.

But Rose let go before she had finished saying it; for, as if he had risen out of the ground, John was standing before her! He was as pale as death, and his lips were quivering. He could not speak, but merely raised his hand to protect Barefoot, who was still kneeling on the floor.

Barefoot was the first to speak; she cried out:

"Believe me, John, I have never seen her like that before, never in my whole life! And it was my fault."

"Yes, it was your fault. And, now, come; you shall go with me and be mine. Will you? I have found you, and I did not seek you. But now you shall live with me and be my wife. It is God's will."

If any one could have seen Barefoot's eyes then! But no mortal eye has ever fully seen a flash of lightning in the heavens, for no matter how firmly we look, our eyes are sure to be dazzled. And there are also flashes in the human eye which are never fully seen, just as there are workings in the human heart which are never fully understood. A momentary flash of joy, such as may brighten the face when the heavens are opened, darted from Amrei's eyes. She covered her face with both hands, and the tears ran forth from between her fingers.

John stood with his hand upon her. All the relatives had gathered around, and were gazing with astonishment at the strange scene.

"What's all this with Barefoot? What's all this?" blustered Farmer Rodel.

"So, your name is Barefoot?" cried John. He laughed loud and heartily, and added: "Come, now, will you have me? Say so now, for here we have witnesses to confirm it. Say 'Yes,' and nothing but death shall part us!"

"Yes!—and nothing but death shall part us!" cried Barefoot, throwing herself on his neck.

"Very well—then take her out of this house at once!" roared Farmer Rodel, foaming with rage.

"Yes, you need not tell me to do that. I thank you for your good reception, cousin. When you come to us some day, we'll make it quits," replied John. He put both hands up to his head, and cried: "Good heavens! Mother, mother, how glad you will be!"

"Go up, Barefoot, and take your box away at once; for nothing belonging to you shall remain in my house!" commanded Farmer Rodel.

"Very well," replied John; "but that can be done with less noise. Come, Barefoot, I'll go with you. But tell me what your real name is."

"Amrei."

"I was once to have married an Amrei—she is the 'Butter Countess!'—you are my Salt Countess! Hurrah! Now come; I should like to see your room, where you have lived so long. Now you shall have a large house!"

The dog, with the hairs on his back standing up like bristles, kept walking around Farmer Rodel; he saw that the latter would have been glad to choke John. Only when John and Barefoot were at the top of the stairs did the dog come running after them.

John let the box stand, because he could not take it on his horse. But they packed Barefoot's possessions into the sack which she had inherited from her father.

As they were descending the stairs together on their way out, Barefoot felt somebody quietly press her hand in the dark—it was her mistress who was thus taking leave of her. At the threshold, with her hand upon the door-post against which she had so often leaned, she said sadly:

"May God reward this house for all good, and forgive it for all evil!"

They had gone but a few paces when Barefoot called out: "Good heavens! I have forgotten all my shoes! They are upstairs on the shelf!"

Scarcely had she spoken the words, when the shoes, as if they were running after their owner, came flying out of the window and down into the street.

"Run to the devil in them!" cried a voice from the garret window. The voice sounded masculine, and yet it belonged to Rose.

Barefoot collected the shoes and took them to the tavern with John, who carried the sack on his back.

The moon was shining brightly, and the whole village was already asleep.

Barefoot would not stay at the tavern.

"Then I should like to go home this very night," said John.

"Before I do anything else," replied Barefoot, "I must go to Black Marianne. She has filled a mother's place for me, and I have not seen her today, and have not been able to do anything for her. And besides that, she's ill. Alas! It is too bad that I shall have to leave her; but what am I to do? Come, go with me to her."

They went together to the house. When Barefoot opened the inside door a moonbeam fell upon the angel on the stove, just as a sunbeam had fallen on that day of long ago. And it seemed to smile and dance more merrily.

Barefoot cried with a loud voice:

"Marianne! Marianne! Wake up, Marianne! Happiness and blessing are here!

Wake up!"

The old woman sat up in bed; the moonlight fell upon her face and neck.

She opened her eyes wide and said:

"What is it? What is it? Who calls?"

"Rejoice! Here I bring you my John!"

"My John!" screamed the old woman, "Good God, my John! How long—how long—I have thee—I have thee! Oh God, I thank thee a thousand and a thousand times! Oh, my child, my boy! I see thee with a thousand eyes, and a thousandfold—No, there—there—thy hand! Come here—there—there in the chest is thy dowry! Take the cloth! My son! my boy! Yes, yes, she is thine! John, my son, my son! my—"

The old woman laughed convulsively, and fell back in her bed. Amrei and John had knelt down beside her, and when they stood up and bent over her, she had ceased to breathe.

"Oh, heavens! She is dead! Joy killed her!" exclaimed Barefoot. "She took you for her son. She died happy. Oh, why is it thus in the world, why is it thus?" She sank down by the bed again, and sobbed bitterly.

At last John raised her up, and Barefoot closed the dead woman's eyes.

For a long time they stood together beside the bed; then Barefoot said:

"Come, I will wake up people who will watch by her body. God has been very gracious; she would have no one to care for her when I was gone. And God has given her the greatest joy in the last moment of her life. How long, oh, how long, she waited for that joy!"

"Yes, but you cannot stay here now," said John. "You must go with me this very night."

Barefoot woke up the gravedigger's wife, and sent her to Black Marianne. Her mind was so wonderfully composed that she remembered to tell the woman that the flowers, which stood on her window-ledge at the farm, were to be planted on Black Marianne's grave; and especially that she was not to forget to put Black Marianne's hymn-book under her head, as she had always wished.

When at last she had arranged everything, she stood up erect and, stretching out her arms, said:

"Now everything is done. You must forgive me, good man, that I was obliged to bring you to a house of sorrow; and forgive me, too, if I am not now as I should wish to be. I see now that all is well, and that God has ordered it for the best. But still I shake with fear in every limb—it is a hard thing to die. You cannot imagine how I have almost puzzled my brains out about it. But now all is well, and I will be cheerful—for I am the happiest girl in the world!"

"Yes, you are right.—But come, let us go. Will you ride with me on my horse?" asked John.

"Yes. Is it the white horse that you had at the wedding at Endringen?"

"To be sure!"

"And, oh, that Farmer Rodel! If he didn't send to Lauterbach the night before you came and have a white horse brought from there, so as to get you to come to his house. Holloa! white horse, go home again!" she concluded, almost merrily.

And thus their thoughts and feelings returned to ordinary life, and from it they learned to appreciate their happiness anew.

CHAPTER XVI

SILVERSTEP

[The two lovers mount the white horse, which Amrei suggests they call "Silverstep," and start out through the moonlight for John's home. As they ride along they talk and sing and tell stories and enjoy themselves as only lovers can. At Amrei's request, they stop on the way to see Damie, who is with Coaly Mathew in the forest; Amrei tells him all that has happened, and John promises to make him an independent herdsman, and gives him a silver-mounted pipe. Damie, inwardly rejoiced, but, as usual, not over-appreciative, reminds him of the "pair of leather breeches," a debt which John also promises to pay. Damie then displays unexpected cleverness by performing a mock-ceremony, in which he compels John to ask him, as his sister's only living relative, for Amrei's hand. Damie surprises his sister by doing this with considerable histrionic success, so that the two lovers start out again more merry than ever.]

CHAPTER XVII

OVER HILL AND VALE

The day had dawned when the two lovers reached the town; and already long before, when they encountered the first early-riser, they had alighted. They felt that they must have a strange appearance, and regarded this first person they met as a herald who had come to remind them of the fact that they must adapt themselves to the order of human conventionalities. So they dismounted, and John led the horse with one hand and held Amrei with the other. Thus they went on in silence, and as often as they looked at each other, their faces shone like those of children newly waked from sleep; but as often as they looked down, they became thoughtful and anxious about the immediate future.

Amrei, as if she had already been discussing the subject with John, and in complete confidence that his mind must have been dwelling on the same thoughts, now said:

"To be sure, it would have been more sensible if we had done the thing in a more normal way. You should have gone home first, and meanwhile I should have stayed somewhere—at Coaly Mathew's in the forest, if we could have done no better. Then you could have come with your mother to fetch me, or could have written to me, and I could have come to you with my Damie. But do you know what I think?"

"Not everything you think."

"I think that regret is the most stupid feeling one can possibly cherish. Do what you will, you cannot make yesterday into today. What we did, in the midst of our rejoicing, that was right, and must remain right. Now that our minds have been become more sober again, we can't waste any time reproving ourselves. What we have to think of now is, how shall we do everything right in the future? But you are such a right-minded man that you will know what is right. And you can tell me everything you think, only tell me honestly; if you say what you mean, you won't hurt me, but if you keep anything back from me, you will hurt me. But you don't regret it, do you?"

"Can you answer a riddle?" asked John.

"Yes, as a child I used to be able to do that well."

"Then tell me what this is—it is a simple, plain word: Take away the first letter, and you're ready to tear your hair out; put it back again, and all is firm and sure?"

"That's easy," said Barefoot, "easy as anything; it's Truth and Ruth."

At the first inn by the gate they stopped off; and Amrei, when she and John were alone in the room, and the latter had ordered some good coffee, said:

"How splendidly the world is arranged! These people have provided a house, and tables, and benches, and chairs, and a kitchen, in which the fire is burning, and they have coffee, and milk and sugar, and fine dishes, and it is all ready for us as if we had ordered it. And when we go farther on we find more people and more houses, with all we want in them. It's like it is in the fairy-tale, 'Table, be covered!'"

"But you have to have the 'Loaf, come out of the bag!' too," said John, and he reached into his pocket and drew forth a handful of money. "Without that you'll get nothing."

"Yes, to be sure," said Amrei; "whoever has those wheels can roll through the world. But tell me, John—did coffee ever taste to you in your whole life like this? And the fresh white bread! Only you have ordered too much; we cannot manage all this. The bread I shall take with me, but it's a pity about the good coffee. How many poor people could be refreshed by it, and we must let it go to waste. And yet you have to pay for it just the same."

"That's no matter; one cannot figure so accurately in the world."

"Yes, yes, you are right. You see, I have been accustomed to do with little. You must not take it amiss if I say things of that kind—I do it without thinking."

Presently Amrei got up. Her face was glowing, and when she stood before the glass, she exclaimed:

"Gracious heavens! How can it be? All this seems almost impossible!"

"Well, there are still some hard planks to pierce; but I am not worrying about that. Now lie down and rest for a short time while I look for a Bernese chaise-wagon—you can't ride on horseback with me in the daytime—and we want one anyway."

"I cannot sleep—I have a letter to write to Haldenbrunn. I am away from there now, and yet I enjoyed a great many good times there. And I have other matters to settle, besides."

"Very well, do that until I come back."

John went out, and Amrei wrote a long letter to the Magistrate in Haldenbrunn, thanking the entire community for benefits received, and promising to adopt a child from the place some day, if it were possible; and she once more begged to have Black Marianne's hymn-book placed under the good old woman's head. When she had finished, she sealed the letter and pressed her lips tight together with the remark:

"So! Now I have done my duty to the people of Haldenbrunn."