"'I sow the seed:God give it speedFor me and those in need!'"
"'I sow the seed:
God give it speed
For me and those in need!'"
"Such a rhyme ought never to go out of use."
"Yes; as I was saying, you can think it, or even say it, with the machine: it's a useful invention, anyhow."
"Is it easy to introduce these new inventions?"
"No. The first time I put my oxen each into his own yoke the whole village ran after me. And when I brought this contrivance from the agricultural fair and went out into the field with it, the people all thought I'd gone crazy."
"What a pity it is that the common people are so slow to understand the value of these improvements!"
"Whoa, Tom! whoa!" cried Buchmaier, as his horse began to paw the ground impatiently: then, holding the bridle more firmly, he went on:--"That isn't a pity at all, Mr. Teacher: on the contrary, that's a very good thing. Believe me, if the farmers weren't so headstrong, and were to go to work every year to try all the machines that learned men invent for them, we'd have to starve many a year. Whoa, Tom! You must study agricultural matters a little: I can lend you a book or two."
"I'll come to see you about it; I see your horse won't stand still any more. Good luck to your labor."
"Good-bye, sir," said Buchmaier, smiling at the parting salutation.
The teacher turned to go, and Buchmaier went on with his work. But hardly had the latter walked a few yards, before he started on hearing Buchmaier whistle the "Lauterbacher." He was inclined to suspect an insult, but checked himself, saying, "The man certainly means no harm." And he was quite right, for not only did the man mean no harm, but he meant nothing whatever: he whistled without knowing what.
In a ravine, after ascertaining that he was unperceived, the teacher wrote in his pocket-book,--"The steady and almost immovable power of the people's character and spirit is a sacred power of nature: it forms the centre of gravity of human life,--I might say, thevis inertiæof all institutions.
"What a hapless vacillation would befall us if every movement in politics, religion, or social economy were to seize at a moment's warning upon the whole community! Only that which has ceased to vibrate, and attained a calm, steady course of progress, is fitted to enter here: this is the great ocean in which the force of rivers is lost.
"I will respect the way of thinking of these people, even when I differ from them; but I will endeavor----"
What he meant to endeavor remained unwritten. But he had been fortunate in detecting features of interest in the affairs of village life.
It was some days before he again found an opportunity to converse with Hedwig. He saw her from her grandmother's seat; but she appeared to be very busy, and hurried by with very brief words of recognition. Indeed, she almost seemed to avoid him.
Love of the peasant-girl was strong within him, but at the same time the people's life, which had broken in upon his vision, occupied much of his thoughts and feelings. He often walked about as if in a dream; and yet he had never understood the realities of life so well as now.
The College Chap also gave him much trouble and vexation. The latter was curious to know what his grandmother and the teacher could have found to converse about. He joined them more than once, and always came down with a rude joke whenever a vein of deeper sentiment was touched.
When the teacher inquired, "Grandmother, do you never go to church now?" the College Chap quickly interposed, "Perhaps you remember who built the church, grandmother: the teacher would like to know; but he says he isn't going to run away with it."
"Be quiet, you!" replied his grandmother: "if you were good for any thing you'd be master in the church now, and parson." Turning to the teacher, she went on:--"It's five years since I was in church last: but on Sunday I can hear by the bells when the host is being shown, and when they carry it around; and then I say the litany by myself. Twice a year the parson comes and gives me the sacrament: he's a dear, good man, our pastor, and often comes to see me besides."
"Don't you think, Mr. Teacher," began the College Chap, "that my grandmother would make an abbesscomme il faut?"
On hearing herself the subject of conversation in a foreign language, the poor old lady looked from one of the speakers to the other in astonishment not unmingled with fear.
"Certainly," said the teacher; "but, even so, I think she can be just as pious and just as happy as if she were an abbess."
"Do you see, grandmother?" exclaimed the College Chap, in triumph: "the teacher says, too, that parsons are not a whit better than other folks."
"Is that true?" said the old woman, sadly.
"What I mean is," replied the teacher, "that all men can go to heaven; but a clerical man who is as he should be, and labors diligently for the welfare of souls, occupies a higher grade."
"I think so too," assented the old woman. The perspiration was gathering on the poor teacher's forehead; but the relentless student began again:--"Isn't it your opinion, Mr. Teacher, that clergymen ought to marry?"
"It is the canon of the Church that they must remain single; and any one who takes orders with a perfect understanding of his own actions must obey the law."
"I think so too," said the old lady, with great vehemence: "those that want to get married are devils of the flesh, and clergymen must be spiritual and not carnal. I'll tell you what: don't speak to him any more at all; don't let him spoil your good heart. He has his wicked day, and he isn't as bad neither as he makes himself out to be."
Finding his grandmother proof against all assaults, the College Chap went away in an ill humor. The teacher also took his leave: again had a fine and tender relationship been rudely jarred. Not till he reached his dwelling did he succeed in conquering his depression and steeling himself against these unavoidable accidents.
On Sunday he at last found another opportunity to converse with Hedwig. He found her sitting with the old schoolmaster in his garden. They did not appear to have spoken much together.
After a few customary salutations, the teacher began:--"How fine and elevated a thing it is that the seventh day is hallowed by religion and kept clear of labor! If things were otherwise, people would die of over-work. If, for instance, in the heat of midsummer harvesters were to work day by day without intermission until all was gathered in, no one could endure it."
At first Hedwig and the old man listened in surprise; but soon Hedwig said, "Were you here already when the parson allowed us to turn the hay on Sunday in haying-time, because it rained so long and the hay might have been spoiled? I was out in the field too, but it seemed as if every pitchforkful was as heavy again as it ought to be. I felt as if somebody was holding my arm; and all next day, and all next week, the world was like upside-down, and it was as if there hadn't been a Sunday for a whole year."
The teacher looked at Hedwig with beaming eyes. There was her grandmother to the life. Turning to the old man, he said, "You must remember the time when they introduced the decades into France?"
"Ducats, do you mean? why, they come from Italy."
"I mean decades. They ordained that people should rest every tenth day, instead of every seventh. Then everybody fell sick also. The number seven is repeated in a mysterious manner throughout the whole course of nature, and must not be arbitrarily removed."
"Why, they must have been crazy! A Sunday every ten days! ha, ha!" said the old man.
"Do you know the story of the lord who is hewn in stone in our church here, with the dog?" asked Hedwig.
"No: tell it."
"He was one of those fellows, too, that didn't keep holy the Sunday. He was a lord----"
"Lord of Isenburg and Nordstetten," explained her grand-uncle.
"Yes," continued Hedwig: "at Isenburg you can just see a wall or two of his castle. He never cared for Sundays or holidays, and loved nothing in the world but his dog, that was as big and as savage as a wolf. On Sundays and holidays he forced people to labor; and, if they didn't work willingly, the dog would fly at them of his own accord and almost tear them to pieces; and then the lord would laugh: and he called the dog Sunday.The dog wouldn't go to church with him.He never went to church but once,--when his daughter was married. He wanted to take his dog Sunday to church with him, but the dog wouldn't go: he laid himself down on the steps till his lord came out again. As he came out, he stumbled over the dog and fell down stone-dead; and his daughter died too: and so now they're both chiselled in stone in the church, and the dog beside them. They say the dog was the devil, and the lord had sold him his soul."
The teacher undertook to show that this myth was probably suggested by the sight of the monument, the origin of which had been forgotten; that the feudal proprietors were fond of being pictured with crests and symbols, and so on: but he found little favor with his hearers.
No one was disposed to continue the conversation. Hedwig made a little hole in the sand with her foot, and the teacher discovered for the first time how small it was.
"Do you read on Sunday, sometimes?" he said, looking straight before him. No one answering, he looked at Hedwig, who then replied, "No: we make the time pass without it."
"How?"
"Why, how can you ask? We talk, and we sing, and we take a walk."
"What do you talk about?"
"Well," she cried, laughing gayly, "to the end of my days I wouldn't have expected to be asked such a question! We haven't much trouble about that: have we, uncle? My playmate, Buchmaier's Agnes, will be here directly, and then you'll stop asking what we talk about: she knows enough for a cow."
"But haven't you ever read any thing?"
"Oh, yes,--the hymn-book and the Bible-stories."
"Nothing else?"
"And the Flower-Basket, and Rosa of Tannenburg."
"And what else?"
"And Rinaldo Rinaldini. Now you know all," said the girl, brushing off her apron with her hands, as if she had poured out her entire stock of erudition at the teacher's feet.
"What did you like best?"
"Rinaldo Rinaldini. What a pity it is he was a robber!"
"I will bring you some books with much prettier stories in them."
"I'd rather you'd tell us one; but it must be grizzly and awful. Wait till Agnes comes: she does like to hear them so much."
At this moment a boy came to tell the old teacher that Beck's Conrad had just received a new waltz, and that he must come with his violin to play it. He rose quickly, wished the visitors "pleasant conversation," and went away.
The teacher's heart trembled on finding himself alone with Hedwig: he had not the courage to look up. At last he said, almost to himself, "What a good old man he is!"
"Yes," said Hedwig; "and you must learn to know him. You must not be touchy with him: he's a little short and cross to all teachers, because he was put out of office, and so he seems to think every teacher that comes here after him is to blame for it; and yet how can they help it, when the consistory sends them? He is old, you see; and we must be patient with old folks."
The teacher grasped her hand and looked tenderly into her eyes: this loving appreciation of another's feelings won his heart. Suddenly a dead bird fell at their feet. They started. Hedwig soon bent down and picked up the bird.
"He is quite warm yet," said she. "The poor little thing was sick, and nobody could help it: it's only a lark; but still it's a living thing."
"One is tempted to think," said the teacher, "that a bird that always mounts heavenward, singing, must fall straight into heaven when it dies, it soars so freely over the earth; and yet, at death's approach, every thing that rose out of the earth must sink into it again."
Hedwig opened her eyes at this speech, which pleased her greatly, though she did not quite understand it. After a pause, she said, "Isn't it too bad that his wife or his children don't seem to care a bit about him, but just let him fall down and die? but maybe they don't know he's dead."
"Animals, like children," said the teacher, "do not understand death, because they never reflect upon life: they see them both without knowing what they see."
"Are you sure of that?" asked Hedwig.
"I think so," replied the teacher. Hedwig did not continue the subject, as it was not her custom to follow up any idea to its source. But the teacher said to himself, "Here is a mind eminently fitted for cultivation and the germ of fresh and vigorous thought." Taking the bird out of her hand, he said, "This denizen of the free air should not be buried in the gloomy soil. I would fasten him to this tree, so that in death he may return to his native element."
"No, that won't do: there's an owl nailed against Buchmaier's barn, and I feel like taking it down every time I look at it."
So they buried the bird together. The teacher, having been so fortunate in his discoveries, desired to see how far Hedwig would be accessible to a more refined culture.
"You talk so sensibly," he began, "that it is a pity you should speak this harsh and unpleasant farmers' German, You could surely talk like me if you chose; and it would become you so much better."
"I'd be ashamed of myself to talk any other way; and, besides, everybody understands me."
"Oh, yes: but, if good is good, better is better. In what language do you pray?"
"Oh, that's quite another thing! I pray just as it's in the book."
"But you ought to talk with men in the same language in which you talk with God."
"I can't do that, and I won't do it. Why, I wouldn't have any thing to say if I had to be thinking all the time how it ought to be said. I'd be ashamed of myself. No, Mr. Teacher: I'll lay your words on silken cushions, but this won't do."
"Don't always say Mr. Teacher: call me by my name."
"That can't be, again; that won't do, you see."
"Why won't it?"
"Because it won't."
"But there must be some reason for it."
"Why, I don't know what your name is."
"Adolphe Lederer."
"Well, then, Mr. Lederer."
"No; I want you to call me Adolphe."
"Oh, now, don't. What would the folks say?"
"That we love each other," said the teacher, pressing her hand to his heart. "Don't you love me?"
Hedwig bent down and plucked a pink from its stem. The garden-gate opened, and Buchmaier's Agnes came in.
"Good gracious! I'm so glad I'm out!" cried she. "Good-day, Mr. Teacher. Hedwig, just be glad you needn't go into Bible-class any more. Mr. Teacher, you ought to manage so that big girls like us needn't go any more. It wouldn't do me much good, to-be-sure, for I'm coming out in fall."
"Give me the pink," said the teacher to Hedwig, in a tone of gentle entreaty. Blushing, she complied, and he pressed the symbol of requited affection to his lips.
"You'll catch it," said Agnes, "when old Ha ha sees that you've plucked one of his flowers: well, for good luck, he's sitting with Beck and playing the new waltz. Won't we dance it at harvest-home? You dance, I hope, Mr. Teacher?"
"A little, but I'm very much out of practice."
"Practice makes perfect:--loldeloleroldelol!" chirped Agnes as she skipped about the garden. "What are you making faces at, Hedwig? Come." She dragged Hedwig away irresistibly, but with so much awkwardness that they trod into a bed. Agnes loosened the earth, singing, and then said, "Come, let's get out of this garden, where there isn't room to swing a cat; the other girls are all out in the Cherry Copse, and he's been waiting for us this long time, I'll warrant."
"Who?" asked the teacher.
"Why, he," replied Agnes: "if you come along you may see him for nothing: we're good enough for you to go with us, a'n't we?"
The teacher took the hand of Agnes, and, holding it as if it had been Hedwig's, he went out into the fields with the two girls. At the cross-roads, where you turn up to the "Daberwarren," on a hemp-crate, they found a man of powerful frame, tall and straight as a fir, in whom the teacher recognised Buchmaier's ploughman. On seeing them approach, he sprang to his feet and stood rooted to the ground by some strange misgiving; but when Agnes walked up to him his brow relaxed, and he looked bright and cheerful. The teacher saluted Thaddie--such was his name--with great warmth, and the two couples walked on cosily together.
To inspire Thaddie with confidence, the teacher asked a host of questions about the sorrel, and how he took to double harness.
Thus had come to pass what, a little while before, the teacher would never have dreamed of: his beloved was a peasant-girl, and his comrade a ploughman.
Thaddie and Agnes went before, and the teacher, hand-in-hand with Hedwig, followed, chatting gayly. The teacher was now firmly convinced that there is such a thing as conversing a great deal even without having read books.
Near the "Cat's Well," from which the nurses are said to fetch little children when they are born, the party seated themselves upon a bank and sang. Hedwig had a beautiful contralto voice, and Thaddie sang a good accompaniment. The teacher greatly regretted his limited knowledge of the songs of the people: his musical education, however, enabled him readily to catch the simple melodies and to improvise a tolerable bass. With beaming eyes, Hedwig nodded her approbation. Often he was brought to a sudden pause by an unexpected turn in the air, introduced for the purpose of bridging a gap in the story or of smoothing the ruggedness of the rhythm. At such times Hedwig's encouraging look would say, "Sing on, if it does go wrong a little."
He united his voice to those of the villagers.
Thus he united his voice to those of the villagers. He had come so far that, where he furnished nothing but the tune, the peasants supplied the words and the meaning:--
"I mow by the Neckar,I mow by the Rhine;My sweetheart is peevish,My sweetheart is mine."What use is my mowing?My sickle's not free;What use is my sweetheart?She won't stay with me."And mowing by Neckar,And mowing by Rhine,I'll throw in the ring thatShe gave me for mine."The ring in the waterIs nabb'd by the fish;The fish shall be brought toThe king in a dish."The king he shall wonderWhose ring it might be;Then out speaks my sweetheart:--'It belongeth to me.'"Up hill and down valleyMy sweetheart shall spring;And find me a-mowingAnd give me the ring."You may mow by the Neckar,Or mow by the Rhine,If you throw in the ring thatI gave you of mine."
"I mow by the Neckar,
I mow by the Rhine;
My sweetheart is peevish,
My sweetheart is mine.
"What use is my mowing?
My sickle's not free;
What use is my sweetheart?
She won't stay with me.
"And mowing by Neckar,
And mowing by Rhine,
I'll throw in the ring that
She gave me for mine.
"The ring in the water
Is nabb'd by the fish;
The fish shall be brought to
The king in a dish.
"The king he shall wonder
Whose ring it might be;
Then out speaks my sweetheart:--
'It belongeth to me.'
"Up hill and down valley
My sweetheart shall spring;
And find me a-mowing
And give me the ring.
"You may mow by the Neckar,
Or mow by the Rhine,
If you throw in the ring that
I gave you of mine."
After a while, Thaddie drew Agnes closer to him, and they sang:--
"Lassie, crowd, crowd, crowd;Let me sit close beside you:I love you very much,I can abide you.But for what folks sayYou'd be my love to-day;If the folks were all goneYou and I'd be one.Lassie, crowd, &c."Lassie, look, look, lookDown my black eyes, and see themDance in the lightThe sight of you does give them.Look, look in them deep:Your likeness they must keep;Here you must stay,And never go away.Lassie, look, &c."Lassie, you, you, youMust take upon your fingerThe wedding-ring:And may it linger, linger!If I can't do so,To the wars I'll go;If you I can't have,All the world is my grave.Lassie, you," &c.
"Lassie, crowd, crowd, crowd;
Let me sit close beside you:
I love you very much,
I can abide you.
But for what folks say
You'd be my love to-day;
If the folks were all gone
You and I'd be one.
Lassie, crowd, &c.
"Lassie, look, look, look
Down my black eyes, and see them
Dance in the light
The sight of you does give them.
Look, look in them deep:
Your likeness they must keep;
Here you must stay,
And never go away.
Lassie, look, &c.
"Lassie, you, you, you
Must take upon your finger
The wedding-ring:
And may it linger, linger!
If I can't do so,
To the wars I'll go;
If you I can't have,
All the world is my grave.
Lassie, you," &c.
Many other songs they sang,--mostly sad ones, though the singers were in bounding spirits. As the spring flowed on at their feet and meandered through the fields, so the song-fountain in them appeared inexhaustible.
The teacher found himself in a world unknown to him before. Though he had heard and experienced something of the rich tenderness of the rude national ditties of Germany, he had tasted them as we eat the wild berries of the wood on a well-served table: we prefer them to the products of the greenhouse, yet sweeten them with sugar, and, perhaps, wash them down with wine. Here he plucked them fresh from the bush, and ate them not upon a piled saucer, but singly, as they left the stems. Their deep, untranslatable force and simplicity were revealed to him in all its glory: he felt how much his individual spirit was allied to that of the nation, and saw its lovely representative sitting by his side. He began to aspire to the priesthood of this marvellous spirit.
On returning to Hedwig's house and meeting her grandmother still at the door, he seized the hand of his beloved and pressed it to his heart, saying, "Not in bitter toil shall you lift these hands for me, but to give blessings, as becomes them."
Unable to say more, he walked quickly away.
The village gossips that evening were occupied with nothing but the fact that the new teacher went to see Johnnie's Hedwig.
Our friend, who had been so fond of seclusion, now found it impossible to spend fifteen minutes by himself after school-hours, in his house or out of it. Of all the books in his library, not one seemed to chime in with his frame of mind: and when he undertook to write into his note-book his lucubrations appeared so bare and profitless that he crossed them out immediately.
In the fields he never could collect his thoughts sufficiently to make sketches: he talked with every one he met. The people were friendly; for his open soul beamed out of his eyes. Frequently he would stand by them as they worked, in dreamy silence: he was reluctant to leave them and return to the solitary dignity which a little earlier he had thought indispensable.
Once he saw Hedwig cutting grain in the field, and hastened toward her. But he did not long remain there: it was insufferable to find himself the only idler among so many hard workers; and yet he was entirely unskilled in field-work, and knew what a sorry figure he should have made had he attempted it. Hedwig had gained in his eyes by having been seen at work. "Hosts and manna should be baked from the ears that she has cut," he said to himself, in turning away.
He was often absent-minded when conversing with her grandmother, and it was only when the old lady spoke of her parents and grandparents that she riveted his attention. It was delightful to climb up this family tree into the dim regions of the past. Her grandfather had fought in the wars of Prince Eugene against the Turks: and she had many of his soldier's stories by heart. At times also, without repining, she would predict that next winter she would meet all her ancestors again. It was easy to divert her mind from such reflections. He loved to make her talk of Hedwig's childhood, of the early loss of her mother, and of how she was distressed to find that her doll could not shut its eyes at night, and pasted paper over them. When the old woman spoke in this strain, her eyes and those of the listener beamed in the same brightness, like two neighbor-billows lit up by one moonbeam.
Hedwig is not mentioned in his note-book. The following passage, however, may have been suggested by the reminiscences of her aged relative:--
"We are prone to think that with a catechism of pure reason promulgated among the people it would be easy to convert them; but at every step we find ourselves upon the holy ground of history, and compelled to trace the footsteps of the past. Alas that our German history is so torn and disjointed! where shall we begin?"
He frequently called on Buchmaier also, and heard with delight the solid views, albeit at times a little roughly worded, of the squire. But the more intimate he became at his house the less kindly did he find himself received at Johnnie's. Even Hedwig began to avoid him, and her salutations became more and more shy and timid.
One evening Hedwig came to Agnes, weeping, and said, "Only think! that wild brother of mine won't allow it."
"What?"
"Why, the teacher to come and see me. He says if I am seen once more with the Lauterbacher he'll beat me and him to a jelly: you know he sulks because the teacher is friends with your father."
"Why, that is too bad! What shall we do?"
"Tell the teacher when he comes that he mustn't be angry: but he mustn't come to our house so much. I can't help it; I can't talk to him.Iwouldn't mind it, if my brother was ever so wicked tome, but he might insult him somewhere, where everybody saw it; and if he did that I'd cry my eyes out."
"Make yourself easy," replied Agnes: "I won't tell him a word of all that, anyhow."
"Why not?"
"Why not, you crazy pigeon? Because I don't want him to think that the Nordstetten girls come running up to you the minute you whistle to 'em."
"He won't think any thing of the kind."
"But I a'n't a-going to run the risk of it. I won't say a word about you unless he begins. Let me fix it: I'll get him round. Jilly wo gee! And when he's pretty well buttered up I'll just slither him down a little, and say, 'Mayhap I might manage to get Hedwig to our house of a Sunday.' I'll see if the pears come off by shaking."
"Well, you may do as you like: you're your own mistress. But one thing I beg of you, don't worry him: you see, he's one of that kind of men that have a deal of thought about every thing; I've found that out well enough; so he might be sorry, and lose his sleep."
"Why, who told you all that?"
"Oh, I only think he does, and I do so myself sometimes."
"Well, never mind: I won't do him any damage. These teachers are always examining somebody else, and now I'd just like to see whether he's smart or not."
"He is smart: I can tell you he is!"
"Well, if he says his lesson well, may I kiss him?"
"Oh, yes."
"Then don't look so solemn: love must be merry and not mawkish. Last Sunday the parson asked, 'How must we love God?' So I said, right out, 'Merrily.' He smiled at that, and took a pinch of snuff, and said, 'That's right,'--you know that's what he says to any thing, if it isn't too awful stupid: but, after he has said so, he explains it, and then it turns out to be something else; and he went on to explain that we must love God as a child loves its father, with veneration; and then I said some children loved their fathers merrily, and then he laughed ever so much, and opened his snuff-box wrong side up, and all the snuff fell on the floor, and then we all laughed:--
'Always a little merry,And always a little glad.'"
'Always a little merry,
And always a little glad.'"
Thus singing, she wound up her exhortation and dragged Hedwig out into the garden, where she gathered up the clothes on the grass-plot, to bring them into the house, telling her that they were intended as a portion of her outfit.
Next evening the teacher came to Buchmaier's house, as usual; but Agnes forgot all her intended raillery when the first mention of Hedwig's name brought a deep shade to his brow, and he frankly told her all his troubles. She now explained to him the state of parties in the commune. The College Chap, having married the old squire's daughter, of course belonged to his party, and therefore regarded any associate of Buchmaier's as his sworn foe; and his animosity was still further increased by the election of Mat to the committee of citizens, against himself,--which he ascribed to Buchmaier's efforts.
"Alack-a-day!" said Agnes, in conclusion, "I had it all cut-and-dry about going to the harvest-home together. But never mind: the College Chap isn't smart enough to get ahead of me, and Thaddie must help us make plans, too."
Against this the teacher protested, to Agnes' great surprise. He obtained her promise, however, to invite Hedwig to come there, and even to feign sickness as a pretext, and to remain in-doors all day.
Late in the evening the teacher wrote into his notebook,--
"How easy is it to preserve the whiteness of our souls while we shut ourselves out from human intercourse and construct our own fabric of things and thoughts! But the moment we approach reality every step is fraught with dangers, and we find ourselves engulfed in all the quarrels of faction and of party-strife. I longed to taste the peaceful joys of these villagers; and here I am in the midst of their contentions, with which the every affections of my heart are intertwined."
Agnes kept her word. The stolen interview of the lovers broke down the last barrier of reserve between them. Denial had lost all pretext, now that they met in secret.
After an interchange of condolence, Hedwig was the first to take a more cheerful view of the subject.
"Is it true," she asked, "that you are from Lauterbach?"
"Yes."
"Why did you want to deny it, then? There's no shame in it, I'm sure."
"I never denied it.
"Well, isn't it a shame? how people tell stories! They all said that the reason you were by yourself so much, running about like a poor, frightened little chick, was that you were afraid they'd tease you about being from Lauterbach. Why, if you were from Tripstrill you'd be----"
"What would I be?"
He looked at her so penetratingly that she held her hands over his eyes; but he kissed her and strained her to his heart. "Dearest! dearest!" he cried; "it shall, it must, all be well."
"Don't do so," said Hedwig, but without trying to extricate herself: so he kissed her again. "Now talk to me, and tell me something. What have you been doing? You don't talk a word."
The teacher pressed her hand to his lips, as if to say that that was the only language he was capable of uttering. So Hedwig seemed to understand him, for she said, "No: you must talk to me; I love to hear you talk so much; and my grandmother always says you have such beautiful words,--my grandmother thinks so much of you."
Something like moisture must have been glistening in the teacher's eyes; for she went on:--"Never mind: there's nothing lost yet; and Constantine had better look out, or he'll find out in some way he don't like that I'm my own mistress."
Though opposed to tears in theory, she was fast lapsing into the practice. Rallying herself, "Come," said she; "let's think of nothing but the present. If it's God's will we should have each other, it'll come so: no doubt about it. I always think it would have been too good for this world if things had gone all right from the very first. I don't know how it is, but that Sunday when I came round the corner of the house and found you sitting there with grandmother, it seemed as if a fiery hand was passing across my face, or as if--I can't tell how, I'm sure."
"Yes; I loved you from that moment."
"Mustn't talk of it!" cried she, looking into her lover's face with beaming eyes. As a true peasant-girl, the more she loved, the more dread had she to hear love mentioned. "Talk of something else." Nevertheless, she was well content to sit in perfect silence, with her hand in his; while nothing was to be heard but the cooing of the turtle-doves in their cote and the monotonous tick of the Black Forest clock.
Agnes, who had wisely absented herself, at length returned.
"Make him talk," said Hedwig, rising. "Ho won't do any thing but look at me."
Her eye fell to the looking-glass as she passed it; but she quickly averted it, for she seemed to have seen a perfect stranger, so unaccountable was the change which had come over the expression of her features.
The teacher sat motionless, dreaming with open eyes.
Agnes sang, as she skipped about the room, snapping her fingers,--
"How is it, I wonder,When sweetheart I see,I want to be talking,But yet it won't gee?'No, no,' and 'Yes, yes,'And 'I s'pose,' and 'In course,'Is often the whole of our loving discourse."
"How is it, I wonder,
When sweetheart I see,
I want to be talking,
But yet it won't gee?
'No, no,' and 'Yes, yes,'
And 'I s'pose,' and 'In course,'
Is often the whole of our loving discourse."
"Come, wake up!" said she, shaking the teacher's arm; "stir your stumps. 'I lost my stocking at Lauterbach:'" and she danced around the room, dragging him after her.
Thaddie now came in, and general hilarity with him. In a grand council the politic resolve was taken that, if the Constantine question should be still unadjusted when harvest-home came on, the teacher was to attend Agnes at the festival, while Thaddie was to figure as the nominal escort of Hedwig.
After a long conversation in anticipation of what the future was expected to bring forth, Agnes called upon the teacher to reward her intervention by telling a story. The others joined their requests to hers. The teacher offered to go home to get a book; but this was not permitted: he had nothing to do but begin at once.
Collecting his thoughts with an effort, he launched into the story of the Beautiful Magelona. At first he spoke almost without intonation, hardly knowing what he said, and thinking more of Hedwig's hand, which rested in his, than of the tale. As the interest of the narrative increased, he closed his eyes, and resigned his imagination entirely to the world of wonders and witchery he was describing. His hearers hung upon his words with beaming eyes, and Hedwig's heart bounded within her.
When he had finished, Agnes took his head between her hands and shook it, saying, "He is a fine fellow, every inch of him. May I kiss him now, Hedwig?"
"Yes, with all my heart."
Availing himself of the permission, the teacher immediately turned to Thaddie and said, extending his hand, "Let us be friends too."
When he took his leave, Thaddie went with him to the door and said, on the steps, "Mr. Teacher, I want to ask a favor of you, and maybe I can do you another some day. I can read very well: won't you lend me one of your storybooks?"
"With the greatest pleasure," said the teacher, shaking hands warmly at parting.
Besides the happy change in his feelings which the love of Hedwig had effected, it was attended with a further consequence; for he was one of those sensitive natures in which the thirst for union and harmony brings all thoughts into very near juxtaposition and allows the electric spark of association to combine them with rare frequency.
The words that fell from Hedwig's lips were so sweet as to imbue with their charm even the harsh dialect in which they were spoken. He now determined to devote his particular study to this idiom, and, if possible, to make it the basis of the instruction of his pupils. He asked the old teacher to help him to some of the works written in the Upper Suabian dialect, and received that old gentleman's favorite work,--indeed, almost the only one he read,--Sebastian Sailer's poems.
With all his new predilections, it was some time before he could read these effusions with pleasure. The entire absence of what is ordinarily called refinement in the character of these people--that spirit which cannot deal even with the most sacred things save in a vein of blunt good-humor akin to burlesque--is here presented with overpowering truthfulness. The poet--a spiritual one, by-the-by--represents God the Father in the character of a village squire, and keeps up therôlefor many pages.
The old teacher explained that all this had not in the least affected the sanctity of religion. "In those days," said he, "when people's piety was in their hearts and not on their tongues, they could crack a dozen jokes, and yet their hearts remained the same: nowadays they're afraid of the snuffers coming near the candle, for they know it will take very little to put it out, and they must trim it all the time to keep it alive. I used to play jigs on the organ whenever I had a mind to."
Our friend, while admitting the force of this argument, suspected that a little of the scoffing spirit of the last century had also found its way into the poet's rhymes, though, doubtless, not into the hearts of his public; but he kept this idea to himself, and drew from the schoolmaster a full account of the manner in which these extraordinary dramas used to be performed at Carnival-time. The old gentleman was particularly explicit in describing the costume he himself had worn in the character of Lucifer.
"Modern culture and refinement have taken many things from the people. What substantial joys have they received in return? Can they be compensated? and how?"
These words, taken from his note-book, appear to have been written about that time. A movement was going on within him.
One day Buchmaier urged him to apply for the right of citizenship in the village, as he might calculate upon receiving the office of town-clerk. Seizing the broad hand of his friend, he replied, joyfully, "Now you have it in your power to make peace in the whole village, if you will only get my broth--I mean the College Chap, this office: he is amply competent."
Buchmaier smiled, but would not consent. At the teacher's earnest entreaties, however, he agreed to abstain from all opposition.
The procession passed up the street.
The teacher hastened to broach the matter to the College Chap. The latter received the suggestion with somehauteur, and said he did not know whether he could take the office. Nevertheless, he thanked the teacher for his good-will, and the preliminaries of a peace were concluded between the parties.
Harvest-home came, and the two couples went to the dance, as they had arranged.
No longer did the teacher loiter in the fields while the village was alive with dance and song: he was himself a participator in the revel; but even yet he was not entirely absorbed in it.
For two days he did not leave the dancing-floor, except once, to take a short walk with Hedwig and Agnes in the fields and refresh his powers for new exertions. At times a pang would strike him when an impure song was heard: he would fain have stopped his ears and Hedwig's against it. The idea of endeavoring to exert an influence upon this spontaneous product of the popular mind and heart recurred to him with more force than ever. He had acquired some popularity among the young fellows by his participation in their amusements; and upon this foundation he built a portion of his hopes.
For two whole nights he had kept it up; but when, on the third day, the harvest-home was buried with pomp and funeral solemnities, he could not induce himself to join in this extravaganza also. Standing before his door, he watched the procession as it passed up the street, preceded by the band playing a dead march, sometimes interrupted by a whining chant or dirge. A trestle, covered with broken bottles, glasses, and legs of chairs, was borne solemnly to the height and there cast into a grave and covered with earth, while the wit of the village expended itself in funeral orations.
Joy and sadness came and went by turns in Johnnie's house, after the harvest-home. Constantine was elected town-clerk, the teacher having electioneered for him in public. Peace was thus restored between the contending parties, and the College Chap made friendly advances to the teacher. The latter, in the gladness of his heart, addressed him, according to the German custom, with "thee" and "thou." Such an excuse for drinking a "smollis" was not to be neglected. The new town-clerk took the teacher's arm and dragged him by force to the inn, where the toasts were drunk in the most approved forms, the "brothers hail" standing arm in arm and clinking their glasses as they sang.
After these preliminary operations, the College Chap entered the family council at home, and advocated the teacher's suit of Hedwig with his usual eagerness and impetuosity.
The betrothal of the two lovers was solemnized with the accustomed ceremonies. They plighted their troth to each other in the presence of her father and brother, of the old squire, and of Buchmaier, whom the teacher had invited in lieu of kindred or other friends.
When the transaction was over, Hedwig left her room with the bridegroom--for to that name, in German parlance, he was now entitled--and embraced him for the first time, saying, "I do love you dearly,--dearly!"
They repaired to her grandmother's room, who was lying ill in bed, and knelt down at her bedside.
"He is mine now, forever," said Hedwig. She could not say more. The grandmother laid her hands upon them and muttered a prayer; after which she said, "Get up, and don't kneel here: you mustn't kneel anywhere but before God. Don't I tell you? I am the messenger who is to give them notice in heaven that you have found each other. Teacher, what's your mother's name? I'm going to her the minute I get there, and to your father too; and then I mean to take my Jack Adam, and my brothers and sisters, and my parents with me, and my three grandchildren that are gone, and we'll all sit down together and talk about you and pray for you; and then you must be happy. Hedwig, I leave you my necklace, you'll find it in the closet there. And there's a wreath beside it, from my wedding: take good care of it: it will bring blessings down on you. Let your children smell at it after the christening. And, though you should get married soon after I go, you must have music at your wedding. Do you hear? You sha'n't be grieving for me, and the seven-league dance you must dance for me: I will look down on you with joy, and the whole family up there shall celebrate the wedding too."
The lovers tried to dispel her anticipations of death; but she replied, "I feel just as if somebody was pulling my arm all the time, and saying, 'Make haste: it's time.' But it isn't hard enough yet: it must come harder. You mustn't cry now: don't. I am going into good hands, a'n't I? I thank the Lord for having let me live long enough to see Hedwig get a good husband. Love each other, and honor each other.
"Hedwig, he's a studied man, and they often get kinks into their heads: I know that from my sister. You must have patience with him. These studied men have very different notions from other folks, sometimes, and then they let them out the wrong way and to the wrong person. And you, teacher, when you get my Hedwig, my dear Hedwig----" She could not speak further: the girl lay on her neck, weeping.
The old woman had spoken quite fluently, her cough having disappeared entirely; now, however, she sank upon her pillow exhausted. The lovers stood looking upon her sadly. At last she raised herself again, and said, "Hedwig, go and ask Valentine's Christina to stay with me: I sha'n't die to-day yet. You mustn't come to me again all day. Go, now, both of you, and be in good spirits: promise me to be in good spirits."
The teacher executed the commission she had given to Hedwig, and then both were dismissed from the bedside. Their hearts continued to quiver with sadness until they had seen Buchmaier's Agnes, who managed to enliven them with her usual chat and raillery.
Then they walked in the fields, followed by the white hen. The seed was not yet in the ground,--so that there was no objection to her being at large. The breath of Nature recalled their souls to the full gladness of the occasion. Around them autumn was at work among the yellow leaves; but in their hearts it was all spring.
Next day Hedwig's grandmother called for the Eucharist. The teacher did duty for the sexton, and carried the lantern for the parson: a considerable portion of the congregation assembled at the door and prayed while Maurita was being "served" within. The only reflection occupying the teacher's thoughts during the ceremony was, "Would that all freethinkers could meet death with equal confidence!" Maurita received the sacrament with open, beaming eyes, then turned to the wall and spoke no more. When they looked at her after a time, she was dead.
Maurita was buried with silent and devout sadness, unaccompanied by loud weeping or wailing. The whole village mourned. Even old George the blacksmith said, with a seriousness unusual to him, "I am so sorry she is dead! My turn comes next."
When the teacher returned from the burial, Hedwig embraced him, and said, weeping, "I want you more than ever now: I have no grandmother any more."
The teacher had found another tie to attach him to the village: the corpse of a friend rested in its soil.
The corpse of a friend rested in its soil.
Thus we have accompanied the good Maurita to the entrance of the life beyond, and the teacher to the opening of a new life on earth. We cannot follow the good old grandmother to heaven: let us see, a little longer, what happened to the teacher.
His betrothal had given great satisfaction throughout the village. Even the children playing on the site of the fire were sometimes involved in excited discussions, as they endeavored to explain their relationship to Hedwig, and therefore to the teacher. Johnnie had not a great many friends in the village; but this event gave pleasure to all. Everyone whom the teacher met shook hands and wished him much joy and happiness. Every one had something good to tell of Hedwig. Men and women who would otherwise never have thought of conversing with the teacher now chatted like old acquaintances. Mat came to his house, shook his hands warmly, and said, "Ah, I was the one that told you it must come so: don't you remember? You might have given me a farm and you wouldn't have pleased me more. When the old teacher dies you shall have the two fields he farms now: it's good land, and, if you'll let me know, I'll work two or three days for you with pleasure."
The teacher was doubly pleased at this friendly spirit. He saw the good hearts of the villagers; and he also saw how firm a footing he had gained in their affections, and how much he had bettered the prospect of exerting a beneficent influence over them.
Mankind are no longer accustomed to receive benefits emanating from no other motive than the general desire to do them good. They have been betrayed and disappointed so often that now they meet the philanthropist with intuitive suspicion. They think so very general an aspiration must cloak some very particular design. They will permit no one to love them unreservedly but those who are related to them by some special bond of kindred or other relationship.
Winter stalked into the village with rapid strides. The villagers remained at home and enjoyed what their toil had gathered. Threshing, and a little manuring, was the only kind of labor that could be performed. When the grain was threshed, all was silent. Here and there a travelling peddler might be heard crying "Spindles! wives' spindles!" The snow drifted about the street, and all cuddled around the genial tile stove. At such times an evil spirit would walk in the village in broad daylight,--the spirit of idleness. Whomsoever the spirit looked at was doomed to yawn and gossip and quarrel. The time of rest was not a time of recreation, because there had been no exertion to rest from. Young men sat for whole days in the tavern, playing cards; and, though so sorely burdened with excess of time, they never thought of going home till the last stroke of the "police-hour" of eleven had brought in the beadle and the landlord's inevitable notice to quit. Others went to bed early and drowned their time in sleep; while still others soiled it with wickedness.
Here and there a travelling peddler might be heard.
Idleness is the root of all evil. The industrious alone are intrinsically cheerful, peaceable and well meaning; idlers easily lean to gambling and drunkenness, and are prone to wrangling, quarrels, and treachery. It is for this reason, and this alone, that all the vices love to dwell among the so-called upper classes of society.
While the greater part of the villagers were thus vegetating, the teacher had awakened to a double existence. It sometimes happens that a man who has had a violent fever rises from his bed an inch or two taller than before. Thus our friend, while his flying pulses studied Hedwig's life and being, had made wonderful progress in the understanding of the people's character. As he had formerly "sipped the intellectual breath of beauty" from the productions of inanimate nature, leaving to others the task of turning into use her treasures, so now he recognised the presence of a higher principle in every living intelligence. Every person who crossed his path was a representative of some portion or place of the people's character. Instead of looking down upon others from the eminence of his own intellectuality, he forgot himself, and unconsciously looked up to the intelligence he detected in every other. The others were raised in his estimation, because he thought only of that which ennobled them: himself had sunk, because he was only reminded of himself by those petty occurrences of every-day life which brought out the lesser traits in his own nature.
He was a man who understood the inmost thoughts and feelings of all around him. He boldly followed up his resolve to give them a taste of the pleasures of the mind: he was sufficiently matured himself to penetrate the rough bark which concealed the core of their minds and hearts.
In the evening he would read aloud the papers at the inn. He had many explanations to give, and many false impressions to remove: for the College Chap, who had previously acted as oracle, had taken pleasure in "stuffing up the natives." A little circle habitually gathered round him, while others played cards at the table: even these, however, would occasionally listen to what he was saying, by which many a trick was lost.
Little by little the teacher obtained their confidence, and they spoke their minds more freely. With all the excellence of his intention, he still found it difficult to translate himself entirely into their ways of thinking. It is an easy thing to say, "I love the people!" but to be prepared at all times to receive all sorts of crudities with respect, without taking offence at habits and customs often repulsive and obdurate,--to follow the discursive ones through a thousand pointless digressions,--to sympathize with the impetuous in a jargon of incoherent impulses and sentiments,--requires a power of self-abnegation, a degree of control over one's own individuality, with which but very few are favored. Thanks to his clear understanding of the task, our friend was one of the number.
One evening Mat began, "Mr. Teacher, I'm going to ask a stupid question; but why is that paper called the 'Suabian Mercury,' and not the 'Suabian Markery'? Sure it is a markery; because every thing that happens is marked down there. Is 'Mercury' High German for 'Markery'?"
"You've caught the old robin in his nest," said the College Chap. "You're right there, Mat: those fellows in Stuttgard don't know any thing about it. If I was you I'd go down and tell 'em: they'll give you a premium, depend upon it."
The teacher explained that Mercury had been the messenger of the gods, and the god of trade, in ancient Greece.
"Yes; but how does he come to be called 'Suabian'?" asked Mat, again.
"Well, they chose to give that name to the paper," answered the teacher. He had never thought about it himself.
"I want to know," began Hansgeorge: "did the Greecelanders believe in more gods than one?"
"Of course," replied the College Chap. "One of 'em manured and the other sowed, one rained and the other thundered: they had a particular god or goddess for every particular job. The Greeks even allowed their gods to marry."
"I guess they were saints or angels," said Wendel the mason, "or tutelaries; but they must have had some sort of a captain over them, or it would be a carnival stupid enough to split your sides with laughing."
"You weren't by when they built the tower of Babel, neither, mason," said the College Chap. "Of course they had a captain, and a trump card he was: he had a jealous wife, though, and she gave him lots of trouble. Now, I'll leave it to the teacher whether all this isn't as true as gospel."
Suppressing a sigh, the teacher gave the company a cursory sketch of the Grecian mythology. Some of the wonders included in it created much sensation. It occurred to him, also, how strange it was that he should be expounding the Hellenic sages in a smoky bar-room of the Black Forest. All this was the doing of the Suabian Mercury.
It was almost impossible to persuade the farmers that the Greeks were not "jackasses." He told them of the wise and good Socrates, and of his martyrdom.
"Why, that was almost as bad as the way they treated our Savior," said Kilian of the Frog Alley.
"Certainly," replied the teacher. "Whoever undertakes to teach a new and wholesome truth by its right name and without circumlocution must take a cross for his pains." He sighed as he said this; for it seemed to have some bearing upon his own case: the task he had undertaken was not an easy one.
As they went away, the men said to each other, "We've had a fine evening for once: you get a little wiser, and time passes round before you know it."
The teacher had formed the design of reading something to the farmers about the Grecian mythology: fortunately, however, he laid his hand upon a very different book,--a collection of German proverbs. On entering the bar-room, he took the book from his pocket, saying, "Let me read you something."
There were wry faces on all sides; for farmers regard books as their natural enemies. Mat spoke first:--
"Better tell us a story, Mr. Teacher."
"Yes, yes; tell us something: don't read," was the general response.
"Well, just listen a little while," said the teacher: "if you don't like it, say so, and I'll stop."
He began to read the proverbs, pausing after every one.
"Why, that's what George the blacksmith says," and "That's Spring Bat's word," "That's what old Maurita used to say," "That's your speech, Andrew, Mike, Caspar," was soon heard from different quarters of the room. The players laid aside their cards and listened; for at times a pithy sentence would provoke general merriment.
The teacher could not refrain from asking, with an air of some triumph, "Shall I read on?"
"Yes; read on till morning," said every one; and Kilian of the Frog Alley added, "It must have been the smartest kind of a man that made that book; for he knew every thing. I wonder if he wasn't one of the ancient sages."
"Yes: those are your sort of folks, Kilian," said some one in a corner.
"Be quiet, now," cried others. "Read on, Mr. Teacher."
He did so. Sometimes corrections and additions were suggested, which the teacher would gladly have noted in writing, but refrained for fear of restraining the open-heartedness of the audience. They were overjoyed to find the whole stock of their collective wisdom thus heaped up in a single granary. One or two discussions arose in reference to the explanation, or the truth of this or that proverb, with which the teacher never interfered; others would urge the disputants to silence; while still others urged the teacher to proceed. A bright fire was burning, which our friend had the satisfaction of having kindled.
When he returned the next evening, he found more guests than usual. They had lost their dread of books, and immediately inquired whether he had not some similar entertainment for them.
"Yes," said the teacher, taking out a book. But this time things were not destined to go so smoothly; there were tares among the wheat, sowed by the College Chap, who had a deep-seated aversion to any thing serious or sensible. With some partisans whom he had enlisted, he sat at a table and began to sing. The teacher was at a loss.
"Why, Constantine," said Mat, "a'n't you ashamed of yourself, and you a town-clerk?"
"I've paid for my wine, and have as good a right here as the next man," replied the College Chap; "and the tavern isn't a place to read books in."
There was a general murmur.
"Hold on," said Mat, "we'll soon fix this. Landlord, I'll go and get some wood, and we'll make a fire in the room upstairs. Whoever wants to listen may come up, and whoever don't may stay where he is."
"I'll go," said Thaddie, who had come this evening also. The stove was soon in a glow, for Thaddie was afraid of losing something by making up the fire afterward. Mat sat down beside the teacher and snuffed the candle. The story was Zschokke's "Village of Gold-Makers."
In spite of its fine subject and elevating tendency, the book was far from earning the applause which the teacher had expected: it was so interwoven with the experiences of peasant-life that every one felt himself qualified to judge it. It would occupy too much of our space to repeat all the opinions expressed. Whenever the phrase recurred, "Oswald opened his lips and spoke," Buchmaier smiled in derision of its formality. Many of the ideas were lost; while others received a general nod of approbation.
To the teacher's surprise, the first thing manifest when the story had reached its close was that most of the company sided with the village and against Oswald. Mat soon hit upon the reason of this incongruity in saying, "What I don't like is that Oswald seems to do all the good in the village alone."
"And I," said Thaddie, "would like to pull off his feather and his star: he's a fine fellow, and don't want them gimcracks."
"You're right," replied Buchmaier. "He plays the gentleman too much, anyhow; and as for his hereditary prince, what's he good for? But what were you going to say, Andrew? Bring out the wild-cats."
"I think Oswald has no business to put his nose into other people's pots and pans. What's he got to do with their cooking?"
"And I think," said Kilian, "the farmers are made out a good deal too stupid: it isn't quite so bad, after all."
"And you're a learned man yourself, too," said Hansgeorge. Everybody laughed.
"My notion is," said Wendel the mason, "the village is a deal too bad at first and a deal too good afterward. I don't see how things can change so in one and the same place."
"What puts me out most," said Buchmaier, "is that they can't get through without even making out what sort of clothes people shall wear and what they sha'n't. That's just like the cruelty-to-animals societies. These things must be left to every man's own taste and fancy. And once I could hardly help laughing when Oswald, in his uniform and with the feathers on his hat, embraced the thirty-two men one by one: there's a job for you!"
The teacher called to mind that the book had been written years ago, when people were far more ceremonious than at present. He adverted to the fine moral of the book and the many fine passages it contained. He showed how great is the use of position, money, dress, and other externals to those who desire to carry out good intentions among men, and concluded by saying that it was unjust to make such incidental trifles an excuse for condemning the whole.
"No doubt about that," said Buchmaier. "If I could see the man that wrote that book, I'd take off my hat rather than to the king himself, and say, 'You're a good fellow, and mean well by us.' That's my notion."
When they rose to go, Thaddie nudged Mat, and said, in a whisper, "Come! out with it now, or they'll all run away."
"What do you say, men," began Mat, "to getting the teacher to read to us an evening or two every week?"
"Why, that would be first-rate," cried all.
"I'm quite ready," said the teacher. "Let's have a meeting to-morrow night, say in the school-room. Meantime, all can think about the society, and make proposals."
"Yes, that's right," said every one: and they parted in great good-humor.
The meeting, which was held next day, was stormy. The teacher, with Buchmaier's assistance, had prepared a draft of a constitution. It was read paragraph by paragraph, with a long pause after each. At every pause there was a buzz of conversation; but when the talkers were requested to express their opinions publicly they suddenly ceased. None but Mat, Hansgeorge, Kilian, and Wendel could be induced to address the whole company. A general tempest was provoked by the paragraph,--
"During the continuance of the reading-nights no smoking shall be permitted."
There was no end to the angry mutterings, until Buchmaier, nodding to the teacher, as if to say, "Didn't I tell you so? I know my men," moved to "strike out the law about smoking altogether."
"Yes, yes!" they all exclaimed as with one mouth. Buchmaier continued:--
"So, whoever can't do without smoking, let him smoke. It'll be hard for the teacher to read in the steam; so, if he has to stop, nobody can blame him. But one thing we will stick to: if any man's pipe goes out, he sha'n't light it again till the teacher's done reading. He may sleep if he can't keep his eyes open; but he sha'n't snore."
A roar of laughter ensued, after which Buchmaier went on:--
"So we won't put a word about smoking into the law, and we'll only have the understanding that, when the reading is all done, every man shall light his pipe with the wisdom he's got by listening, and smoke what's been told him. Is that right, or not?"
"Yes: that's right."
"And whoever wants to talk must take the pipe out of his mouth," said the voice of an unknown speaker, who has been too modest to reveal himself to this day.
Another knotty point was the place of meeting. With a fine tact, the teacher objected to the school-room. All the members of the town-council being present, the large anteroom of the town-hall was fixed upon.
On Jack George's motion, it was resolved that every man should be at liberty to have his glass of beer before him, but no more. This proposal made Jack George so popular that he was elected to the executive committee with Mat and Kilian.
There were many other difficulties to be overcome; but a knot of enthusiasts had gathered around the teacher, who carried him over every thing in triumph. The foremost of these were Mat and Thaddie. The latter only regretted that he could not find some herculean labor to perform for the teacher: he would gladly have run through the fire to please him.
On the other hand, the society had two mortal foes, in the landlord of the Eagle and the College Chap. The former feared for his custom, and railed against the teacher, who since his betrothal boarded with his intended father-in-law. The College Chap suspected "psalm-singing" in all things, and said that his brother only meant to catch the people first and pluck them afterward.
It is a customary trick of the monarchical Governments of Europe to disarm demagogues by appointing them to office. In pursuance of the same policy, the teacher made Constantine "alternate reader." Now that it afforded scope for his ambition, the College Chap was one of the most devoted adherents of the society.
Thus the teacher gradually learned to understand men and to govern them. He made efforts to gain the support of the old teacher and of the Jewish schoolmaster. What the former wanted in zeal the latter richly atoned for. Some Jews, who, being engaged in agriculture or in mechanical trades, were always at home, also took an active part.
The selection of the books was not easy. Our friend soon found that didactic reading, or that which aimed immediately at moral instruction and improvement, must not be allowed to preponderate. Without degrading the matter to mere amusement, he read extracts from the Limpurg Chronicles, Gleim's poems, and the lives of Schubart, Moser, Franklin, and others. Particular success attended the reading of Paul and Virginia, and of Wallenstein's Camp, to which were added some chapters from Simplicissimus. The greatest attention, however, was excited by the reading of Kœrner's "Hedwig, the Bandit's Bride," by the teacher, the College Chap, and the Jewish teacher. The exalted diction and wonderful incidents produced a great impression. At the close of the piece, Mat inquired, "What became of the robbers in the cellar? Were they burned or hanged?"
The teacher could not repress a laugh at this sympathetic question, but he knew not what to answer. Perhaps one of our readers will have the goodness to inform him.
Sometimes the old popular books were read likewise: the Schildburgers aroused especial merriment.
The teacher now rarely found time to enter general reflections into his note-hook: what he thought was at once communicated to those around him, and what he felt was expressed to Hedwig. We find one or two observations, however, in those half-forgotten leaves:--