The determined, steadfast Landolin had become a coward. He despised himself for it, but that did not mend matters. His lips were always tightly compressed, and their bitter expression became habitual. Often he would stop suddenly while walking along. He felt that he must draw his breath: he was almost smothered by the thoughts that lay so heavy upon him. Then he looked around beseechingly, and went on his way. How rich he had been before! He had had an outstanding capital of honor with every one; and now, when he wanted to draw upon it, it was no longer there. Strictly speaking, he had thought neither well nor ill of other people, he was indifferent to them; but now things had changed. His power of thought had lain fallow; and now upon this fallow land all manner of weeds, whose seeds had lain unsuspected in the ground, made their appearance. He had lived and had had an acute mind, especially when an advantage for himself was to be gained. But now, it seemed as though he were half asleep. Stop! What are men to you? What do you care for this one and that one? What does one gain in life, after all? Plowing, sowing, and reaping. The forest trees grow, long after the man who planted them has become a clod of earth. Is it for this that a man gives himself so much trouble and thought? Yes--gives thought. That is what is hard for a man who, until now, has not had it to do.
When the soul comes to a spot where harshness, and selfishness pass step by step before its eyes, then it is difficult for it to turn back and take another path. It seems as if irresistible forces drive it along the path of grief and bitterness, and yet all the while a longing to meet with friendship and responsive love grows stronger and warmer within it.
Landolin felt something of this emotion, although he probably could not have given it utterance. But in the soul there is much that is unutterable, even for a far more thoughtful and meditative nature than Landolin's.
The man who was formerly strong as iron, had become unnerved, and one could conceive of nothing which could happen to renew his strength. Perhaps Thoma's love could have accomplished it. Perhaps! Certainly, he said to himself. There were even times when he not only mourned that this love was denied him, but was yet more deeply grieved to see his child, his proud, beautiful child, bent with sorrow, and her life left waste and bleak. He had nurtured a pride and severity in her, which now threatened her destruction. In his distress he groaned aloud, and submitted to Peter's dominion as if to a penance; indeed, though Peter's boldness was so serious an offense, it often extorted his admiration.
"He will some day be the man to trample the whole world under foot, and laugh as he does it. He will be more powerful than Titus himself."
Landolin resolved to dissemble and play the hypocrite; to act as if he mistook people's malice for good will, and to retaliate secretly. But his pride was incompatible with success in hypocrisy. He was annoyed at his own lack of courage, he very candidly called it cowardice, but still that did not help him to regain the old fearlessness--the old pride. Yes, he had become over-sensitive.
His walk had now brought him to the forest, with its overhanging branches. In other times how little he had cared for the noxious insects of the woods. He had not grown up with gloved hands, but now he shuddered at the caterpillars that hung in the air by their slender threads, as though they were waiting to drop down upon him. These caterpillars can be shaken off, but the world's malicious thoughts, that like caterpillars hang everywhere by invisible threads, cannot.
Landolin was sitting on an old tree-stump, when the game-keeper approached, and addressed him in a friendly manner, expressing his sorrow that Landolin had had to undergo so much trouble. Landolin complained that in the short time, he had grown twenty years older, and suffered with a constant palpitation of the heart.
Suddenly he paused, for he became aware that he was begging for sympathy. And from whom? But the game-keeper responded,
"I know myself how a man feels the half hour that the jury are out, and he is waiting for the verdict of life or death."
"How do you know about it?"
"Have you forgotten my shooting the poacher? He had his piece leveled at me from behind a tree. Crack--crack. It is self-defense! There you lie," said the game-keeper, with a crafty smile.
Landolin went home fortified. "It was self-defense. The court has acknowledged that it was, and it was so. I must learn to keep that in mind. I must."
The summer night was mild and clear. A Saturday evening in harvest-time has a peculiar quiet, a premonition of the full day of rest after the six days' unceasing work.
At all the farm-houses, far and wide, the people sat on the out-door benches and talked of the harvest; of how much was already stored away, and of how much was still standing in the fields. Then they talked of their neighbors far and near, and of course of Landolin also. They spoke pityingly of his misfortune, but with a certain quiet self-congratulation that they themselves were free and happy. It was almost like breathing, upon the mountain, air purified and freshened by a thunder-storm in the valley.
Soon with weary steps they sought their beds; for in the morning young and old were going to the celebration in the city.
Landolin and his wife were sitting on the bench before his house. Thoma sat at one side on an old tree-stump, where the men often mended their scythes.
These three had so much to say, and yet spoke so little!
"So to-morrow is the fifteenth of July," said Landolin. Thoma looked around, but turned quickly away, and again seemed buried in her own thoughts.
The dedication of the flag was to take place the following day. One might imagine that years had already passed since the day when Anton, with his two companions, came to ask Thoma to be maid of honor. Thoma was unselfish enough not to think first of the pleasure and distinction she would lose, but she sighed sadly when she thought how dreary and sorrowful the day would be for Anton.
"What do you think, Thoma," asked Landolin; "shall I go to the celebration, or not?"
"I have no opinion as to what you should do, or not do."
"Will you go with me?" said he, turning to his wife.
"I would like to, but I'm not well. I'm so chilly, I think I'll go right to bed."
Thoma wanted to go into the house too, but her mother refused, and insisted that she should remain with her father.
Her mother went in, and Thoma felt that she now ought to talk with her father; but she couldn't think of a word to say. Every pleasant word appeared to her to be a lie, and the bitterness of her fate lay in the fact that there was a lie to contend with. It distressed her to pass her father by, at home and in the field, in silence, or with only a cold greeting, and now to sit so speechless, and force him to think of their trouble; but she could not do otherwise.
Landolin said that her mother was more ill than she was willing to admit, and that it was evidently hard for her to keep up. Thoma tried to quiet his fears; but her words sounded as hard as stone, when he said, "But that is a matter where the doctor can help us."
"And I know something that no doctor can prescribe, which would make your mother strong and well again."
Landolin had to wait long before Thoma asked what it could be, and he explained that the joy which her wedding with Anton would give her mother was the remedy. Thoma said, in a hollow voice,
"That can never be, no more than"--she stopped suddenly.
"Well! No more than what?"
Thoma gave no answer, and Landolin knew that she would have said--"No more than Vetturi can live again."
A well-known voice suddenly broke in upon the silence which followed.
"Good evening to you both!"
Anton stood before them. Landolin arose and held out his hand. Thoma kept her seat, and wrapping both arms in her apron, said only "Good evening."
Landolin made room for Anton beside him, and told Thoma to come and sit on the bench too. But she replied, "I am quite comfortable where I am; besides, I must go in to mother. She is not at all well."
"You will stay here," said Landolin, in his old commanding voice. Then he explained to Anton that he would have liked to go to see his father, but--and it was hard for him to say this--he did not wish to be obtrusive; and so he waited for people to come to see him. He thanked Anton for his favorable testimony at the trial, and said, that he was glad that he had kept his conscience so clear.
"When I saw you standing there so resolutely, and heard you speak so firmly, I loved you twice as much as before," he added.
Anton understood what it meant for the proud and arrogant Landolin to speak in this manner.
Hesitatingly, at first, and then in well-considered words, Anton explained that he had come to beg father and daughter to go with him to the celebration; that would show the whole world at one stroke that everything was all right again, and everybody would congratulate them anew.
No word, no motion showed that Thoma had heard him. Anton continued in a tremulous tone:
"Thoma, dear Thoma! You sit there as though you were frozen, but I know that deep in your heart, love for me is still burning. Thoma, for this once throw away your pride."
"Pride?" said Thoma, in a low voice.
Anton did not hear her, for he went on: "Thoma, you turned me away. I too am proud, but not with you. I have come back again. Show yourself as good and loving as you really are. Give me one single word--one kind word."
Thoma arose.
"I thank you, Anton. I thank you a thousand times; but I cannot. Good night; I thank you."
"No! You shall stay here, and I will go," cried Landolin, as Thoma turned toward the house.
"Anton, for my part, I am----But settle matters alone between yourselves."
He hastened into the house. Anton and Thoma were alone.
"You need not speak, Thoma. Give me a kiss, and that will say everything."
"I cannot. Anton, 'tis hard for me to talk. I would far rather be dumb, and unable to speak. Anton, it's good and kind of you to come. But tell me,--you are honest--tell me, does your father feel toward my father as you do? Is it not true,--you can't say yes?--you are here against his will. Your father"----
"My father honors and loves you."
"I believe that. But, Anton, I can never be happy again, nor bring happiness to others. I beg of you strike our house from your mind. One blow will be enough to destroy it."
"Oh! Your house still stands firm. Thoma, you were right. On that day I did not know what I saw or what I heard; but now that is all past. Thoma, I know you. Your heart is honest, and I cannot blame you for it, though it gives you much sorrow. Thoma, you cannot appear to be happy before the world, because you are not happy. Say, do I not understand you?"
She nodded, suppressed sobs were heard, and Anton continued:
"Darling Thoma! I tell you, you can and must be happy; and that without telling a lie."
"I can't rejoice in stolen goods." Thoma forced herself to say.
"I understand. I know what you mean. But your honor and my honor are not stolen. I beg of you, be good, be kind. I beg the wicked Thoma to trouble my good Thoma no longer. You exaggerate----.
"Perhaps so. There--you may take my hand for the last time."
"I will not take it for the last time."
"Then I say good night; thank you a thousand times!"
Anton tried to throw his arm around her, but she tore herself away, and hastened into the house.
He waited awhile to see if she would not relent; but as all continued silent, a spirit of defiance awoke within him, and he went away without turning around, though he sometimes paused and listened to hear if any one were following or calling him. At length he disappeared in the forest.
There is still merriment in the world; song, music, and laughter. Joyous, singing, laughing people drive along the plateau in wagons decorated with flowers and green boughs. They are seen and heard from Landolin's house; he nods to them from the open window; he is in holiday attire and has decided to go to the celebration, and take part again in the world's gayety. Turning, he said to his wife, who sat in the room:
"Hanne, Thoma won't go; can't you go with me?"
"I would rather you'd let me stay at home."
Landolin would have liked to say, "If you are with me they will pay me more respect;" but he could not bring himself to say it. He had humbled himself before the humblest; but before his wife he could not--she had always been so submissive to him. He often looked toward Thoma and wondered if she would not tell him what had passed between her and Anton the day before; and if she would not go with him to the celebration; but she remained motionless and silent. He ordered the wagon to be hitched up immediately; but Peter said that the horses had worked so much in the harvest-field during the week that they would have to rest to-day: at most the bay mare might be saddled, but that wouldn't be wise. Landolin looked at Peter furiously, but he did not want to quarrel with him; for, as long as they did not disagree openly, it was not noticeable that the authority was no longer his. So he consented to ride, but soon changed his mind and said he would go on foot.
As the church bells began to ring, he started for the city. "Won't you go to church, too?" asked his wife timidly. He answered angrily:
"No! They have sung and prayed thus far without me. I guess they can keep it up awhile longer."
This he said; but he thought besides: "They must treat me kindly before they can pray with clear conscience."
"Won't you wait till afternoon? I have something nice for you," said his wife.
"You are always talking about eating--beginning about dinner already! I have money in my pocket, and shall get myself something in town."
His wife made no answer, but pressed her prayer-book to her bosom. There are no more good thoughts in the book than in her heart, but both are now dumb.
As the bells were ringing for the third time, Landolin went down the road toward the city. A rider was trotting along after him. He came nearer. Landolin lifted his hat and said:
"Good-morning, Baron Discher. I owe you an explanation."
"I did not know it."
"I refused you as a juryman, through my attorney. I know you are a just man."
"Thank you."
"I only refused you because it would be pleasanter for you not to have to sit on a jury in such hot weather."
The Baron laughed and held the knob of his riding-whip to his mouth; then he said, "Good-morning," gave his horse the spur, and rode on.
A presentiment of the reception he was exposing himself to came over Landolin. He wanted to turn back: there was no necessity for his presence at the festival; but he was ashamed for his family to see him so irresolute. Peter is, then, in the right in having taken the reins from his hand. He went toward the town with long strides. Gunshots echoed, multiplying themselves in the wood through which he was passing, for the dedication of the flag was just beginning in the church.
Landolin moderated his step; indeed he sat down on the side of the road; he had already missed the chief solemnity, and could take his ease. The coach came up from the railway station. The driver asked Landolin if he would ride. Landolin was tired, and it was a good opportunity for returning; but he refused as if something drove him to the city. He laughed at himself as he recollected that in his childhood the May-meadow had been a place of execution. What can happen to him? He is acquitted, free, and in all honor.
Now clear trumpet-notes sounded from the upper town. Landolin hastened his steps--not to miss the procession.
Up and down the valley, in all the villages of the district, there was busy life on this Sunday morning. The children on the street announced to one another that they too were going. Not a few were exceedingly proud, for soldiers' caps had been given them; and many a father was persuaded into promising his son that he would buy him one, too. The youth of the whole district seemed to have caught a martial enthusiasm. The men of the fire-companies, in glittering helmets, gray linen coats, and red belts, assembled before the court-house. They formed in line, the signals were sounded; and they marched out, accompanied by an escort of men, women, and children. They stopped at the forest to put green twigs in their caps. The children shouted, the old people walked thoughtfully along, and the maids and matrons, in their Sunday dress, whispered to one another.
As the little mountain-rivulets flow down to the river in the valley, so to-day, the stream of humanity rose, and flowed down the roads and foot-paths, to the May-meadow near the city.
But there were few of the old peasant-costumes to be seen among the men. Military service and the railroads do away with that, and efface the many distinguishable differences between village and city. But in still another manner a new ground of equality is established. This marching side by side, and especially the election of the officers of the soldiers' associations and fire companies, bring about an equalization or readjustment of the former classification. To be sure the captain of the organization was the district forester, but Anton Armbruster was unanimously chosen lieutenant; and the son of the district physician, who was a merchant, and a member of the association, had cast his vote for Anton.
Landolin reached the valley in good season. The May-meadow on which the procession was to disband, where tables were arranged, and a green platform put up for the speakers, was kept clear by the young pupils of the Gymnasium.
The women and young girls, with their white aprons and gay caps, sat in rows and groups in the outer meadow near the forest, and some daring boys had climbed the linden trees, which to-day sent out a strong fragrance.
"They are coming! They are coming!" was heard among the waiting crowd; and the music of the trumpets at the head of the column was drowned by the hurrahs which arose from the people on the hollow slope of the meadow, and in the trees.
Landolin stood on the edge of the crowd, near the students, and was surrounded by a group of people who seemed not to know him.
The procession drew nearer. The band struck up one of the national hymns, and all the people joined in singing.
"Who is carrying the flag? Why, that is not the miller's Anton--where is he? I don't see him. He isn't there at all."
These words Landolin heard from the people behind him, and a feeling of terror came over him. He had intended to walk by Anton's side, and show the whole world on what friendly terms he was with the man who was so highly honored. Now Landolin felt as though his protector had forsaken him. He strained his eyes to see if Anton was not there after all, but he was not to be seen.
"See the lieutenant there. That is the son of the district judge--it was good of him to get a furlough to come to the celebration. Yes; he has inherited his good disposition from his parents; his mother in particular."
Thus the people around Landolin were talking. Then he heard a person who had just come up say:
"Do you know why Anton Armbruster did not come? He is ashamed, though he hasn't done anything to be ashamed of; but Landolin, whose acquittal was such an atrocity, was to be his father-in-law. Aha! There stands Landolin himself! That man there with the broad back, that's he."
Landolin's broad back moved. The cordon of students was broken, and he found himself in the midst of the festivities.
High up in the mountain forest, near the log-hut where the woodcutters lived from Monday morning till Saturday night, Anton sat this Sunday morning. About him lay axes, and wedges of iron or ash, as if resting themselves. For the men who used them had all gone down to the valley to spend the Sunday at home with their families, or perhaps at the celebration in the city. No sound was heard save the occasional twitter of the wren who was just brooding. All the other birds were mute, and the hawks circled in silence over the treetops. A drowsy odor of pitch from the felled trees and split wood rose from the ground on which the weary, tried young man had slept. A cannon thundered, and Anton awoke and felt at his side for his gun. He imagined for a moment that he was lying in the field before the enemy; but he smiled sadly as he reflected that the enemy he had to combat was no visible one, who could be mortally wounded. It was not a cannon which had awakened him, but a mortar from the city, where the flag was being dedicated. Anton drew a deep breath and his face lighted up as though he were being greeted by hundreds and hundreds of his old comrades, as though he held the many faithful hands that were stretched out toward him. But he soon looked sadly down before him. He had not only destroyed the celebration for himself, but had robbed his companions of a great part of their pleasure, by sending a messenger early in the morning to say he could not be with them. What did his companions' love profit him, when the love of the one for whom his heart beat was wanting? What did he care for a joy or an honor that Thoma did not share?
He stood up. There is yet time. He can yet hasten to join his comrades, and though late, he will be gladly welcomed. He rejected the thought, and gave himself up to painful questionings and fancies. Would he find happiness in anything again? He had humbled himself before Thoma, and she had scornfully spurned him. He had done what he could to set matters right again. Perhaps Thoma will be softened when she sees that for her sake he avoids the most enticing pleasures. She knows what he suffers, but what must she suffer!
Thoma was not in the solitude of the forest, she was solitary and forsaken in her father's house. She, too, heard the report of the mortar, and she asked herself if Anton was at the celebration, honored and happy. No, it cannot be. She mourned deeply that she had been forced to destroy and fill with sadness this day, and all the coming days of his life. She remembered in terror that she had yesterday said to Anton: "I cannot rejoice in stolen goods." Is it then so hopeless? Had not the words escaped unguardedly from the depth of sorrow? She almost envied her mother, who could sleep all day long. She must stay awake, and harbor such bitter thoughts in her soul.
What will happen to her father at the celebration? Will he, rebuffed on all sides, allow himself to be drawn into committing a new crime? With folded hands, staring fixedly before her, Thoma sat in her bed-room, till at last her heavy heart was lightened by a flood of tears.
Thoma was not curious to learn why Peter was talking with his mother so long, nor would it have given her pleasure had she known, for he whispered:
"Mother, hereafter you mustn't let father roam around the world this way, and I'll help you keep him at home. We've helped him through, and that's enough. He must be quiet now, and not keep people gaping at him."
The mother looked at Peter sadly, as though looking at a stranger. Peter understood the look to mean something quite different, and continued confidingly:
"We've got the upper hand now, mother; but we won't make a noise about it. Before, you weren't accounted anybody; neither was I. 'Twas always the farmer and Thoma; we two were never spoken of. Now help me. You can do it smoothly as a wife can, and I'll be quiet about it too. Not a soul shall notice that I control the farm. But, on the other hand, you must see to it that he doesn't roam around any more. Of course he's told you that he lost a great deal of money in stocks. However, that's past and over with. We won't say a word of reproach to him about it, but I'll guarantee that he shan't squander any more."
"Is our whole house bewitched?" said the mother, speaking her thoughts aloud--"Is our house no longer a home? Where shall I go?"
"Mother, you mustn't talk so, nor look at it that way. I am here, and you shall see what I'll do. Good fortune has followed us for your sake. Wherever I've been, people say, 'Yes certainly, Landolin must be helped out of his trouble, for Johanna's sake.'"
"Not for my sake," exclaimed his mother. "Your father is innocent, and he proved himself so; nothing is due to me."
"Of course not, and everything is all right. And besides, now let me tell you something. That Tobias is an unfaithful rascal. I shall only keep him through harvest; then I'll send him away. He may claim that it was he who lied father out of the scrape, but that won't help him; on the contrary he must learn that we don't fear him. Father was acquitted at the trial, and no appeal can be taken from that. I asked the lawyer."
After an astonished silence his mother asked,
"What did you say? Your father is no longer master?"
"Yes, mother; don't you think I've managed it cleverly? Not even you have noticed it. He thought, too, that I ought to keep Tobias; but I know better."
The mother and son sat a long time together in silence; but at length she said, "Take the wagon and go to meet your father. I feel as though something would happen to him; I am so frightened."
"Very well, mother, I will do as you say. I'll go, but I don't know whether I can find him or not."
"Yes, go, for heaven's sake, and be a good boy. I will try and get a little sleep."
Peter went; but he soon turned down an alley to a tavern where they were rolling ten-pins. Here he enjoyed himself highly, winning a good sum of money from the woodcutters of the upper forest, and from some half-grown boys; for Peter was an adept at ten-pins.
Landolin was suddenly in the midst of the crowded meadow, and the first person that he hit against was the one-handed man who had been his substitute in the army.
"Come here, I'll give you something," said Landolin, putting his hand into his pocket. The one-handed man hesitated to reach out his left hand, but at length he did it; for he couldn't bear to refuse a gift, although he was earning good wages, especially just now; for Anton had bought him some pictures of the heroes of our day, which he was hawking about, and he well understood the art of praising his wares. Titus watched Landolin as he gave the man something, and their eyes met, but neither greeted the other. Titus was of the opinion that Landolin should speak to him first in a very humble manner; and Landolin expected the man of unsullied honor to make the first advances.
Landolin saw Fidelis. The servant who had formerly been in his employ, passed by as though he didn't know him; perhaps he was annoyed that his master had been acquitted notwithstanding his damaging testimony. Landolin was inclined to speak to him and be friendly, but he heard Titus call him (for Fidelis was now in his service) and say: "Enjoy yourself as much as you can--your honor is without a stain--and I will pay for what you eat."
The maids of honor with wreaths on their heads went past, walking arm in arm. Their number had evidently been increased. They were the daughters of the district forester, of Titus, and of another farmer; but what would they all have been beside Thoma, had she been there?
The men shook hands and congratulated one another upon the pleasant day and the fine celebration. Landolin rubbed his cold hands--no one had touched his hand--was there blood sticking on it? Had he not been acquitted?
"What can be the matter with Anton Armbruster? What has kept him from coming?... The best part is wanting when he is away.... Thoma wouldn't let him come to the celebration.... No, their engagement is broken off.... I'll tell you; Anton is ashamed of Landolin, whose acquittal was such an atrocity. Look! There he goes now."
Such, and still more biting words Landolin heard from every group, as he went around like one risen from the dead, with whom no one would have anything to do. "I have not deserved this, not this----" said Landolin, angry and at the same time sad. His eyes burned as they sought a friendly glance. He not only felt that all the people at the celebration disliked him because of what he had done, and delighted to wound him by ignoring his presence, but he also saw plainly that they were particularly angry at him, because on his account Anton was absent. Here, at the very place where, on the day of the fair, he had vaingloriously boasted that he considered Anton of lower station than himself--here he was made to hear how universally the man whom he might have called son was beloved and honored.
Landolin turned to go. Why should he stay? But "Hush! Stand still!" was heard from all sides; for a trumpet sounded, and the district forester mounted the platform. He said that Anton Armbruster had been selected to welcome their friends and comrades.
Cries of "Hurrah for Anton!" arose here and there; but silence was commanded, and the forester, in simple words, welcomed the guests, and explained the significance of the celebration. He said he intended to be brief, for hungry stomachs do not like to be fed with words; and he concluded with a cheer for the Fatherland.
"To dinner! To dinner!" was now the cry. The tables were soon crowded, while the band played lively airs. Titus sat at a table with the other rich farmers. Landolin took a chair, and saying, "With your leave," sat down with them.
"So, Mr. Ex-bailiff, you here too?" Landolin heard himself addressed, and turning around, saw Engelbert, the shepherd of Gerlachseck, who had wanted to hire out to him. He now wore a large white apron, for the hostess of the Sword had engaged him as an assistant for the day. Landolin did not answer.
His companions at table ate and drank heartily, and talked loudly, but no one spoke a word to Landolin, until at length Titus said: "Well, how is it, Landolin? I hear you're going to sell your farm. If that's so, I'm a purchaser. I'll pay a good price. You can have a valuation put on it."
"Who said that I was going to sell?"
"Oh, it's generally reported that you're going to leave the neighborhood."
"If I knew who started that story, I'd pull his tongue out of his throat."
"I wouldn't do that," laughed Titus; "you certainly ought to know that that isn't a good plan."
"'Twas you," cried Landolin, "that started it--you!"
Titus gave no answer, but got up and walked away; the others soon followed him, and Landolin was left alone at the table.
Music filled the air. There was dancing; and during the intervals people laughed and sang, and made merry, while Landolin struggled with rage and sorrow. Are these people here all snow-white innocents? Are there not dozens of them who have much worse things on their conscience?
He wished that he had power to rush in and crush everything under foot.
At other times a sadness came over him, and he thought: "Were I only in prison, or, better still, not in the world at all."
But lest he should show his emotion, he leaned back, lighted his pipe, and smoked with a defiant look on his face. "They shall not succeed in making me eat humble pie."
At that moment merry laughter arose from the table where the people of rank were sitting. "What does that mean? Are the great folks rejoicing over my misfortune? No, that cannot be, for there sits the judge's wife, with her son, the lieutenant."
At this table, which was spread with a white linen cloth, and decorated with vases of flowers, the school-teacher was just saying:
"Yes, Madam Pfann, that is the hardest riddle hidden in the whole history of man. Why can nothing but a myth or a people's war move the souls of the masses? In a war the souls of nations see one another, if one may say so, face to face."
He paused in the midst of his dissertation; for the lieutenant said in a clear voice:
"The Frenchmen literally took us for cannibals. In a village near Orleans, I went to a house and called; there was no answer. Presently I saw a woman, sitting on top of the brick oven; I spoke to her pleasantly, but she remained dumb, until, at last, I asked where the children were. She looked at me in terror; and I said, laughing: 'Bring me one, and roast it well. I want to eat it.' Then the woman laughed too, and let the children out of the oven, where she had really hidden them."
It was at this they had laughed so loud, at the great folk's table. They were all pleased with the lieutenant, whose former wild boyishness had changed to dignified composure. The eyes of the judge's wife danced with a mother's pride; and if she was always thoughtful of comforting and helping others, to-day she would have been glad to have poured joy upon every one. But to-day no one needed her, for there was joy and happiness everywhere. Just then she saw Landolin, and said:
"There sits the farmer of Reutershöfen all alone."
"It is well," said the district forester, "that the people are still strong-hearted and straight-forward enough to cast out a man who was unjustly acquitted."
"Wolfgang, come with me," said the judge's wife, rising; and taking her son's arm, she went to Landolin's table. She said to her son that she would remain there, and that he might join his comrades; and giving her hand to Landolin, she sat down beside him, asked after his wife and daughter--people never asked after Peter--and promised to visit them soon. She also intimated that she hoped to be able to straighten out the difficulty with Anton. Landolin told her, composedly, that Anton had visited them the evening before, but that Thoma had refused him, and that was probably the cause of his staying away from the celebration.
"Had I known that, I should not have come either," he concluded; and the lady discovered what suffering he must that day have undergone; and with the most sympathetic expression of voice and countenance, she said:
"Ex-bailiff, I have some good advice for you."
"Good advice? that is always useful."
"I think you ought to go away with Thoma for a few weeks. Go to a bathing place. It will do you good."
"I'm not sick. There is nothing the matter with me. I didn't know that our judge's wife was a doctor, too."
"You understand what I mean."
"I'm sorry I'm so stupid, but I don't understand you."
"Then I must speak plainly. Do you think that I desire your welfare?"
"Yes, certainly; why not?"
"You ought to go away a few weeks, and when you come back matters will be in a better condition. Other things will have happened in the meantime, and----You may believe me it would be well."
Landolin shook his head, and said after a long silence: "I know you mean thoroughly well; of course you do; but I shall not stir from this spot. I'll stay, if only to fool the rest of them. Already the honorable Titus--the hypocrite!--has been trying to spread the rumor that I am going to sell my farm. I'll stay here and cry fie upon the whole country. We have owned our farm for hundreds and hundreds of years. You can ask Walderjörgli; he will testify."
"I believe your word alone," said the judge's wife; Landolin nodded well pleased, for it did him good to be so readily believed, and he continued, in a clear voice:
"Yes, madame, we farmers are not so easily displaced as the----people of rank. We at Reutershöfen are a strong stock; people may dig as much as they choose at the roots; they will not bring it down."
All his pride arose; his sunken face became full; his form seemed to grow larger. The judge's wife did not know what more to say; and she would have been heard no longer, for a thousand voices cried:
"Walderjörgli! The Master of Justice! Walderjörgli!"
The cry spread, the girls and children on the further meadow took it up; crying, "Walderjörgli!"
A man appeared, who stood head and shoulders above all who surrounded him. His head was covered with soft, snow-white hair; his snow-white beard fell far down to his breast, and his face, with its heavy contracted brows and its large nose, looked as if chiseled with an axe.
"Hutadi! Hutadi!" screamed Landolin, springing up as if in a frenzy, and dashing into the crowd. "Hutadi!" he screamed, stretching out his arms, and clenching his fist in Titus' face.
"Be quiet, Landolin! The time for that has gone by," said Walderjörgli in a commanding tone; and laid his broad hand between the combatants. They stood still; but their chests heaved, and they looked down at the ground like chidden boys.
The ancient cry of defiance, "Hutadi!"--no one knows exactly what it means; probably 'Beware' or 'Take care of yourself'--was formerly regarded as a challenge which no one could refuse. When it rang out, whether from forest or from meadow, whoever heard it must give battle to him who called.
In his youth, Walderjörgli had been considered the readiest and most powerful of combatants; but in his riper years he had become one of the most even-tempered and circumspect of men, so that he was elected Master of Justice for the forest republic in the mountain; which, as an independent peasant state, acknowledged no lord but the emperor.
Jörgli settled lawsuits, decreed punishments, and in conjunction with the council, apportioned the taxes; and all without appeal.
Jörgli was the only survivor of that last embassy which the forest peasants sent to the emperor at Vienna, to protest against being made subject to any prince. They desired to remain a free peasantry of the empire. Jörgli insisted that he was ninety-three years of age, but it was universally believed that he was already over a hundred; for the church registers had been burned with the church and parsonage in Napoleon's time.
The thought flashed through Landolin's mind that Walderjörgli could, with one stroke, reinstate him in all his old honor; so he said:
"From you, Master of Justice, I am glad to receive commands. All reverence is due you; and besides, you were my grandfather's dearest friend."
He laid his hand on his heart, and hoped that Walderjörgli would grasp it; but the old man looked sternly at him from under his bushy, snow-white brows, and said:
"How is your wife?"
Landolin could scarcely answer. What did this mean? His health was not asked after! Had his wife then suddenly acquired any peculiar distinction? Did the old man ask after her only to avoid asking after Landolin's own health?
He stammered out an answer; and the old man sent a greeting by him to his wife, who was "a good, honest housewife." Landolin smiled. If nothing is given him, still it's well that one of his family gets something, for then he too has a share in it.
Landolin informed the bystanders that Walderjörgli's family and his own were the oldest in the country, for theirs had been the only two farmer families that had survived the war with Sweden. While he was talking, he noticed that nobody listened to him; but he went on, and finished what he was saying with his eyes fixed on the ground.
The judge's wife had approached, and Titus gained an advantage by introducing her, and saying:
"This is the benefactress of the whole neighborhood."
Jörgli took the lady's delicate hand in his large one, and said:
"I've heard of you before. You are a noble woman; it is well. In old times women were not of so much account as they are now. But it is quite right now. And is that your son? Did you not once come to see me when you were a student? You have behaved yourself nobly."
He clapped the lieutenant on the shoulder, and every one was astonished that Walderjörgli still talked so well, and knew everything that was going on. It was considered a great honor to be spoken to by him.
Titus said very cleverly what an honor it was that Walderjörgli had come to the celebration, and begged that he would ascend the platform and speak a few pithy words to the assembly. The judge's wife added that it would be a precious memory to old and young, to children and children's children, if they could say that they had heard the last Master of Justice speak.
Walderjörgli looked at Titus and the judge's wife with a penetrating, almost contemptuous glance; for he was not vain, nor did he wish to be considered wise, and play the part of a prophet; so he shook his great head, and stuck his thumbs into the arm-holes of his long red vest, but straightened himself to his full height, and his eyes sparkled, when the district forester, who knew exactly how to deal with Jörgli, added that it would be well if the clergy were not allowed to entirely monopolize everything, even the soldier's associations, and to dedicate the flag; it would be particularly appropriate that a man like Jörgli should drive the nail that fastened the flag to the staff: the Emperor Joseph would certainly have approved of that.
When the Emperor Joseph was mentioned it seemed as if a new life were awakened in Jörgli. Around Emperor Joseph, who was venerated like a holy martyr, were gathered recollections of Jörgli's father, which he almost considered events in his own life.
He clenched his hands, and raising his arms, said, "Very well; so let it be."
He was led to the platform, and boundless were the acclamations of joy when he appeared, supported on the right hand by Titus, and on the left by the lieutenant.
There fell such a silence that the people noticed the whirring of the wings of a pair of doves which flew over the speaker's stand. Pointing to them, Jörgli cried:
"There they fly! One says not to the other, 'We will turn this way or that.' Their flight agrees by nature. So it is. Agreeing by nature--"
He paused, and seemed unable to proceed. The figure had evidently led him off from what he meant to say. He looked around perplexed, and seemed not to be able to speak another word--yes, even to have forgotten that he stood upon the platform.
His two companions above, and the audience below, stood in painful embarrassment. It was wrong to have brought an old man of a hundred on the stand.
Just then the district forester, who stood near, said audibly, "Emperor Joseph."
Jörgli opened his mouth wide and nodded. Yes, now he had his guiding-star again. Almost inaudibly, and in a very confused manner, he spoke of the Emperor Joseph and of the new emperor. Only this much was plain--that he considered the present emperor as the direct successor and continuer of the Emperor Joseph's struggles against the Pope.
Titus handed Jörgli a nail, and the lieutenant gave him a hammer. He nailed the flag to the flag-staff, and this widely visible act was more than the best speech; and he left the stand amid cheers and the sounds of trumpets.
He immediately called for his wagon. He wished to go home, and no one dared urge him to remain.
The four-horse wagon drove up the meadow. Landolin pushed his way up to it, and said, "Jörgli, I will go home with you. Take me along."
"Give my greetings to your wife," said Jörgli, turning away from him. He let himself be helped into the wagon, and then drove away. The wheels were hardly heard on the meadow, and the people on both sides saluted reverently, as they made way for him.
"How glad I should have been, if I could have sat in the wagon beside him!" thought Landolin.
No one ever prayed--no one ever offered to an angel,--to a saint,--more childlike petitions than these--"Take me with you; deliver me from this misery,"--which had just passed Landolin's lips. But in these days the best are no longer good, and have no pity.
When Jörgli had gone the merriment began anew. They invited one another to drink, and new groups were soon formed. Only Landolin was not invited. He stood alone. Stop! Landolin struck his hand on his pocket, and the money jingled. With that a man can call a comrade who will talk with him better than any one else, and make him forget his cares.
He turned away from the meadow, and went to the city side of the Sword Inn. There were no guests there to-day. An old servant brought him wine. He drank alone, and had his glass refilled again and again.
As he still wanted every one to consider him of great importance, he explained to the old waitress that he was going to a bathing place for his health pretty soon. There they wouldn't let a man drink anything but mineral water, and so he was going to take plenty of wine before he went.
The old waitress said that was wise, and then returned to the illustrated paper which she had brought down from the Casino.
It was quiet in the cool room. Only a canary bird in his cage twittered awhile, and then began whistling half of the song "Who never on a spree did go."
Landolin frequently looked up at the bird and smiled; until, remembering Walderjörgli, he murmured, "Give my greeting to your wife."