The German Classics of The Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Vol. VII. by Various

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"One, two, three, four, five, six--it is all right."

Thereupon the second maid counted out from a large piece of cloth into a
basket in front of the Pastor's maid, three score eggs and six round
cheeses, not without the Sexton's carefully counting them all over after
her. After this was done, the Sexton said:

"So then the Pastor is provided for, and now comes the Sexton."

Thereupon thirteen eggs and a single cheese were put into the basket in
front of his wife, who tested the freshness of each egg by shaking and
smelling it, and rejected two. After this proceeding the Sexton stood up
and said to the Justice:

"How is it, Justice, about the second cheese which the Sexton still has
the right to expect from the farm?"

"You yourself know, Sexton, that the right to the second cheese has
never been recognized by the Oberhof," replied the Justice. "This
alleged second cheese was due from the Baumann estate, which more than a
hundred years ago was united under one hand with the Oberhof. Later on,
the two were again divided, and the Oberhof is obligated for only one
cheese."

The Sexton's ruddy brown face took on the deepest wrinkles that it was
capable of producing, and divided itself into several pensive sections
of a square, roundish or angular shape. He said:

"Where is the Baumann estate? It was split up and went to pieces in the
times of disturbance. Is the Sexton's office to be the loser on that
account? It should not be so! Nevertheless, expressly reserving each and
every right in the matter of the second cheese due from the Oberhof, and
contested now for a hundred years, I hereby receive and accept one
cheese. In accordance with which the legitimate dues of the Oberhof to
both Pastor and Sexton are paid, and now comes the good-will."

The latter consisted of freshly-baked rolls, six of which were laid in
the Pastor's basket and two in the Sexton's. With that the entire
ceremony was concluded. The Sexton came closer to the Justice, and
recited the following third effusion:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII

THE STRANGE FLOWER AND THE BEAUTIFUL GIRL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration: LISBETH]

CHAPTER IX

THE HUNTER SHOOTS AND HITS THE MARK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration: OSWALD. THE HUNTER _By Benjamin Vautier_]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He now fitted up a seat for her by laying his bag on the stone, bound
his handkerchief around her neck, and gently and loosely laid his coat
over her shoulders. She sat down on the stone. He took a seat beside her
and invited her to rest her head, for relief, against his breast. She
did so.

The moon, in its full clarity, had risen high in the heavens, and now
shone down with almost daytime brightness on the couple, whom a rude
accident had thus brought so close together. In the most intimate
proximity the strange man sat by the strange girl; she uttered low moans
of pain on his breast, while down his cheeks the tears ran
irrepressibly. Round about them the silent solitude of night was slowly
gathering.

Finally Fortune so willed it that a late wanderer passed through the
cornfields. The Hunter's call reached his ears; he hurried to the spot
and was dispatched at once to the Oberhof. Soon afterwards footsteps
were heard coming up the hill; the men were bringing a sedan chair with
cushions. The Hunter gently lifted the wounded girl into it, and thus,
late at night, she reached the sheltering roof of her old friend, who
was, to be sure, greatly astonished to see his expected guest arrive in
such a condition.

CHAPTER X

THE WEDDING

On a clear morning in August there were so many cooking fires burning at
the Oberhof that it seemed as if they might be expecting the entire
population of all the surrounding towns to dinner. Over the hearth fire,
built up to unusual size with great logs and fagots, there was hanging
on a notched iron hook the very largest kettle that the household
possessed. Six or seven iron pots stood round these fires with their
contents boiling and bubbling. In the space before the house, toward the
oak grove, there were crackling, if history reports the truth, nine
fires, and an equal number, or at the most one less, in the yard near
the lindens. Over all these cooking-places jacks or roasters had been
erected, on which frying-pans were resting, or on which kettles of no
small size were hanging, although none of them could compare in capacity
with the one which was doing duty over the hearth fire.

The maids of the Oberhof were briskly hurrying back and forth with
skimming-spoons or forks between the various cooking-places. If the
guests were to find the food palatable, there could not be any dawdling
over the skimming and turning. For in the large kettle over the hearth
eight hens lent strength to the soup, and in the other twenty-three
or-four pots, kettles, and pans there were boiling or roasting six hams,
three turkeys, and five pigs, besides a corresponding number of hens.

While the maids were exerting themselves, the men too were industriously
attending to their part of the work. The one with the black eyes was
building an immense, long table with stands, blocks, and boards, in the
orchard among the flower-beds, having already completed a similar
construction in the entrance-hall. The fat, slow one was decorating with
green birch twigs the gates of the house, the walls of the
entrance-hall, and the doors of the two rooms in which the Pastor and
his Sexton had once eaten. He sighed deeply over this delightful green
work, and the heat, too, seemed to oppress him greatly. Nevertheless an
easier task had fallen to him than to his fellow-partner, the gruff,
red-haired man. For the former had only flexible May twigs to deal with,
whereas it fell to the latter to decorate the cattle for the festivity.
The red-haired man was, accordingly, gilding with gold tinsel the horns
of the cows and bullocks, which were standing on one side of the
entrance-hall behind their mangers, or else was tying bright-colored
bows and tassels around them. This was, in fact, a provoking task,
especially for an irascible man. For many of the cows and an occasional
bullock would have absolutely nothing to do with the festival, but shook
their heads and butted sideways with their horns, as often as the
red-haired fellow came anywhere near them with the tinsel and brush. For
a long time he suppressed his natural instinct, and merely grumbled
softly once in a while when a horn knocked the brush or the tinsel out
of his hand. These grumbles, however, scarcely interrupted the general
silence in which all the busily occupied people were attending to their
work. But when, finally, the pride of the stable, a large white-spotted
cow, with which he had been struggling in vain for more than a quarter
of an hour, became positively malicious and tried to give the red-haired
fellow a dangerous thrust, he lost all patience. Springing aside, he
seized that fence-pole with which he had once restrained himself from
striking Peter of the Bandkotten, and which happened by chance to be
handy, and gave the obstinate beast such a mighty blow on the groins
with the heavy end of it that the cow bellowed with pain, her sides
began to quiver, and her nostrils to snort.

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