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

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"My woodchoppers!" The naturally dark complexion of the forester changed
to a deep brownish red. "How many of them are there, and where are they
doing their job?"

"Wherever you have sent them; I don't know."

Brandes turned to his comrades. "Go ahead; I'll follow directly." When
one by one they had disappeared in the thicket, Brandes stepped close up
to the boy. "Frederick," he said in tones of suppressed rage, "my
patience is worn out; I'd like to thrash you like a dog, and that's no
worse than you deserve. You bundle of rags, without a tile in your roof
to call your own! Thank God, you'll soon find yourself begging; and at
my door, your mother, the old witch, shan't get as much as a moldy
crust! But first both of you'll go to the dungeon!"

Frederick clutched a branch convulsively. He was pale as death, and his
eyes looked as if they would shoot out of his head like crystal
bullets--but only for a moment. Then the greatest calmness, bordering on
complete relaxation, returned. "Sir," he said firmly, in an almost
gentle voice, "you have said something that you cannot defend, and so,
perhaps, have I. Let us call it quits; and now I will tell you what you
wish. If you did not engage the woodchoppers yourself, they must be the
'Blue Smocks,' for not a wagon has come from the village; why, the road
is right before me, and there are four wagons. I did not see them, but
I heard them drive up the pass." He faltered a moment. "Can you say that
I have ever hewn a tree on your land, or even that I ever raised my axe
in any other place but where I was ordered to? Think it over, whether
you can say that?" A confused muttering was the forester's only answer;
like most blunt people, he repented easily. He turned, exasperated, and
started toward the shrubbery. "No, sir," called Frederick, "if you want
to follow the other foresters, they've gone up yonder by the
beech-tree."

"By the beech-tree!" exclaimed Brandes doubtfully. "No, across there,
toward Mast Gorge."

"I tell you, by the beech-tree; long Heinrich's gun-sling even caught on
the crooked branch; why, I saw it!"

The forester turned into the path designated. Frederick had not changed
his position the whole time; half reclining, with his arm wound about a
dry branch, he gazed immovably after the departing man, as he glided
through the thickly wooded path with the long cautious steps
characteristic of his profession, as noiseless as a lynx climbing into
the hen-roost. Here and there a branch sank behind him; the outlines of
his body became fainter and fainter. Then there was one final flash
through the foliage; it was a steel button on his hunting jacket; and
now he was gone. During this gradual disappearance Frederick's face had
lost its expression of coldness, and his features had finally become
anxious and restless. Was he sorry, perhaps, that he had not asked the
forester to keep his information secret? He took a few steps forward,
then stopped. "It is too late," he mused, and reached for his hat. There
was a soft pecking in the thicket, not twenty paces from him. It was the
forester sharpening his flint-stone. Frederick listened. "No!" he said
in a decisive tone, gathered up his belongings, and hastily drove the
cattle down into the hollow.

About noon, Margaret was sitting by the hearth, boiling tea. Frederick
had come home sick; he had complained of a violent headache and had told
her, upon her anxious questioning, how he had become deeply provoked
with the forester--in short, all about the incident just described, with
the exception of several details which he considered wiser to keep to
himself. Margaret gazed into the boiling water, silent and sad. She was
not unaccustomed to hear her son complain at times, but today he seemed
more shaken than ever. Was this perhaps the symptom of some illness?
She, sighed deeply and dropped a log of wood she had just lifted.

"Mother!" called Frederick from the bedroom. "What is it? Was that a
shot?"

"Oh, no! I don't know what you mean."

"I suppose it's the throbbing in my head," he replied. A neighbor
stepped in and related in a low whisper some bit of unimportant gossip
which Margaret listened to without interest. Then she went. "Mother!"
called Frederick. Margaret went in to him. "What did Huelsmeyer's wife
say?"

"Oh, nothing at all--lies, nonsense!" Frederick sat up. "About Gretchen
Siemers; you know the old story well enough!--there isn't a word of
truth in it either."

Frederick lay down again. "I'll see if I can sleep," he said.

Margaret was sitting by the hearth. She was spinning and thinking of
rather unpleasant things. The village clock struck half-past eleven; the
door opened and the court-clerk, Kapp, came in. "Good day, Mrs. Mergel,"
he said. "Can you give me a drink of milk? I'm on my way from M." When
Mrs. Mergel brought what he wished, he asked "Where is Frederick?" She
was just then busy getting a plate out and did not hear the question. He
drank hesitatingly and in short draughts. Then he asked, "Do you know
that last night the 'Blue Smocks' again cleared away a whole tract in
the Mast forest as bare as my hand?"

"Oh, you don't mean it!" she replied indifferently.

"The scoundrels!" continued the clerk. "They ruin everything; if only
they had a little regard at least for the young trees; but they go after
little oaks of the thickness of my arm, too small even to make oars of!
It looks as if loss on the part of other people were just as gratifying
to them as gain on their own part!"

"It's a shame!" said Margaret.

The clerk had finished his milk, but still he did not go. He seemed to
have something on his mind. "Have you heard nothing about Brandes?" he
asked suddenly.

"Nothing; he never enters this house."

"Then you don't know what has happened to him?"

"Why, what?" asked Margaret, agitated.

"He is dead!"

"Dead!" she cried. "What, dead? For God's sake! Why, only this morning
he passed by here, perfectly well, with his gun on his back!"

"He is dead," repeated the clerk, eyeing her sharply, "killed by the
'Blue Smocks.' The body was brought into the village fifteen minutes
ago."

Margaret clasped her hands. "God in Heaven, do not judge him! He did not
know what he was doing!"

"Him!" cried the clerk--"the cursed murderer you mean?"

A heavy groan came from the bedroom. Margaret hurried there and the
clerk followed her. Frederick was sitting upright in bed, with his face
buried in his hands, and moaning like one dying. "Frederick, how do you
feel?" asked his mother.

"How do you feel?" repeated the clerk.

"Oh, my body, my head!" he wailed.

"What's the matter with him?" inquired the clerk.

"Oh, God knows," she replied; "he came home with the cows as early as
four o'clock because he felt sick." "Frederick, Frederick, answer me!
Shall I go for the doctor?"

"No, no," he groaned; "it is only the colic; I'll be better soon." He
lay down again; his face twitched convulsively with pain; then his color
returned. "Go," he said, feebly; "I must sleep; then it will pass away."

"Mistress Mergel," asked the clerk earnestly, "are you sure that
Frederick came home at four and did not go away again?"

She stared in his face. "Ask any child on the street. And go away?--I
wish to God he could!"

"Didn't he tell you anything about Brandes?"

"In the name of God, yes--that Brandes had reviled him in the woods and
reproached him with our poverty, the rascal! But God forgive me, he is
dead! Go!" she continued; "have you come to insult honest people? Go!"

She turned to her son again, as the clerk went out. "Frederick, how do
you feel?" asked his mother. "Did you hear? Terrible, terrible--without
confession or absolution!"

"Mother, mother, for God's sake, let me sleep. I can stand no more!"

At this moment John Nobody entered the room; tall and thin like a
bean-pole, but ragged and shy, as we had seen him five years before. His
face was even paler than usual. "Frederick," he stuttered, "you are to
come to your Uncle immediately; he has work for you; without delay,
now!"

Frederick turned toward the wall. "I won't come," he snapped, "I am
sick."

"But you must come," gasped John; "he said I must bring you back."

Frederick laughed scornfully. "I'd like to see you!"

"Let him alone; he can't," sighed Margaret; "you see how it is." She
went out for a few minutes; when she returned, Frederick was already
dressed. "What are you thinking of?" she cried. "You cannot, you shall
not go!"

"What must be, must," he replied, and was gone through the door with
John.

"Oh, God," sobbed the mother, "when children are small they trample our
laps, and when they are grown, our hearts!"

The judicial investigation had begun, the deed was as clear as day; but
the evidence concerning the perpetrator was so scanty that, although all
circumstances pointed strongly towards the "Blue Smocks," nothing but
conjectures could be risked. One clue seemed to throw some light
upon the matter; there were reasons, however, why but little dependence
could be placed on it. The absence of the owner of the estate had made
it necessary for the clerk of the court to start the case himself. He
was sitting at his table; the room was crowded with peasants, partly
those who came out of curiosity, and partly those from whom the court
hoped to receive some information, since actual witnesses were
lacking--shepherds who had been watching their flocks that night,
laborers who had been working in near-by fields; all stood erect and
firm,, with their hands in their pockets, as if thus silently
manifesting their intention not to interfere.

Eight forest officers were heard; their evidence was entirely identical.
Brandes, on the tenth day of the month, had ordered them to go the
rounds because he had evidently secured information concerning a plan of
the "Blue Smocks"; he had, however, expressed himself but vaguely
regarding the matter. At about two o'clock at night they had gone out
and had come upon many traces of destruction, which put the
head-forester in a very bad humor; otherwise, everything had been quiet.
About four o'clock Brandes had said, "We have been led astray; let us go
home." When they had come around Bremer mountain and the wind had
changed at the same time, they had distinctly heard chopping in the Mast
forest and concluded from the quick succession of the strokes that the
"Blue Smocks" were at work. They had deliberated a while whether it were
practical to attack the bold band with such a small force, and then had
slowly approached the source of the sound without any fixed
determination. Then followed the scene with Frederick. Finally, after
Brandes had sent them away without instructions they had gone forward a
while and then, when they noticed that the noise in the woods, still
rather far away, had entirely ceased, they had stopped to wait for the
head-forester.

They had grown tired of waiting, and after about ten minutes had
gone on toward the scene of devastation. It was all over; not another
sound was to be heard in the forest; of twenty fallen trees eight were
still left, the rest had been made way with. It was incomprehensible to
them how this had been accomplished, since no wagon tracks were to be
found. Moreover, the dryness of the season and the fact that the earth
was strewn with pine-needles had prevented their distinguishing any
footprints, although the ground in the vicinity looked as if it had been
firmly stamped down. Then, having come to the conclusion that there was
no point in waiting for the head-forester, they had quickly walked to
the other side of the wood in the hope of perhaps catching a glimpse of
the thieves. Here one of them had caught his bottle-string in the
brambles on the way out of the wood, and when he had looked around he
had seen something flash in the shrubbery; it was the belt-buckle of the
head-forester whom they then found lying behind the brambles, stretched
out, with his right hand clutching the barrel of his gun, the other
clenched, and his forehead split with an axe.

These were the statements of the foresters. It was then the peasants'
turn, but no evidence could be obtained from them. Some declared they
had been at home or busy somewhere else at four o'clock, and they were
all decent people, not to be suspected. The court had to content itself
with their negative testimonies.

Frederick was called in. He entered with a manner in no respect
different from his usual one, neither strained nor bold. His hearing
lasted some time, and some of the questions were rather shrewdly framed;
however, he answered them frankly and decisively and related the
incident between himself and the forester truthfully, on the whole,
except the end, which he deemed expedient to keep to himself. His alibi
at the time of the murder was easily proved. The forester lay at the end
of the Mast forest more than three-quarters of an hour's walk from the
ravine where he had spoken with Frederick at four o'clock, and whence
the latter had driven his cows only ten minutes later. Every one had
seen this; all the peasants present did their utmost to confirm it; to
this one he had spoken, to that one, nodded.

The court clerk sat ill-humored and embarrassed. Suddenly he reached
behind him and, presenting something gleaming to Frederick's gaze,
cried: "To whom does this belong?" Frederick jumped back three paces,
exclaiming, "Lord Jesus! I thought you were going to brain me."

His eyes had quickly passed across the deadly tool and seemed to fix
themselves for a moment on a splinter broken out of the handle. "I do
not know," he added firmly. It was the axe which they had found plunged
in the head-forester's skull.

"Look at it carefully," continued the clerk. Frederick took it in his
hand, looked at the top, the bottom, turned it over. "One axe looks like
another," he then said, and laid it unconcernedly on the table. A
blood-stain was visible; he seemed to shudder, but he repeated once more
with decision: "I do not know it." The clerk of the court sighed with
displeasure. He himself knew of nothing more, and had only sought to
bring about a possible disclosure through surprise. There was nothing
left to do but to close the hearing.

To those who are perhaps interested in the outcome of this affair, I
must say that the story was never cleared up, although much effort was
made to throw light upon it and several other judicial examinations
followed. The sensation which the incident had caused and the more
stringent measures adopted in consequence of it, seemed to have broken
the courage of the "Blue Smocks"; from now on it looked as though they
had entirely disappeared, and although many a wood-thief was caught
after that, they never found cause to connect him with the notorious
band. Twenty years afterwards the axe lay as a useless _corpus delicti_
in the archives of the court, where it is probably resting yet with its
rust spots. In a made-up story it would be wrong thus to disappoint the
curiosity of the reader, but all this actually happened; I can add or
detract nothing. The next Sunday Frederick rose very early to go to
confession. It was the day of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin and
the parish priests were in the confessionals before dawn. He dressed in
the dark, and as quietly as possible left the narrow closet which had
been consigned to him in Simon's house. His prayer-book, he thought,
would be lying on the mantelpiece in the kitchen, and he hoped to find
it with the help of the faint moonlight. It was not there. He glanced
searchingly around, and started; at the bedroom door stood Simon,
half-dressed; his rough figure, his uncombed, tangled hair, and the
paleness of his face in the moonlight, gave him a horribly changed
appearance. "Can he possibly be walking in his sleep?" thought
Frederick, and kept quite still. "Frederick, where are you going?"
whispered the old man.

"Uncle, is that you? I am on my way to confession."

"That's what I thought; go, in the name of God, but confess like a good
Christian."

"That I will," said Frederick.

Think of the Ten Commandments: 'Thou shalt not bear witness against thy
neighbor.'"

"Not _false_ witness!"

"No, none at all; you have been badly taught; he who accuses another in
his confession is unworthy to receive the Sacrament."

Both were silent. "Uncle, what makes you think of this?" Frederick
finally asked. "Your conscience is not clear; you have lied to me."

"I? How?"

"Where is your axe?"

"My axe? On the barn-floor."

"Did you make a new handle for it? Where is the old one?"

"You'll find it at daylight in the woodshed."

"Go," he continued scornfully. "I thought you were a man; but you are
like an old woman who thinks the house must be on fire as soon as she
sees smoke rising from her pot. See," he went on, "if I know anything
more about this story than that doorpost there, may I never hope for
salvation. I was at home long before," he added. Frederick stood still,
oppressed and doubtful. He would have given much to be able to see his
uncle's face. But while they were whispering, the sky had clouded over.

"I am very guilty," sighed Frederick, "because I sent him the wrong way;
although--but still, I never thought it would come to this, no,
certainly not! Uncle, I have you to thank for a troubled conscience."

"Well, go and confess!" whispered Simon in a trembling voice. "Desecrate
the Sacrament by tale-bearing, and set a spy on poor people who will
manage to find a way to snatch their bit of bread from between their
teeth, even if he is not permitted to talk--go!" Frederick stood,
undecided; he heard a soft noise; the clouds cleared away, the moonlight
again fell on the bedroom door; it was closed. Frederick did not go to
confession that morning.

The impression which this incident had made on Frederick wore off only
too soon. Who doubts that Simon did everything to lead his adopted son
down the same paths that he was following? And Frederick possessed
qualities which made this only too easy: carelessness, excitability,
and, above all, boundless pride, which did not always scorn pretense and
ended by doing its utmost to escape possible disgrace, by trying to
realize what it first had pretended to possess. He was not naturally
ignoble, but he fell into the habit of preferring inward to outward
shame. One need only say that he habitually made a display while his
mother starved.

This unfortunate change in his character was, however, the work of many
years, during which it was noticed that Margaret became more and more
quiet on the subject of her son, and gradually came to a state of
demoralization which once would have been thought impossible. She became
timid, negligent, even slovenly, and many thought her brain had
suffered. Frederick, on the other hand, grew all the more
self-assertive; he missed no fair or wedding, and since his irritable
sense of honor would not permit him to overlook the secret
disapprobation of many, he was, so to speak, up in arms, not so much to
defy public opinion as to direct it into the channel which pleased him.
Externally he was neat, sober, apparently affable, but crafty, boastful,
and often coarse--a man in whom no one could take delight, least of all
his mother, and who, nevertheless, through his audacity, which every one
feared, and through his cunning, which they dreaded even more, had
attained a certain preeminence in the village. The preeminence came to
be acknowledged more and more as people became conscious of the fact
that they neither knew him nor could guess of what he might be capable.
Only one young fellow in the village, Will Huelsmeyer, who realized his
own strength and good circumstances, dared to defy him. Since he was
also readier with his tongue than Frederick, and could always make a
pointed joke, he was the only one whom Frederick did not like to meet.

Four years had passed. It was the month of October; the open autumn of
1760, which filled every barn with corn and every cellar with wine, had
also lavished its riches on this corner of the earth, and more
intoxicated people were seen and more fights and stupid tricks were
heard of than ever before. Everywhere there were festivities; Blue
Mondays were the fashion, and whoever had laid aside a few dollars
quickly wanted also a wife to help him feast today and starve tomorrow.
A big, noteworthy wedding took place in the village, and the guests
could expect more than the one violin, generally out of tune, than the
single glass of whiskey, and higher spirits than they themselves brought
along. Since the early morning all had been astir; clothing had been
aired in front of every door, and all day B. had looked like a
frippery-stall. Since many outsiders were expected, everybody was
anxious to uphold the honor of the village.

It was seven o'clock in the evening and everything was in full swing;
fun and laughter were rampant on every side, and the low rooms were
crowded to suffocation with blue, red, and yellow figures, like
pen-folds into which too large a herd had been huddled. On the barn
floor there was dancing--that is, whoever succeeded in capturing a
two-foot space twirled around on it and tried to make up by shouting for
what was lacking in motion. The orchestra was brilliant, the first
violinist as a recognized artist drowned out the second, and a great
bass-viol with three strings was sounded _ad libitum_ by dilettantes,
whiskey and coffee flowed in abundance, all the guests were dripping
with perspiration--in short, it was a glorious affair.

Frederick strutted about like a cock in his new sky-blue jacket and
asserted his position as the first beau of the village. When the lord of
the manor and his family arrived he happened to be sitting behind the
bass-viol, sounding the lowest string with great strength and much
decorum. "John," he called imperiously, and up stepped his protege from
the dancing-floor, where he too had tried to swing his awkward legs and
shout a cheer. Frederick handed him the bow, made his wishes known by a
proud nod, and joined the dancers. "Now, strike up, musician, the 'Pape
van Istrup!'" The favorite dance was played, and Frederick cut such
capers before the company that the cows in the barn drew back their
horns and a lowing and a rattling of chains sounded from their stalls. A
foot high above the others, his blond head bobbed up and down like a
pike diving out of the waters, on every side girls screamed as he dashed
his long flaxen hair, by a quick movement of the head, into their faces
as a sign of admiration.

"Now is the time," he said finally, and stepped up to the refreshment
table, dripping with perspiration. "Here's to the gracious lords and
ladies and all the noble princes and princesses; and whoever doesn't
join in the toast will get such a boxing on the ears from me that he'll
hear the angels singing!" A loud _Vivat_ responded to the gallant toast.
Frederick bowed. "Take nothing amiss, gracious lords and ladies; we are
but ignorant peasant people." At this moment a disturbance arose at the
end of the floor--shouting, scolding, laughter, all in confusion.
"Butter-thief, butter-thief!" called a few children; and John Nobody
pushed his way, or rather was pushed, through the crowd, his head sunk
between his shoulders and pressing with all his might toward the door.

"What's the matter? What are you doing to our John!" called Frederick
imperiously.

"You'll find out soon enough," coughed an old woman in a kitchen apron
and with a dish-rag in her hand. "Shame!" John, the poor devil, who had
to put up with the worst at home, had tried to secure for himself a
paltry half pound of butter for the coming time of scarcity, and,
without remembering that he had concealed it in his pocket, neatly
wrapped in his handkerchief, had stepped near the kitchen fire, and now
the grease was disgracing him by running down his coat.

There was general excitement; the girls sprang back from fear of soiling
their clothes, or pushed the culprit forward. Others made room as much
out of pity as of caution. But Frederick stepped forward. "Rogue!" he
cried; and a few hard slaps struck his patient protege; then he pushed
him toward the door and gave him a good kick on the way. The gallant
came back dejected; his dignity was injured; the general laughter cut
him to the quick, although he tried to bring himself into the swing
again by a bold huzza!--It did not work. He was on the point of taking
refuge behind the bass-viol again, but before that he wanted to produce
still another brilliant effect; he drew out his silver watch, at that
time a rare and precious ornament. "It is almost ten o'clock," he said.
"Now the Bride's Minuet! I will strike up."

"A beautiful watch!" said the swineherd, and leaned forward in
reverential curiosity.

"What did it cost?" cried Will Huelsmeyer, Frederick's rival.

"Will you pay for it?" asked Frederick. "Have you paid for it?"
retorted Will. Frederick threw him a haughty glance and seized the bow
in silent majesty. "Well, well," Huelsmeyer went on, "such things have
happened. As you know well enough, Franz Ebel had a beautiful watch too,
till Aaron the Jew took it away from him." Frederick did not answer, but
nodded proudly to the first violin and they began to play with all their
might and main.

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