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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To Black Marianne."

"Who is that?"

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

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

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

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

"Why not?"

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

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

"When did you see that?"

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

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

"Come here, Lux!" cried John.

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

"So you have a brother?"

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

"Where is your brother?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And he shall have them," John declared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Go upstairs and put on your Sunday dress."

"Why?"

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

"I would rather stay in the kitchen."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Barefoot was the first to speak; she cried out:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Amrei."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The moon was shining brightly, and the whole village was already asleep.
Barefoot would not stay at the tavern.

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

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

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

Barefoot cried with a loud voice:

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

The old woman sat up in bed; the moonlight fell upon her face and neck.
She opened her eyes wide and said:

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

"Rejoice! Here I bring you my John!"

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

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

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

At last John raised her up, and Barefoot closed the dead woman's eyes.
For a long time they stood together beside the bed; then Barefoot said:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To be sure!"

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

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

CHAPTER XVI

SILVERSTEP

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

CHAPTER XVII

OVER HILL AND VALE

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

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

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

"Not everything you think."

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

"Can you answer a riddle?" asked John.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But she quickly tore the letter open again, for she considered it her
duty to show John what she had written. But a long time passed and he
did not return. And Amrei blushed when the chatty hostess said:

"I suppose your husband has some business at the Town-hall?"

It seemed to strike her with a strange shock to have John called her
"husband" for the first time.

She could not answer, and the hostess looked at her in wonder. She knew
no other way of escaping from her strange glances than by going out in
front of the house, where she sat on some piled-up boards for a long
time, waiting for John. It was, indeed, a long time before he did come
back; and when at last she caught sight of him, she said:

"When something calls you away like that again, you'll take me with you,
won't you?"

"Oh," he answered, "so you were afraid, were you? Did you think I had
gone off and left you? What would you think if I were to leave you here
and simply ride away?"

Amrei started, and then she said, severely:

"I can't say that you are very witty; in fact to joke about such a thing
as that is miserably stupid. I am sorry that you said that; for you did
something that is bad for you if you realize it, and bad for you if you
don't realize it. You talk about riding away, and think that I am to cry
to amuse you. Do you imagine, perhaps, that because you have a horse and
money, you can do as you please with me? No, your horse carried us away
together, and I came with you. What would you think if I were to say
jokingly: 'How would it be if I left you alone?' I am sorry that you
made such a jest!"

"Yes, yes, I'll say that you are right. But now, forget about it."

"No! I talk of a thing as long as there is anything about it in me, when
I am the offended person, and it is for me to stop talking about it when
I choose. And you offended yourself, too, in this matter--I mean your
real self, the person you are, and ought to be. When any one else says
anything that is not right, I can jump over it, but on you there must
not be a single spot; and believe me, to joke about such a thing as
that, is as if one took the crucifix yonder to play with as a doll."

"Oho, it's not as bad as that! But it seems to me you can't appreciate a
jest."

"I can appreciate one very well, as you shall see, but no such a one as
that. But now, that's enough about it; now I have finished and shall
think nothing more of it."

This little incident showed both of them early that, with all their
mutual devotion, they must be careful with each other. Amrei felt that
she had been too severe, whereas John was made to realize that it did
not behoove him to make jest of Amrei's solitary position, and of her
absolute dependence upon him. They did not say this to each other, but
each of them knew that the other felt it.

The little cloud that had thus come up soon evaporated under the bright
sun that now broke through it. And Amrei rejoiced like a child when a
pretty, green Bernese chaise-wagon came, with a round, padded seat in
it; and before the horse had been hitched to it, she took her seat and
clapped her hands with joy.

"Now you have only to make me fly!" she said to John, who was busy
hitching the horse. "I have ridden horseback with you, and now I am
driving with you; there is nothing left for me to do but fly." [The two
lovers now started out again, and were supremely happy as they rode
along, discussing all sorts of things. They came upon an old woman by
the road-side, and it gave Amrei a thrill of satisfaction she never
before had felt to be able to throw out a pair of shoes to her. John
commended this charitable instinct in her, and then began to tell her
all about his home.]

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