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

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




Damie's whining and sensitive nature was very disgusting to Crappy
Zachy, and he tried to cure him of it by giving him plenty to cry about
and teasing him whenever he could.

Thus the two little stems which had sprouted in the same garden were
transplanted into different soils. The position and the nature of the
ground, and the qualities that were inherent in each stem, made them
grow up very differently.




CHAPTER IV

"OPEN, DOOR"


All Souls' Day came. It was dull and foggy, and the children stood among
a crowd of people assembled in the churchyard. Crappy Zachy had led
Damie there by the hand, but Amrei had come alone, without Black
Marianne; many were angry at the hard-hearted woman, while a few hit a
part of the truth when they said that Marianne did not like to visit
graves, because she did not know where her husband's grave was. Amrei
was quiet and did not shed a tear, while Damie wept bitterly at the
pitying remarks of the bystanders, more especially because Crappy Zachy
had given him several sly pinches and pokes. For a time Amrei, in a
dreamy, forgetful way, stood gazing at the lights on the heads of the
graves, watching the flame consume the wax and the wick grow blacker,
and blacker, until at last the light was quite burnt out.

In the crowd a man, wearing handsome, town-made clothes and with a
ribbon in his button-hole, was moving about here and there. It was the
High Commissioner of Public Works, Severin, who, on a trip of
inspection, had come to visit the graves of his parents, Brosi and Moni.
His brothers and sisters and other relatives were constantly crowding
around him with a kind of deferential respect; in fact, the usual
reverence of the occasion was almost entirely diverted, nearly all the
attention being fixed upon this stranger. Amrei also looked at him, and
asked Crappy Zachy:

"Is that a bridegroom?"

"Why?"

"Because he has a ribbon in his button-hole."

Instead of answering her, the first thing that Crappy Zachy did was to
go up to a group of people and tell them what a stupid speech the child
had made; and from among the graves there arose a loud laugh over her
foolishness. Only Farmer Rodel's wife said: "I don't see anything
foolish in that. Although it is a mark of honor that Severin has, it is
after all a strange thing for him to go about in the churchyard with
such a decoration on--in the place where we see what we are all coming
to, whether in our lifetime we have worn clothes of silk or of homespun.
It annoyed me to see him wear it in the church--a thing of that kind
ought to be taken off when one goes to church, and more especially in
the churchyard!"

The rumor of little Amrei's question must have penetrated to Severin
himself, for he was seen to button his overcoat hastily, and as he did
so he nodded at the child. Now he was heard to ask who she was, and as
soon as he found out, he came hurrying across to the children beside the
fresh graves, and said to Amrei:

"Come here, my child. Open your hand. Here is a ducat for you--buy what
you want with it."

The child stared at him and did not answer. But scarcely had Severin
turned his back when she called out to him, half-aloud:

"I won't take any presents!"--and she flung the ducat after him.

Several people who had seen this came up to Amrei and scolded her; and
just as they were about to illuse her, she was again saved from their
rough hands by Farmer Rodel's wife, who once before had protected her
with words. But even she requested Amrei to go after Severin and at
least thank him. But Amrei made no answer whatsoever; she remained
obstinate, so that her protectress also left her. Only with considerable
difficulty was the ducat found again, and a member of the Village
Council, who was present, took charge of it in order to deliver it over
to the child's guardian.

This incident gave Amrei a strange reputation in the village. People
said she had lived only a few days with Black Marianne, and yet had
already acquired that woman's manners. It was declared to be an unheard
of thing that a child so sunk in poverty could be so proud, and she was
scolded up hill and down dale for this pride, so that she became
thoroughly aware of it, and in her young, childish heart there arose an
attitude of defiance, a resolve to evince it all the more. Black
Marianne, moreover, did her part to strengthen this state of mind, for
she said: "Nothing more lucky can happen to a poor person than to be
considered proud, for by that means he or she is saved from being
trampled upon by everybody, and from being expected to offer thanks for
such usage afterward."

In the winter Amrei was at Crappy Zachy's much of the time, for she was
very fond of hearing him play the violin; yes, and Crappy Zachy on one
occasion bestowed such high praise upon her as to say: "You are not
stupid;" for Amrei, after listening to his playing for a long time, had
remarked: "It's wonderful how a fiddle can hold its breath so long; I
can't do that." And, on quiet winter nights at home, when Marianne told
sparkling and horrifying goblin-stories, Amrei, when they were finished,
would draw a deep breath and say: "Oh, Marianne, I must take breath
now--I was obliged to hold my breath all the time you were speaking."

No one paid much attention to Amrei, and the child could dream away just
as she had a mind to. Only the schoolmaster said once at a meeting of
the Village Council, that he had never seen such a child--she was at
once defiant and yielding, dreamy and alert. In truth, with all her
childish self-forgetfulness, there was already developing in little
Amrei a sense of responsibility, an attitude of self-defense in
opposition to the world, its kindness and its malice. Damie, on the
other hand, came crying and complaining to his sister upon every
trifling occasion. He was, furthermore, always pitying himself, and when
he was tumbled over by his playmates in their wrestling matches, he
always whined: "Yes, because I am an orphan they beat me! Oh, if my
father and mother knew of it!"--and then he cried twice as much over the
injustice of it. Damie let everybody give him things to eat, and thus
became greedy, while Amrei was satisfied with a little, and thus
acquired habits of moderation. Even the roughest boys were afraid of
Amrei, although nobody knew how she had proved her strength, while Damie
would run away from quite little boys. In school Damie was always up to
mischief; he shuffled his feet and turned down the leaves of the books
with his fingers as he read. Amrei, on the other hand, was always bright
and attentive, though she often wept in the school, not for the
punishment she herself received, but because Damie was so often
punished.

Amrei could please Damie best by telling him the answers to riddles. The
children still used to sit frequently by the house of their rich
guardian, sometimes near the wagons, sometimes near the oven behind the
house, where they used to warm themselves, especially in the autumn.
Once Amrei asked:

"What's the best thing about an oven?"

"You know I can't guess anything," replied Damie, plaintively.

"Then I'll tell you:

'In the oven this is best, 'tis said,
That it never itself doth eat the bread.'"

And then, pointing to the wagons before the house, Amrei asked:

"What's full of holes, and yet holds? "--and without waiting for a
reply, she gave the answer: "A chain!"

"Now you must let me ask you these riddles," said Damie.

And Amrei replied: "Yes, you may ask them. But do you see those sheep
coming yonder? Now I know another riddle."

"No!" cried Damie, "no! Two are enough for me--I can't remember three!"

"Yes, you must hear this one too, or else I'll take the others back!"

And Damie kept repeating to himself, anxiously: "A chain," "Eat it
itself," while Amrei asked:

"On which side have sheep the most wool?"--"Ba! ba! on the outside!" she
sang merrily.

Damie now ran off to ask his playmates these riddles; he kept his fists
tightly clenched, as if he were holding the riddles fast and was
determined not to let them go. But when he got to his playmates, he
remembered only the one about the chain; and Farmer Rodel's eldest son,
whom he hadn't asked at all and who was much too old for that sort of
thing, guessed the answer at once, and Damie ran back to his sister
crying.

Little Amrei's cleverness at riddles soon began to be talked about in
the village, and even rich, serious farmers, who seldom wasted many
words on anybody, and least of all on a poor child, now and then
condescended to ask little Amrei one. That she knew a great many herself
was not strange, for she had probably learned them from Black Marianne;
but that she was able to answer so many new ones caused general
astonishment. Amrei would soon have been unable to go across the street
or into the fields without being stopped and questioned, if she had not
found out a remedy; she made it a rule that she would not answer a
riddle for anybody, unless she might propose one in return, and she
managed to think up such good ones that the people stood still as if
spell-bound. Never had a poor child been so much noticed in the village
as was this little Amrei. But, as she grew older, less attention was
paid to her, for people look with sympathetic eyes only at the blossom
and the fruit, and disregard the long period of transition during which
the one is ripening into the other.

Before Amrei's school-days were over, Fate gave her a riddle that was
difficult to solve.

The children had an uncle, a woodcutter, who lived some fifteen miles
from Haldenbrunn, at Fluorn. They had seen him only once, and that was
at their parents' funeral, when he had walked behind the magistrate, who
had led the children by the hand. After that time the children often
dreamt about their uncle at Fluorn. They were often told that this uncle
was like their father, which made them still more anxious to see him;
for although they still believed at times that their father and mother
would some day suddenly reappear--it could not be that they had gone
away forever--still, as the years rolled on, they gradually became
reconciled to giving up this hope, especially after they had over and
over again put berries on the graves, and had long been able to read the
two names on the same black cross. They also almost entirely forgot
about the uncle in Fluorn, for during many years they had heard nothing
of him.

But one day the children were called into their guardian's house, and
there sat a tall, heavy man with a brown face.

"Come here, children," said this man, as the children entered. "Don't
you know me?" He had a dry, harsh voice.

The children looked at him with wondering eyes. Perhaps some remembrance
of their father's voice awoke within them. The man continued:

"I am your father's brother. Come here, Lisbeth, and you too, Damie."

"My name's not Lisbeth--my name's Amrei," said the girl; and she began
to cry. She did not offer her hand to her uncle. A feeling of
estrangement made her tremble, when her own uncle thus called her by a
wrong name; she very likely felt that there could be no real affection
for her in anybody who did not know her name.

"If you are my uncle, why don't you know my name?" asked Amrei.

"You are a stupid child! Go and offer him your hand immediately!"
commanded Farmer Rodel. And then he said to the stranger, half in a
whisper: "She's a strange child. Black Marianne, who, you know, is a
peculiar sort of person, has put all sorts of odd notions into her
head."

Amrei looked around in astonishment, and gave her hand to her uncle,
trembling. Damie, who had done so already, now said:

"Uncle, have you brought us anything?"

"I haven't much to bring. I bring myself, and you're to go with me. Do
you know, Amrei, that it's not at all right for you not to like your
uncle. You'd better come here and sit down beside me--nearer still. You
see, your brother Damie is much more sensible. He looks more like our
family, but you belong to us too."

A maid now came in with some man's clothing, which she laid on the
table.

"These are your brother's clothes," said Farmer Rodel to the stranger;
and the latter went on to say to Amrei:

"As you see, these are your father's clothes. We shall take them with
us, and you shall go too--first to Fluorn, and then across the brook."

Amrei, trembling, touched her father's coat and his blue-striped vest.
But the uncle lifted up the clothes, pointed to the worn-out elbows, and
said to Farmer Rodel:

"These are worth very little--I won't have them valued at much. I don't
even know if I can wear them over in America, without being laughed at."

Amrei seized the coat passionately. That her father's coat, which she
had looked upon as a costly and invaluable treasure, should be
pronounced of little value, seemed to grieve her, and that these clothes
were to be worn in America, and ridiculed there, almost bewildered her.
And, anyway, what was the meaning of this talk about America? This
mystery was soon cleared up, when Farmer Rodel's wife came, and with
her, Black Marianne; for Dame Rodel said:

"Harkye, husband--to my mind this thing should not be done so fast, this
sending the children off to America with that man."

"But he is their only living relative, Josenhans' brother."

"Yes, to be sure. But until now he has not done much to show that he is
a relative; and I fancy that this cannot be done without the approval
of the Council, and even the Council cannot do it alone. The children
have a legal right to live here, which cannot be taken away from them in
their sleep, so to speak--for the children are not yet in a position to
say what they want themselves. It's like carrying people off in their
sleep."

"My Amrei is intelligent enough. She's thirteen now, but more clever
than many a person of thirty, and she knows what she wants," said Black
Marianne.

"You two ought to have been town-councilors," said Farmer Rodel. "But
it's my opinion, too, that the children ought not to be tied to a rope,
like calves, and dragged away. Well, let the man talk with them himself,
and then we shall see what further is to be done. He is after all their
natural protector, and has the right to stand in their father's place,
if he likes. Harkye; do you take a little walk with your brother's
children outside the village, and you women stay here, and let nobody
try to persuade or dissuade them."

The woodcutter took the two children by the hand, and went out of the
room and out of the house with them. In the street he asked the
children:

"Whither shall we go?"

"If you want to be our father, go home with us," suggested Damie. "Our
house is down yonder."

"Is it open?" asked the uncle.

"No, but Coaly Mathew has the key. But he has never let us go in. I'll
run on and get the key."

Damie released himself quickly, and ran off. Amrei felt like a prisoner
as her uncle led her along by the hand. He spoke earnestly and
confidentially to her now, however, and explained, almost as if he were
excusing himself, that he had a large family of his own and, that he
could hardly get along with his wife and five children. But now a man,
who was the owner of large forests in America, had offered him a free
passage across the ocean, and in five years, when he had cleared away
the forest, he was to have a large piece of the best farm-land as his
own property. In gratitude to God, who had bestowed this upon him for
himself and his family, he had immediately made up his mind to do a good
deed by taking his brother's children with him. But he was not going to
compel them to go; indeed, he would take them only on the condition that
they should turn to him with their whole hearts and look upon him as
their second father.

Amrei looked at him with eyes of wonder. If she could only bring herself
to love this man! But she was almost afraid of him--she could not help
it. And to have him thus fall from the clouds, as it were, and compel
her to love him, rather turned her against him.

"Where is your wife?" asked Amrei. She very likely felt that a woman
would have broached the subject in a more gentle and gradual manner.

"I will tell you honestly," answered her uncle. "My wife does not
interfere in this matter, and says she will neither persuade nor
dissuade me. She is a little sharp, but only at first--if you are good
to her, and you are a sensible child, you can twist her around your
finger. And if, once in a while, anything should happen to you that you
don't like, remember that you are at your father's brother's, and tell
me about it alone. I will help you all I can, and you shall see that
your real life is just beginning."

Amrei's eyes filled with tears at these words; and yet she could say
nothing, for she felt estranged toward this man. His voice appealed to
her, but when she looked at him, she felt as if she would have liked to
run away.

Damie now came with the key. Amrei started to take it from him, but he
would not give it up. With the peculiar pedantic conscientiousness of a
child he declared that he had faithfully promised Coaly Mathew's wife to
give it to nobody but his uncle. Accordingly the uncle took it from him,
and it seemed to Amrei as if a magic secret door were being opened when
the key for the first time rattled in the lock and turned--the hasp went
down and the door opened! A strange chill, like that of a vault, came
creeping from the black front-room, which had also served as a kitchen.
A little heap of ashes still lay on the hearth, and on the door the
initials of Caspar Melchior Balthasar and the date of the parent's
death, were written in chalk. Amrei read it aloud--her own father had
written it.

"Look," cried Damie, "the eight is shaped just as you make it, and as
the master won't have it--you know--from right to left."

Amrei motioned to him to keep quiet. She thought it terrible and sinful
that Damie should talk so lightly--here, where she felt as if she were
in church, or even in eternity--quite out of the world, and yet in the
very midst of it. She herself opened the inside door; the room was dark
as a grave, for the shutters were closed. A single sunbeam, shining
through a crack in the wall, fell on the angel's head on the tile stove
in such a way that the angel seemed to be laughing. Amrei crouched down
in terror. When she looked up again, her uncle had opened one of the
shutters, and the warm, outside air poured in. How cold it seemed in
there! None of the furniture was left in the room but a bench nailed to
the wall. There her mother used to spin, and there she had put Amrei's
little hands together and taught her to knit.

"Come, children, let us go now," said the uncle. "It is not good to be
here. Come with me to the baker and I will buy you each a white roll--or
do you like biscuits better?"

"No, let us stay here a little longer," said Amrei; and she kept on
stroking the place where her mother had sat. Then, pointing to a white
spot on the wall, she said, half in a whisper: "There our cuckoo clock
used to hang, and there our father's discharge from the army. And there
the hanks of yarn that mother spun used to hang--she could spin even
better than Black Marianne--Black Marianne has said so herself. She
always got a skein more out of a pound than anybody else, and it was
always so even--not a knot in it. And do you see that ring up there on
the ceiling? It was beautiful to see her twisting the threads there. If
I had been old enough to know then, I would not have let them sell
mother's spindle--it would have been a fine legacy for me. But there was
nobody to take any interest in us. Oh, mother dear! Oh, father dear! If
you knew how we have been pushed about, it would grieve you, even in
eternity."

Amrei began to weep aloud, and Damie wept with her; even the uncle dried
his eyes. He again urged them to come away from the place; he was vexed
for having caused himself and the children this grief. But Amrei said in
a decided way:

"Even if you do go, I shall not go with you."

"How do you mean? You will not go with me at all?"

Amrei started; for she suddenly realized what she had said, and it
seemed to her almost as if it had been an inspiration. But presently she
answered:

"No, I don't know about that yet. I merely meant to say, that I shall
not willingly leave this house until I have seen everything again. Come,
Damie, you are my brother--come up into the attic. Do you remember where
we used to play hide-and-seek, behind the chimney? And then we'll look
out of the window, where we dried the truffles. Don't you remember the
bright florin father got for them?"

Something rustled and pattered across the ceiling. All three started,
and the uncle said quickly:

"Stay where you are, Damie, and you too. What do you want up there?
Don't you hear the mice running about?"

"Come with me--they won't eat us!" Amrei insisted. Damie, however,
declared that he would not go, and Amrei, although she felt a secret
fear, took courage and went upstairs alone. But she soon came down
again, looking as pale as death, with nothing in her hand but a bundle
of old straws.

"Damie says he'll go with me to America," said the uncle, as she came
forward. Amrei, breaking up the straws in her hands, replied: "I've
nothing to say against it. I don't know yet what I shall do, but he can
go if he likes."

"No," cried Damie, "I shan't do that. You did not go with Dame Landfried
when she wanted to take you away, and so I shall not go off alone
without you."

"Well, then, think it over--you are sensible enough," said the uncle, to
conclude the matter. He then closed the shutters again, so that they
stood in the dark, and hurried the children out of the room and through
the vestibule, locked the outside door, and went to take the key back to
Coaly Mathew. After that he started for the village with Damie alone.
When he was some way off, he called back to Amrei:

"You have until tomorrow morning--then I shall go away whether you go
with me or not."

Amrei was left alone. She looked after the retreating figures and
wondered how one person could go away from another.

"There he goes," she thought, "and yet he belongs to you, and you to
him."

Strange! As in a sleep-dream, a subject that has been lightly touched
upon is renewed and interwoven with all sorts of strange details, so was
it now with Amrei in her waking-dream. Damie had made but a passing
allusion to the meeting with Farmer Landfried's wife. The remembrance of
her had half faded away; but now it suddenly rose up fresh again--like a
picture of past life in a vision. Amrei said to herself, almost aloud:

"Who knows if she may not thus suddenly think of you? One cannot tell
why she should, and yet perhaps she is thinking of you at this very
moment. For in this place she promised to be your protectress whenever
you came to her,--it was yonder by the stunted willows. Why is it, that
only the trees remain to be seen? Why is not a word like a tree,
something which stands firmly, something which one can hold to. Yes, one
can, if one will. Then one is as well off as a tree--and what an
honorable farmer's wife says, is firm and lasting. She, too, wept
because she had to go away from her native place, although she had been
married and away from it for a long time. And she has children of her
own--one of them is called John."

Amrei was standing by the tree where they had picked the berries. She
laid her hand upon the trunk and said:

"You--why don't you go away, too? Why don't people tell you to emigrate?
Perhaps for you, too, it would be better elsewhere. But, to be sure, you
are too large--you did not place yourself here, and who knows if you
would not die in some other place. You can only be hewn down, not
transplanted. Nonsense! I also had to leave my home. If it were my
father, I should be obliged to go with him--he would not need to ask me.
And he who asks too much, goes astray. No one can advise me in this
matter, not even Marianne. And, after all, with my uncle, it's like
this: 'I am doing you a good turn, and you must repay me.' If he's
severe with me, and with Damie, because he's awkward, and we have to run
away, where in this wide, strange world are we to go? Here everybody
knows us, and every hedge, every tree has a familiar face. 'You know me,
don't you?' she said, looking up at the tree. 'Oh, if you could but
speak! God created you too--why cannot you speak? You knew my father and
mother so well--why cannot you tell me what they would advise me to do?'
Oh, dear father! Oh, dear mother! It grieves me so to have to go away! I
have nothing here, and hardly anybody, and yet I feel as if I were being
driven out of a warm bed into the cold snow. Is this deep sadness that I
feel a sign that I ought not to go? Is it the true voice of conscience,
or is it but a foolish fear? Oh, good Heaven, I do not know! If only a
voice from Heaven would come now and tell me!"

The child trembled with inward terror, and the sense of life's
difficulties for the first time arose vividly within her. And again she
went on, half-thinking, half-talking to herself--but this time in a more
decided way: