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

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But how strangely things are associated in this life! As a result of
this very thing Amrei experienced joy as well as grief--for it opened up
her parents' home to her again. Black Marianne went to live there, and
Amrei, who at first trembled as she went back and forth in the house,
carrying water or making a fire, always thinking that now her father and
mother must come, afterward began gradually to feel quite at home in it.
She sat spinning day and night, until she had earned enough money to buy
back her parents' cuckoo-clock from Coaly Mathew. Now she had at least
one household article of her own! But the cuckoo had fared badly among
strangers; it had lost half of its voice, and the other half seemed to
stick in its throat--it could only cry "cook"--and as often as it did
that, Amrei would involuntarily add the missing "oo."

* * * * *

Black Marianne could not bear to hear the clock cuckoo and fixed the
pendulum so that it would not work, saying that she always had the time
in her head. And it was indeed wonderful how true this was--at any
minute she could tell what time it was, although it was of very little
consequence to her. In fact, this waiting, expectant woman possessed a
remarkable degree of alertness, for as she was always listening to hear
her son coming, she was naturally wide-awake all the time. And, although
she never visited anybody in the village, and spoke to nobody, she knew
everybody, and all about the most secret things that went on in the
place. She could infer a great deal from the manner in which people met
one another, and from words she overheard here and there. And because
this seemed very wonderful, she was feared and avoided. She often used
to describe herself, according to a local expression, as an
"old-experienced" woman, and yet she was exceedingly active. Every day,
year in and year out, she ate a few juniper berries, and people said
that was the reason why she was so vigorous and showed her sixty-six
years so little. The fact that the two sixes stood together caused her,
according to an old country saying[3] (which, however, was not
universally believed in) to be regarded as a witch. It was said that she
sometimes milked her black goat for hours at a time, and that this goat
gave an astonishing quantity of milk, but that in milking this goat she
was in reality drawing the milk out of the udders of the cows belonging
to persons she hated, and that she had an especial grudge against Farmer
Rodel's cattle. Moreover, Marianne's successful poultry-keeping was also
looked upon as witchcraft; for where did she get the food, and how was
it that she always had chickens and eggs to sell? It is true that in
the summer she was often seen collecting cock-chafers, grasshoppers, and
all kinds of worms, and on moonless nights she was seen gliding like a
wil-o'-the-wisp among the graves in the churchyard, where she would be
carrying a burning torch and collecting the large black worms that crept
out, all the time muttering to herself. It was even said that in the
quiet winter nights she held wonderful conversations with her goat and
with her fowls, which she housed in her room during the winter. The
entire wild army of tales of witchcraft and sorcery, banished by school
education, came back and attached itself to Black Marianne.

Amrei sometimes felt afraid in the long, silent winter nights, when she
sat spinning by Black Marianne, and nothing was heard but an occasional
sleepy clucking from the fowls, or a dreamy bleat from the goat. And it
seemed truly magical how fast Marianne spun! She even said once:

"I think my John is helping me to spin." And then again she complained
that this winter, for the first time, she had not thought wholly and
solely of her John. She took her self to task for it and called herself
a bad mother, and complained that it seemed all the time as if the
features of her John were slowly vanishing before her--as if she were
forgetting what he had done at such and such a time, how he had laughed,
sung, and wept, and how he had climbed the tree and jumped into the
ditch.

* * * * *

But however cheerfully and brightly Marianne might begin to speak, she
always ended by relapsing into gloomy complaint and mourning; and she
who professed to like to be alone and to think of nothing and to love
nothing, only lived to think about her son and to love him. Consequently
Amrei made up her mind to release herself from this uncanny position of
being alone with Black Marianne; she demanded that Damie should be taken
into the house. At first Marianne opposed it vehemently, but when Amrei
threatened to leave the house herself, and then coaxed her in such a
childlike way and tried so hard to do whatever would best please her,
the old woman at last consented.

Damie, who had learned from Crappy Zachy to knit wool, now sat beneath
the parental roof again; and at night, when the brother and sister were
asleep in the garret, each one of them would wake the other when they
heard Black Marianne down stairs, running to and fro and muttering to
herself. But Damie's transmigration to Black Marianne's was the cause of
new trouble. Damie was exceedingly discontented at having been compelled
to learn a miserable trade that was fit only for a cripple. He wanted to
be a mason, and although Amrei was very much opposed to it, for she
predicted that he would not keep at it, Black Marianne supported him in
it. She would have liked to make all the young lads masons, and then to
have sent them out on their travels that they might bring back news of
her John.

Black Marianne seldom went to church, but she always liked to have
anybody else borrow her hymn-book and take it to church--it seemed to
give her a kind of pleasure to have it there. She was especially pleased
when any strange workman, who happened to be employed in the village,
borrowed the hymn-book which John had left behind him for that purpose;
for it seemed to her as if John himself were praying in his native
church, when the words were spoken and sung out of his book. And now
Damie was obliged to go to church twice every Sunday with John's
hymn-book.

While Marianne did not go to church herself, she was always to be seen
at every solemn ceremony in the village or in any of the surrounding
villages. There was never a funeral which Marianne did not attend as one
of the mourners; and at the funeral sermon, and the blessing spoken over
the grave, even of a little child, she always wept so violently that one
would have thought she was the nearest relative. On the way home,
however, she was always especially cheerful, for this weeping seemed to
be a kind of relief to her; all the year round she had to suppress so
much secret sorrow, that she felt thankful for an opportunity to give
vent to her feelings.

Could people be blamed if they shunned her as an uncanny person,
especially as they were keeping a secret from her? The habit of avoiding
Black Marianne was partly extended to Amrei herself; in several houses
where the girl called to offer help or sympathy she was made to see
distinctly that her presence was not desired, especially as she herself
was beginning to show certain eccentricities which astonished the whole
village; for example, except on the coldest winter days she used to go
barefoot, and people said that she must know some secret method to
prevent herself from catching cold and dying.

Only in the house of Farmer Rodel were they glad to have her, for the
farmer was her guardian. His wife, who had always taken Amrei's part and
who had one day promised to take her into her service when she was
older, was prevented from carrying out this plan. She herself was taken
by another--Death. The heaviness of life is generally felt in later
years, when one friend after another has been called away, and only a
name and a memory remains. But it was Amrei's lot to experience this in
her youth; and it was she and Black Marianne who wept more bitterly than
any of the others at the funeral of Farmer Rodel's wife.

Farmer Rodel was always complaining about how hard it was that he should
have to give up his property so soon, although not one of his three
children was yet married. But hardly a year had passed, and Damie had
not yet worked a full year in the quarry, when the celebration of a
double wedding was announced in the village; for Farmer Rodel's eldest
daughter and his only son were to be married on the same day. On this
day Farmer Rodel was to give over his property to his son, and at this
wedding it was fated that Amrei should acquire a new name and be
introduced into a new life.

In the space before the large dancing-floor the children were assembled,
and while the grown-up people were dancing and enjoying themselves
within, the children were imitating them outside. But, strange to say,
no boy and no girl would dance with Amrei. No one knew who said it
first, but a voice was heard to call out:

"No one will dance with you-you're Little Barefoot!" and "Barefoot!
Barefoot! Barefoot!" was echoed on all sides. Amrei was ready to weep;
but here again she quickly made use of the power which enabled her to
ignore insult and injury. Suppressing her tears, she seized her apron by
the two ends and danced around by herself so gracefully and prettily,
that all the children stopped to look at her. And presently the grown-up
people were nodding to one another, and a circle of men and women was
formed around Amrei. Farmer Rodel, in particular, who on this day was
eating and drinking with double relish, snapped his fingers and whistled
the waltz the musicians were playing, while Amrei went on dancing and
seemed to know no weariness. When at last the music ceased, Farmer Rodel
took Amrei by the hand and said:

"You clever girl, who taught you to do that so well?"

"Nobody."

"Why don't you dance with any one?"

"It is better to dance alone--then one does not have to wait for
anybody, and has one's partner always at hand."

"Have you had anything from the wedding yet?" asked Farmer Rodel, with a
complacent smile.

"No."

"Then come in and eat," said the proud farmer; and he led the poor girl
into the house and sat her down at the wedding table, at which feasting
was going on all day long. Amrei did not eat much. Farmer Rodel, for a
jest, wanted to make the child tipsy, but Amrei said bravely:

"If I drink more, I shall have to be led and shall not be able to walk
alone; and Marianne says 'alone' is the best conveyance, for then the
horses are always harnessed."

All were astonished at the child's wisdom.

Young Farmer Rodel came in with his wife and asked the child, to tease
her:

"Have you brought us a wedding present? For if one eats so, one ought to
bring a wedding present."

The father-in-law, moved by an incomprehensible impulse of generosity,
secretly slipped a sixpenny piece into the child's hand. Amrei held the
coin fast in her palm, nodded to the old man, and said to the young
couple:

"I have the promise and an earnest of payment; your deceased mother
always promised me that I should serve her, and that no one else should
be nurse to her first grand-child."

"Yes, my wife always wished it," said the old farmer approvingly. And
what he had refused to do for his wife while she was alive, for fear of
having to provide for an orphan, he now did, now that he could no longer
please her with it, in order to make it appear before the people that
he was doing it out of respect for her memory. But even now he did it
not from kindness, but in the correct calculation that the orphan would
be serviceable to him, the deposed farmer who was her guardian; and the
burden of her maintenance, which would amount to more than her wages,
would fall on others and not on him.

The young couple looked at each other, and the man said:

"Bring your bundle to our house tomorrow--you can live with us."

"Very well," said Amrei, "tomorrow I will bring my bundle. But now I
should like to take my bundle with me; give me a bottle of wine, and
this meat I will wrap up and take to Marianne and my Damie."

They let Amrei have her way; but old Farmer Rodel said to her secretly:

"Give me back my sixpence--I thought you were going to give it up."

"I'll keep that as an earnest from you," answered Amrei slyly; "you
shall see, I will give you value for it." Farmer Rodel laughed to
himself half angrily, and Amrei went back to Black Marianne with money,
wine, and meat.

The house was locked; and there was a great contrast between the loud
music and noise and feasting at the wedding house, and the silence and
solitude here. Amrei knew where to wait for Marianne on her way home,
for the old woman very often went to the stone-quarry and sat there
behind a hedge for a long time, listening to the tapping of chisels and
mallets. It seemed to her like a melody, carrying her back to the times
when her John used to work there too; and so she often sat there,
listening and watching.

Sure enough, Amrei found Black Marianne there, and half an hour before
quitting time she called Damie up out of the quarry. And here among the
rocks a wedding feast was held, more merry than the one amid the noise
and music. Damie was especially joyful, and Marianne, too, was
unusually cheerful. But she would not drink a drop of the wine, for she
had declared that no wine should moisten her lips until she drank it at
her John's wedding. When Amrei told with glee how she had got a place at
young Farmer Rodel's, and was going there tomorrow, Black Marianne
started up in furious anger; picking up a stone and pressing it to her
bosom, she said:

"It would be better a thousand times that I had this in me, a stone like
this, than a living heart! Why cannot I be alone? Why did I ever allow
myself to like anybody again? But now it's all over forever! You false,
faithless child! Hardly are you able to raise your wings, than off you
fly! But it is well. I am alone, and my John shall be alone, too, when
he comes--and what I have wished would come to pass, shall never be!"

With that she ran off toward the village.

"She's a witch, after all," said Damie when she had disappeared. "I
won't drink the wine--who knows if she has not bewitched it?"

"You can drink it--she's only a strict Eigenbroetlerin and she has a
heavy cross to bear. I know how to win her back again," said Amrei,
consolingly.

CHAPTER VII

THE SISTER OF MERCY

During the next year there was plenty of life in Farmer Rodel's house.
"Barefoot," for so Amrei was now called, was handy in every way, and
knew how to make herself liked by everybody; she could tell the young
farmer's wife, who had come to the place as a stranger, what the customs
of the village were; she studied the habits and characters of those
around her and learned to adapt herself to them. She managed to do all
sorts of kindnesses to old Farmer Rodel, who could not get over his
chagrin at having had to retire so early, and grumbled all day long
about it. She told what a good girl his daughter-in-law was, only that
she did not know how to show it. And when, after scarcely a year, the
first child came, Amrei evinced so much joy at the event, and was so
handy at everything that had to be done, that all in the house were full
of her praise; but according to the fashion of such people they were
more ready to scold her for any trifling omission than to praise her
openly. But Amrei did not expect any praise. She knew so well how to
carry the little baby to its grandfather, and just when to take it away
again, that it pleased and surprised everybody. And when the baby's
first tooth came, and Amrei exhibited it to the grandfather, the old man
said:

"I will give you a sixpence for the pleasure you have given me. But do
you remember the one you stole from me at the wedding--now you may keep
it honestly."

Meanwhile Black Marianne was not forgotten. It was certainly a difficult
task to regain her favor. At first Marianne would have nothing to say to
Barefoot, whose new mistress would not allow her to go to Marianne's,
especially not with the child, as it was always feared that the witch
might do the baby some mischief. Great patience and perseverance were
required to overcome this prejudice, but it was accomplished at last.
Indeed, Little Barefoot brought matters to such a pass that Farmer Rodel
himself several times paid a visit to Black Marianne, a thing which
astonished the entire village. These visits, however, were soon
discontinued, for Marianne once said:

"I am nearly seventy years old and have got on until now without the
friendship of a farmer; and it's not worth while to make a change now."

Naturally enough Damie was often with his sister. But young Farmer Rodel
objected to this, alleging, not without reason, that it would result in
his having to feed the big boy; for in a large house like his one could
not see whether a servant was not giving him all kinds of things to eat.
He therefore forbade Damie to come to the house, except on Sunday
afternoons.

Damie, however, had already seen too much of the comfort of living in a
wealthy farmer's house; his mouth watered for the flesh-pots, and he
wanted to stay there, if only as a servant. Stone-chipping was such a
hungry life. But Barefoot had many objections to make. She told him to
remember that he was already learning a second trade, and that he ought
to keep at it; that it was a mistake to be always wanting to begin
something new, and then to suppose that one could be happy in that way.
She said that one must be happy in the place where one was, if one was
ever to be happy at all. Damie allowed himself to be persuaded for a
time. And so great was the acknowledged authority of Little Barefoot
already, and so natural did it seem that she should dictate to her
brother, that he was always called "Barefoot's Damie," as if he were not
her brother, but her son. And yet he was a head taller than she, and did
not act as if he were subordinate to her. Indeed, he often expressed his
annoyance that he was not considered as good as she, merely because he
did not have a tongue like hers in his head. His discontent with himself
and with his trade he always vented first on his sister. She bore it
patiently, and because he showed before the world that she was obliged
to give him his way, she really gained more influence and power through
this very publicity. For everybody said that it was very good of Amrei
to do what she did for her brother, and she rose in the public
estimation by letting him treat her thus unkindly, while she in turn
cared for him like a mother. She washed and darned for him at night so
steadily, that he was one of the neatest boys in the village; and
instead of taking two stout pairs of shoes, which she received as part
of her wages every half year, she always paid the shoemaker a little
extra money to make two pairs for Damie, while she herself went
barefoot; it was only on Sunday, when she went to church, that she was
seen wearing shoes at all.

Little Barefoot was exceedingly annoyed to find that Damie, though no
one knew why, had become the general butt of all the joking and teasing
in the village. She took him sharply to task for it, and told him he
ought not to tolerate it; but he retorted that she ought to speak to the
people about it, and not to him, for he could not stand up against it.
But that was not to be done--in fact, Damie was secretly not
particularly annoyed by being teased everywhere he went. Sometimes,
indeed, it hurt him to have everybody laugh at him, and to have boys
much younger than himself take liberties with him, but it annoyed him a
great deal more to have people take no notice of him at all, and he
would then try to make a fool of himself and expose himself to insult.

Barefoot, on the other hand, was certainly in some danger of developing
into the hermit Marianne had always professed to recognize in her. She
had once attached herself to one single companion, the daughter of Coaly
Mathew; but this girl had been away for years, working in a factory in
Alsace, and nothing was ever heard of her now. Barefoot lived so
entirely by herself that she was not reckoned at all among the young
people of the village; she was friendly and sociable with those of her
own age, but her only real playmate was Black Marianne. And just because
Barefoot lived so much by herself, she had no influence upon the
behavior of Damie, who, however much he might be teased and tormented,
always had to have the company of others, and could never be alone like
his sister.

But now Damie suddenly emancipated himself; one fine Sunday he exhibited
to his sister some money he had received as an earnest from
Scheckennarre, of Hirlingen, to whom he had hired himself out as a
farmhand.

"If you had spoken to me about it first," said Barefoot, "I could have
told you of a better place. I would have given you a letter to Farmer
Landfried's wife in Allgau; and there you would have been treated like a
son of the family."

"Oh, don't talk to me about her!" said Damie crossly. "She has owed me a
pair of leather breeches she promised me for nearly thirteen years.
Don't you remember?--when we were little, and thought we had only to
knock, and mother and father would open the door. Don't talk to me of
Dame Landfried! Who knows whether she ever thinks of us, or indeed if
she is still alive?"

"Yes, she's alive--she's related to the family which I serve, and they
often speak of her. And all her children are married, except one son,
who is to have the farm."

"Now you want to make me feel dissatisfied with my new place," said
Damie complainingly, "and you go and tell me that I might have had a
better one. Is that right?" And his voice faltered.

"Oh, don't be so soft-hearted all the time!" said Barefoot. "Is what I
said going to take away any of your good fortune? You are always acting
as if the geese were biting you. And now I will only tell you one thing,
and that is, that you should hold fast to what you have, and remain
where you are. It's no use to be like a cuckoo, sleeping on a different
tree every night. I, too, could get other places, but I won't; I have
brought it about that I am well off here. Look you, he who is every
minute running to another place will always be treated like a
stranger--people know that tomorrow he perhaps won't belong to the
house, and so they don't make him at home in it today."

"I don't need your preaching," said Damie, and he started to go away in
anger. "You are always scolding me, and toward everybody else in the
world you are good-natured."

"That's because you are my brother," said Barefoot, laughing and
caressing the angry boy.

In truth, a strange difference had developed itself between brother and
sister; Damie had a certain begging propensity, and then again the next
minute showed a kind of pride; Barefoot, on the other hand, was always
good-natured and yielding, but was nevertheless supported by a certain
self-respect, which was never detracted from by her willingness to work
and oblige.

She now succeeded in pacifying her brother, and said:

"Look, I have an idea. But first you must be good, for the coat must not
lie on an angry heart. Farmer Rodel still has in his possession our dear
father's clothes; you are tall now, and they will just fit you. Now it
will give you a good appearance if you arrive at the farm in such
respectable clothes; then your fellow-servants will see where you come
from, and what worthy parents you had."

Damie saw that this was sensible, and Barefoot induced old Farmer
Rodel--with considerable difficulty, for he did not want to give up the
clothes so soon--to hand the garments over to Damie. Barefoot at once
took him up to her room and made him put on his father's coat and vest
then and there. He objected, but when Amrei had set her heart on a
thing, it had to be done. The hat, alone, Damie could not be induced to
wear; when he had put on the coat, Amrei laid her hand on his shoulder
and said:

"There, now you are my brother and my father, and now the coat is going
to be worn again with a new man in it. Look, Damie,--you have there the
finest coat of honor in the world; hold it in honor, and be as worthy
and honest in it as our dear father was."

She could say no more. She laid her head on her brother's shoulder, and
tears fell upon the paternal coat which had once more been brought to
light.

"You say that I am soft-hearted," said Damie, "and you are much worse
yourself."

And Barefoot was indeed deeply and quickly moved by anything; but she
was strong and light-hearted like a child. It was true of her, what
Marianne had observed when she went to sleep for the first time in the
old woman's house; she was waking and sleeping, laughing and weeping,
almost all at the same time. Every occurrence and every emotion affected
her very strongly, but she soon got over it and recovered her balance.

She continued to weep.

"You make one's heart so heavy," said Damie complainingly.

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