"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.]

Was it by a tacit agreement, or was it due to the influence which the present time exerted upon them, that they spoke not a word of how their arrival at John's house was to be arranged until toward noon, when they reached the outskirts of Zumarshofen? Only when they began to meet people who knew John, and who saluted him with glances of wonder at his companion, did he declare to Amrei that he had thought of two ways in which the thing might best be done. Either he would take Amrei to his sister, who lived a short distance further on—one could see the steeple of her village peering up from behind a hill—and then go home alone and explain everything, or else he would take Amrei home at once—that is, she should get down half a mile before they got there, and enter the house alone in the character of a maid.

Amrei showed great cleverness in explaining what should guide them in this matter, and what might come of their adopting either of the two methods of procedure proposed by John. If she stopped at his sister's, she would first have to win over to her side a person who would not be the one with whom the final decision lay, and it might result in all kinds of complications, the end of which could not be foreseen. And moreover, it would always be an unpleasant reflection, and there would be all sorts of remarks made about it—as if she had not dared to go straight to the house. The second plan seemed to her the better one; but it went against her very soul to enter the house by means of a deception. His mother, to be sure, had promised years ago to take her into her service; but she did not want to go into her service now, and it would be almost like stealing to try to worm herself into favor with the old people in that way. And furthermore in such a disguise she would be sure to do everything clumsily; she would not be able to be natural and straightforward, and if she had to place a chair for his father, she would be sure to overturn it, for she would always be thinking: "You are doing this to deceive him." Moreover, even supposing all this could be done, how could she afterward appear before the servants, when they learned that their mistress had been obliged to smuggle herself into the house as a maid? And she would not be able to speak a single word with John all the time. She closed her explanation with the words:

"I have told you this only because you wanted to hear my opinion, too, and if you talk anything over with me, I must speak out freely what is in my mind. But I tell you, at the same time, whatever you wish, and whatever you tell me to do, I shall do it. If you say it should be so, so it shall be. I'll obey you without objection, and whatever you lay upon me to do, that shall I do as best I can."

"Yes, yes, you are right," said John, absorbed in thought. "They are both crooked ways, the first the less so. But now that we are so near home, we must make up our minds quickly. Do you see that bare patch in the forest yonder on the hill, with the little hut on it? And do you see the cows, which look as small as beetles? That's our upland pasture, that's where I intend to put your Damie."

Amrei cried out in amazement:

"Good heavens! To think where men will venture!—But that must be good pasturing land."

"So it is; but when father gives up the farm to me, I shall introduce more stall-feeding—it's the better way. But old people are fond of retaining old customs. But why are we chattering again? And now that we are so near! If I had only thought about this sooner! My head seems on fire."

"Only keep calm; we must think it over quietly. I have a vague idea of a way it can be done, but it doesn't seem quite plain yet."

"Ah! What do you think?"

"No, you think about it too. Perhaps you'll hit upon the right way yourself. It's a matter for you to arrange, and both of our minds are in such confusion now, that it will be a relief to us if we both hit upon a way at once."

"Yes, I have an idea already. In the next village but one there is a clergyman, whom I know very well, and who will give us the best advice. But wait! Here is a better way yet. Suppose I stay yonder in the valley at the miller's, and you go up to the farm and simply tell my parents the whole story. You'll have my mother on your side directly; and you are clever, and you'll manage my father in no time so that you can wind him around your finger. Yes, that is the best way. Then we shan't have to wait, and we shall have asked no stranger for help. What do you think? Is that putting too much upon you?"

"That was exactly my idea too. So now there is no more considering to be done, no more at all. That way shall stand as fast as if it were down in ink. That's the way it shall be done, and 'quick to work makes the master.' Oh, you don't know what a dear, good, splendid, honest fellow you are!"

"No, it's you! But that is all the same now, for we two are but one honest person, and so we shall remain. Look here—give me your hand; that yonder is our first field. God greet thee, wifee, for now thou art at home! And hurrah! there's our stork flying up. Stork! cry 'Welcome;' this is your new mistress! 'I'll tell you more later!' Now, Amrei, don't be gone too long, and send some one down to me at the mill as soon as you can—if the wagoner is at home, you'd best send him, for he can run like a hare. There, do you see that house yonder, with the stork's nest, and the two barns on the hillside, to the left of the wood? There's a linden by the house—do you see it?"

"Yes."

"That's our house. Now, come, get you down. You can't miss your way now."

John got down and helped Amrei out of the chaise. The girl, holding the necklace, which she had put into her pocket, like a rosary in her clasped hands, prayed silently; John also took off his hat, and his lips moved. The two did not say another word to each other, but Amrei went on alone. John stood looking after her for a long time, leaning against the white horse. Once she turned about and tried to coax the dog to return to his master. But he would not go; he would run aside into the field, and then start to follow her again; and not until John whistled, did the creature come back to him.

John drove on to the mill and stopped there. He learned that his father had been there an hour ago to wait for him, but had gone away again. John was glad to hear that his father was strong and on his feet again, and glad because he knew that Amrei would now find both his parents at home. The people in the mill could not understand why John lingered with them, and yet would hardly listen to a word they said. He kept going in and out, and looking up the road toward the farm; for John was very anxious and restless. He counted the steps that Amrei had to go; now she would be in the fields, now she would have to go to this, now to that hedge; now she would be speaking to his parents. And after all he could not completely satisfy himself as to just what she would be doing.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE FIRST HEARTH-FIRE

Meanwhile Amrei went on, wrapped in thought. Her manner showed the effect of the self-reliance she had learned to practice in her childhood. It was not for nothing that she had been accustomed to solve riddles, and that from day to day she had struggled with life's difficulties. The whole strength of the character she had acquired was firmly and securely implanted within her. Without further question, as a man goes forward to meet a necessity, quiet and self-possessed, so did she, boldly and of good courage, go on her way.

She had not gone far when she saw a farmer sitting by the wayside, with a red cane between his legs; and on this cane he was resting his two hands and his chin.

"God greet you," said Amrei. "Are you enjoying a rest?"

"Yes. Where are you going?"

"Up yonder to the farm. Are you going there too? If so, you may lean on me."

"Yes, that is the way," said the old man with a grin. "Thirty years ago I should have cared more about it, if such a pretty girl had said that to me; I should have jumped like a colt."

"But to those who can jump like colts one doesn't say such things," replied Amrei, laughing.

"You are rich," said the old man. He seemed to like to talk, and smiled as he took a pinch of snuff out of his horn snuff-box.

"How can you tell that I am rich?"

"Your teeth are worth ten thousand guilders. There's many a one would give ten thousand guilders to have them in his mouth."

"I have no time for jesting. Now, God keep you!"

"Wait a little. I'll go with you—but you must not walk too fast." Amrei carefully helped the old man to his feet, and he remarked:

"You are strong,"—and in his teasing way he made himself more helpless and heavier than he actually was. As they walked along, he asked:

"To whom are you going at the farm?"

"To the farmer and his wife."

"What do you want of them?"

"That I shall tell them."

"Well, if you want anything of them, you had better turn back at once. The mistress would give you something, but she has no authority to, and the farmer, he's tight—he's got a board on his neck, and a stiff thumb into the bargain."

"I don't want anything given me—I bring them something," said Amrei.

On the way they met an older man going to the field with his scythe; and the old farmer walking with Amrei called out to him with a queer blink in his eyes:

"Do you know if miserly Farmer Landfried is at home?"

"I think so, but I don't know," answered the man with the scythe, and he turned away into the field.

There was a peculiar twitching in his face. And now, as he walked along, his shoulders seemed to Amrei to be shaking up and down; he was evidently laughing. Amrei looked at her companion's face and saw the roguery in it. Suddenly she recognized in the withered features the face of the man to whom she had given a jug of water, years ago, on the Holderwasen. Snapping her fingers softly, she said to herself:

"Stop! Now I know!" And then she added aloud: "It's wrong of you to speak in that way of the Farmer to a stranger like me, whom you don't know, and who might be a relative of his. And I'm sure it is not true what you say. They do say, to be sure, that the Farmer is tight; but when you come right down to it, I dare say he has an honest heart, and simply doesn't like to make an outcry about it when he does a good deed. And a man who has such good children as his are said to be, must be a good man himself. And perhaps he likes to make himself out bad before the world, simply because he doesn't care what others think of him; and I don't think the worse of him for that."

"You have not left your tongue behind you. Where do you come from?"

"Not from this neighborhood—from the Black Forest."

"What's the name of the place?"

"Haldenbrunn."

"Oh! Have you come all the way from there on foot?"

"No, somebody let me ride with him. He's the son of the Farmer yonder—a good, honest man."

"Ah, at his age I should have let you ride with me too!"

They had now come to the farm, and the old man went with Amrei into the room and cried:

"Mother, where are you?"

The wife came out of another room, and Amrei's hands trembled; she would gladly have fallen upon her neck—but she could not—she dared not.

Then the Farmer, bursting into laughter, said:

"Just think, dame! Here's a girl from Haldenbrunn, and she has something to say to Farmer Landfried and his wife, but she won't tell me what it is. Now do you tell her what my name is."

"Why, that's the Farmer himself," said the woman; and she welcomed the old man home by taking his hat from his head and hanging it up on a peg over the stove.

"Do you see now?" said the old man to Amrei, triumphantly. "Now say what you like."

"Won't you sit down," said the mother, pointing to a chair.

Amrei drew a deep breath and began:

"You may believe me when I say that no child could have thought more about you than I have done, long ago, long before these last days. Do you remember Josenhans, by the pond, where the road turns off to Endringen?"

"Surely, surely!" said the two old people.

"Well, I am Josenhans's daughter!"

"Why, I thought I knew you!" exclaimed the old woman. "God greet you!" She held out her hand to Amrei, and said: "You have grown to be a strong, comely girl. Now tell me what has brought you here."

"She rode part of the way with our John," the Farmer interposed. "He'll be here directly."

The mother gave a start. She had an inkling of something to come, and reminded her husband that, when John went away, she had thought of the Josenhans children.

"And I have a remembrance from both of you," said Amrei, and she brought out the necklace and the piece of money wrapped in paper. "You gave me that the last time you were in our village."

"See there—you lied to me, you told me that you had lost it," cried the Farmer to his wife, reproachfully.

"And here," continued Amrei, holding out to him the groschen in its paper cover; "here's the piece of money you gave me when I was keeping geese on the Holderwasen, and gave you a drink from my jug."

"Yes, yes, that's all right! But what does it all mean? What you've had given you, you may keep," said the Farmer.

Amrei stood up and said:

"I have one thing to ask you. Let me speak quite freely for a few minutes, may I?"

"Yes, why not?"

"Look—your John wanted to take me with him and bring me here as a maid. At any other time I would have been glad to serve in your house, indeed, rather than anywhere else. But now it would have been dishonest; and to people to whom I want to be honest all my life long, I won't come for the first time with a lie in my mouth. Now everything must be as open as the day. In a word, John and I love each other from the bottom of our hearts, and he wants to have me for his wife."

"Oho!" cried the Farmer, and he stood up so quickly that one could easily see that his former helplessness had been only feigned. "Oho!" he called out again, as if one of his horses were running away.

But his wife put out her hand and held him, saying:

"Let her finish what she has to say."

And Amrei went on:

"Believe me, I have sense enough to know that one cannot take a girl, out of pity, for a daughter-in-law. You can give me something, you can give me a great deal, but to take me for your daughter-in-law out of pity, is something you cannot do, and I do not wish you to do it. I haven't a groschen of money—oh, yes, the groschen you gave me on the Holderwasen I still have—for nobody would take it for a groschen," she added, turning to the Farmer, who could not repress a smile. "I have nothing of my own, nay, worse than that—I have a brother who is strong and healthy, but for whom I have to provide. I have kept geese, and I have been the most insignificant person in the village, and all that is true. But nobody can say the least harm of me, and that, too, is true. And as far as those things which are really given to people by God are concerned, I could say to any princess: 'I don't put myself one hair's breadth behind you, if you have seven golden crowns on your head.' I would rather have somebody else say these, things for me, for I am not fond of talking about myself. But all my life I have been obliged to speak for myself, and today, for the last time, I do it, when life and death are at stake. By that I mean—don't misunderstand me—if you won't have me, I shall go quietly away; I shall do myself no harm, I shall not jump into the water, or hang myself. I shall merely look for a new position, and thank God that such a good man once wanted to have me for his wife; and I'll consider that it was not God's will that it should be so—" Amrei's voice faltered, and her form seemed to dilate. And then her voice grew stronger again, as she summoned all her firmness and said, solemnly: "But prove to yourselves—ask yourselves in your deepest conscience, whether what you do is God's will.—I have nothing more to say."

Amrei sat down. All three were silent for a time, and then the old man said:

"Why, you can preach like a clergyman."

But the mother dried her eyes with her apron, and said:

"Why not? Clergymen have not more than one mind and one heart!"

"Yes, that's you!" cried the old man with a sneer. "There's something of a parson in you, too. If any one comes to you with a few speeches like that, you're cooked directly!"

"And you talk as if you would not be cooked or softened till you die," retorted the wife.

"Oh, indeed!" said the old man bitterly. "Now look you, you saint from the lowlands; you're bringing a fine sort of peace into my house; you have managed already to make my wife turn against me—you have captured her already. Well, I suppose you can wait until death has carried one off, and then you can do what you please."

"No!" exclaimed Amrei, "I won't have that! Just as little as I wish that John should take me for his wife without your blessing, just so little do I wish that the sin should be in our hearts, that we should both be waiting for you to die. I scarcely knew my parents, I cannot remember them—I only love them as one loves God, without ever having seen Him. But I also know what it is to die. Last night I closed Black Marianne's eyes; I did what she asked me to do all my life long, and yet now that she is dead, I sometimes think: How often you were impatient and bitter toward her, and how many a service you might have done her! And now she is lying there, and it is all over; you can do nothing more for her, and you can't crave her forgiveness for anything.—I know what it is to die, and I will not have—"

"But I will!" cried the old man; and he clenched his fists and set his teeth. "But I will!" he shouted again. "You stay here, and you belong to us! And now, whosoever likes may come, and let him say what he pleases. You, and no one but you, shall have my John!"

The mother ran to the old man and embraced him; and he, not being accustomed to it, called out in surprise:

"What are you doing?"

"Giving you a kiss. You deserve it, for you are a better man than you make yourself out to be."

The old man, who all this time had a pinch of snuff between his fingers which he did not want to waste, took it quickly, and then said:

"Well, I don't object," but he added: "But now I shall dismiss you, for I have much younger lips to kiss, which taste better. Come here, you disguised parson."

"I'll come, but first you must call me by name."

"Well, what is your name?"

"You need not know that, for you can give me a name yourself—you know what name I mean."

"You're a clever one! Well, if you like, come here, daughter-in-law. Does that name suit you?"

In reply Amrei flung herself upon him.

"Am I not to be asked at all?" complained the mother with a radiant face.

The old man had become quite saucy in his joy. He took Amrei by the hand, and asked, in a satirical imitation of a clergyman's voice:

"Now I demand of you, honorable Cordula Catherine, called Dame Landfried, will you take this—" and he whispered to the girl aside:

"What is your Christian name?"

"Amrei."

Then the Farmer continued in the same tone:

"Will you take this Amrei Josenhans, of Haldenbrunn to be your daughter-in-law, and never let her have a word to say, as you do to your husband, feed her badly, abuse her, oppress her, and as they say, bully her generally?"

The old fellow seemed beside himself; some strange revulsion had taken place within him. And while Amrei hung around the mother's neck, and would not let her go, the old man struck his red cane on the table and cried:

"Where's that good-for-nothing, John? Here's a fellow who sends his bride for us to take care of, and goes wandering about the world himself! Who ever heard of such a thing?"

Amrei then tore herself away, and said that the wagoner, or some one else, must be sent at once to the mill to get John, who was waiting there. The father declared that he ought to be left in suspense in the mill for at least three hours; that should be his punishment for having hidden in such a cowardly way behind a petticoat. And when he came home, he should wear a woman's hood; in fact, he wouldn't have him in the house, for when John came, he, the father, would have nothing of the bride at all, and it made him angry already to think of the foolish way in which they would carry on together.

Meanwhile the mother managed to slip away and send the quick-footed wagoner to the mill.

And now the mother thought that Amrei ought to have some refreshment. She wanted to cook an omelette immediately, but Amrei begged to be allowed to light the first fire in the house that was to prepare something for herself, and asked that she might cook something for her parents too. They let her have her way, and the two old people went with her into the kitchen. She knew how to manage it all so cleverly, seeing at a glance where everything was, and hardly requiring to ask a single question, that the old Farmer kept nodding to his wife, and said at last:

"She can do housekeeping like singing at sight; she can read it all off from the page, like the new schoolmaster."

The three stood by the fire, which was blazing merrily, when John came in; and the fire was not blazing more merrily on the hearth than was inward happiness blazing in the eyes of all three. The hearth and its fire became a holy altar, surrounded by worshippers, who, however, only laughed and teased one another.



CHAPTER XIX

SECRET TREASURES

Amrei felt so much at home in the house that, by the second day, she was acting as if she had been brought up there from childhood. The old man followed her around and looked on, while she knowingly took things in hand and accomplished them calmly and steadily, without hurrying or resting.

There are people who, when they go to get the least thing, a plate or a jug, disturb the thoughts of everybody in the room, and seem to drag, so to speak, the attention of all present about with them. Amrei, on the contrary, knew how to manage and accomplish everything in such a way that it was restful to watch her work, and people were consequently so much the more grateful for everything she did for them. How often had the Farmer complained about the fact that, when the salt was wanted, some one always had to rise from the table to get it! But now Amrei herself set the table, and she took care to put the salt-cellar on immediately after the cloth was spread. When the Farmer praised Amrei for this, his wife said with a smile:

"You talk as if you had not lived at all until now, and as if you had always been obliged to eat your food without salt or seasoning!"

And then John told them that Amrei was also called the Salt Countess, and he related the story of the King and his Daughter.

It was a happy family—in the parlor, in the yard, in the field. The Farmer often said that his food for years had not tasted so good to him as it did now; and he used to get Amrei to prepare things for him three or four times a day, at quite irregular hours. And he made her sit with him while he ate it.

The wife, with a feeling of proud satisfaction, took Amrei into the dairy, and then into the store-rooms. In the latter place she opened a large, gaily-painted chest, full of fine, bleached linen, and said:

"This is your outfit—nothing is lacking but shoes. I am very glad that you kept the shoes you got with your wages, for I have a superstition about that."

When Amrei questioned her about the way things had been done in the house hitherto, she nodded approvingly. She did not, however, express any approval in words, but the confidential tone in which she discussed ordinary matters made it quite evident that she felt it. The very supremity of satisfaction lay in her words. And when she began to depute certain matters in the household management to Barefoot, she said:

"Child, let me tell you something; if there is anything about our ways of doing things in the house that doesn't please you, you needn't be afraid to alter it so that it suits you. I am not one of those who think that things must always remain just as they were originally arranged, and that no changes should be made. You have a perfect right to do as you think best, and I shall be glad to see a fresh hand at work. Only if you'll listen to me—I advise you, for your own sake, to do it gradually."

It was pleasant, indeed, to see old experience and young strength joining hands, physically and mentally. Amrei declared with heartfelt sincerity that she found everything capitally arranged, and that she should be only too glad if one day, when she was old, the household was in as good order as it was now.

"You look far ahead," said the old woman. "And that is a good thing; for whosoever thinks of the future thinks of the past as well, and so you will not forget me when I am gone."

Messengers had been sent out to announce the family event to the sons and sons-in-law of the house, and to invite them to Zumarshofen the following Sunday. After that the old man trotted about after Amrei more than ever; he seemed to have something on his mind which he wanted to say, but could not express.

There is a saying about buried treasures to the effect that a black monster squats over them, and that on holy nights a blue flame appears over the spot where the rich treasures lie buried; furthermore that children, born on Sunday, can see this flame, and if they remain calm and unmoved, they can secure the treasure. One would never have thought that such a treasure was hidden in old Farmer Landfried, and that squatting over it was black obstinacy and contempt for humankind. But Amrei saw the little blue flame hovering above him, and knew how to conduct herself in such a way as to release the treasure.

No one could tell how she produced such an effect upon him that he manifestly strove to appear particularly good and benevolent in her eyes—the mere fact that he took any interest in a poor girl at all was in itself a wonder. This alone was clear to Amrei—that he did not want his wife alone to appear as the just and amiable one, and himself as the angry snarler, of whom people must be afraid. Perhaps the fact that Amrei, even before she knew who he was, had accused him of not thinking it worth while to appear good and kind before men, had opened his heart. At all events he had so much to say now, every time he encountered her, that it seemed as if he had been keeping all his thoughts in a savings-box, which he was at last opening. And in it there were some very singular old coins which had declined in value, also some large medals which were no longer in circulation at all, and again there were some quite fresh ones, of pure, unalloyed silver. He could not express his thoughts as well as his wife had done on that day when she had talked with John—his language was stiff in all its joints—but still he managed to hit the point, and almost gave himself the appearance of taking Amrei's part against his wife; nor was it at all amiss when he said:

"Look you, the Dame is like the 'good hour' itself; but the good hour is not a good day, a good week, or a good year. She is but a woman, and with women it is always April weather; for a woman is only half a person—that I maintain, and nobody can dissuade me from it!"

"You give us fine praise," said Amrei.

"Yes, it is true," said the Farmer, "I am talking to you. But as I was saying, the Dame is a good soul, only she's too good. Consequently it annoys her when one doesn't do as she says, because she means well; and she thinks one doesn't know how good she really is, if one does not obey her. She can't understand that often one does not obey her because what she asks is inadvisable, however good her intentions may have been. And remember this especially; don't ever do anything after her, that is, just as she does it; do it your own way, the way you think is right—she likes that much better. She does not like to have it appear that people are subject to her orders—but you will find all that out yourself. And if anything should happen, for heaven's sake don't put your husband between two fires! There is nothing worse than when a husband stands between his wife and mother, and the mother says: 'I no longer amount to anything as far as my daughter-in-law is concerned; yes, even my own children are untrue to me;' and the wife says 'Yes, now I see what kind of a man you are—you let your wife be trampled on!' I advise you, if anything should come up that you can't manage by yourself, to tell me about it quietly, and I'll help you. But; as I say, don't put your husband between two fires. He has been a bit spoiled by his mother, but he'll grow more manly now. Just keep on pushing ahead, and think of me as one of your family, and as your natural protector. For that is true; on your mother's side I am very distantly related to you."

And now he tried to disentangle a strangely intricate genealogy; but be was unable to find the right thread, and succeeded only in getting the different relationships more and more mixed up, like a skein of yarn. And at last he always concluded by saying:

"You may believe me on my word that we are related; for we are related, although I can't quite figure out how."

And now the time before his end had really come, when he no longer gave away merely bad grosschens; it did him good to donate at last a part of his possessions having some real significance and value. For one evening he called Amrei out behind the house and said to her:

"Look, my girl, you are good and sensible, but you don't know just how it is with a man. My John has a good heart, but some day it may possibly annoy him, the thought that you had absolutely nothing of your own. So then, take this, but don't tell a soul anything about it, or from whom you got it. Say that you worked hard and saved it up. There—take it!"

He handed her a stocking full of round thalers, and added:

"That was not to have been found until after I was dead; but it is better so—he'll get it now and think it came from you. This whole affair is out of the common way, so that it can easily be added that you had a secret sum of money. But don't forget that there are also thirty-two feather-thalers in it, which are worth a grosschen each more than ordinary thalers. Take good care of it—put it in the chest where your linen is, and always keep the key with you. And on Sunday, when the entire family is assembled, pour it out on the table."

"I don't like to do that. I think John ought to do that, if it is necessary to do it at all."

"It is necessary. But if you like, John may do it—but sh! put it out of sight!—quickly! Hide it in your apron, for I hear John coming! I think he is jealous." And the two parted in haste.

And that very evening the mother took Amrei up into the attic, and out of a drawer drew forth a tolerably heavy bag. The cord which held it together was tied and knotted in a remarkable manner. She said to Amrei:

"There—untie that!"

Amrei tried, but it was hard work.

"Wait! I'll get a pair of shears and we'll cut it open!"

"No," objected Amrei. "I don't like to do that! Just have a little patience, mother, I'll undo it all right!"

The mother smiled; and Amrei, with great difficulty, but with a skilful hand, finally got the cord untied. Then the old woman said:

"Good! That's fine! Now look at what's inside of it."

Amrei looked in and saw a quantity of gold and silver coins. Then the mother went on to say:

"Look you, child, you have wrought a miracle upon the Farmer. Even now I can't understand how he came to give in—but you have not entirely converted him yet. My husband is always talking about it, saying what a pity it is that you have nothing of your own. He can't get over it, and keeps thinking that you must have a neat little sum tucked away somewhere, and that you are deceiving us about it, merely to find out if we are content to take you as you are. He won't let himself be talked out of that notion, and so I hit upon an idea. God will not impute it to us as a sin. Look—this is what I have saved during the thirty-six years my husband and I have kept house together. There was no deception about it, and some of it I inherited from my mother anyway. But now you take it and say it is your property. It will make the Farmer very happy, especially since he was clever enough to suspect it beforehand. Why do you look at me in such a confused way? Believe me when I tell you that you may do it—there is no wrong in it, for I have thought it over time and again. Now, go and hide it, and don't say a word against it—not a single word. Don't thank me or do anything—for it's the same to me whether my child gets it now or later, and it will please my husband while he's yet alive. And now, quick!—tie it up again!"

Early the next morning Amrei told John all about what his parents had said to her, and what they had given her. And John cried out joyously:

"Lord in heaven, forgive me! I could have believed such a thing of my mother, but of my father I should never have dreamt it! Why, you must be a witch! And look you! We will do that—we won't tell either of them about the other. And the best part of it is, that each wants to deceive the other, whereas, in reality, both of them will be deceived! Yes, they must both think that you really had some extra money! Hurrah! That will be a merry jest for the betrothal party!"

But in the midst of all the joy in the house there were all sorts of anxieties too!



CHAPTER XX

IN THE FAMILY CIRCLE

It is not morality that rules the world, but a hardened form of it called "custom." As the world is now disposed, it would rather forgive an offense against morality than an offense against custom. Happy are those times and countries in which morality and custom are still one. Every dispute that arises, on a small scale as well as on a large one, in general as well as in particular, hinges on the effort to reconcile the contradiction between these two; and to melt the hardened form of custom back into the true ore of morality, and stamp the coin anew according to its value.

Even here, in this little story dealing with people who live apart from the great tumult of the world, the reflection of this truth is seen.

The mother, who was secretly the most rejoiced over the happy realization of her hopes, was yet full of peculiar anxiety concerning the opinion of the world.

"After all," she said, complainingly, to Amrei, "you did a thoughtless thing to come into the house in the way you did, so that we cannot go and fetch you to the wedding. It was not good, not customary. If I could only send you away for a short time, or else John, so that it would all be more according to rule."

And to John she said plaintively:

"I hear already the talk there'll be if you marry in such a hurry. People will say: 'Twice asked, the third time persuaded—that's the way worthless people do it!'"

But she allowed herself to be pacified by both of them, and smiled when John said:

"Mother, you have studied up everything, like a clergyman. Then tell me, why should decent people refrain from doing something, simply because indecent people use it as a cloak? Can any one say anything bad about me?"

"No,—you have been a good lad all your life."

"Well, then let them have a little confidence in me now, and believe that a thing may be good, even if it does not look so at first sight. I have a right to ask that much of them. The way Amrei and I came together was out of the usual order, to be sure, and the affair has gone on in its own way from the very beginning. But it wasn't a bad way. Why, it's like a miracle, if we look at it rightly. And what is it to us if people refuse to believe in miracles nowadays, and prefer to find all sorts of badness in these things? One must have courage and not ask the world's opinion in everything. The clergyman at Hirlingen once said: 'If a prophet were to rise today, he would first have to pass the government examination and show that what he wanted was in the regular order.' Now, mother, when one knows for oneself that something is right, then it is best to go forward in a straight line and push aside, right and left, whatever stands in one's way. Let people stare and wonder for a while—they will think better of it in time."

The mother very likely felt that a thing might be accepted as a miracle if it came in the form of a sudden, happy event, but that even the most unusual things later on must gradually conform to the laws of tradition and of strong, established custom. The wedding might appear as a miracle, but the marriage, which involved a continuance, would not. She therefore said:

"With all these people, whom you now look at with proud indifference, because you know that you are doing right—with all these people you'll have to live, and you'll expect them, not to look at you askance, but to give you due respect. Now if they are to do that, you must give and allow them what they are accustomed to demand. You cannot force them to make an exception in your case, and you can't run after each one separately and say: 'If you knew how it all came about, you would say that I was quite right in doing it.'"

But John rejoined:

"You shall see that nobody will have anything to say against my Amrei, when he or she has known her a single hour!"

And he resorted to a good way, not only of pacifying his mother, but also of causing her to rejoice in her innermost soul. He reported to her how all the warnings she had given him, and all the ways of testing a girl she had enumerated, had found exact correspondence in Amrei, as if she had been made to order. And she could not help laughing, when he concluded:

"You must have had the last in your head upon which the shoes up above are made; for they fit her who is to run about in them as if they were made for her." The mother let herself be quieted.

On the Saturday morning previous to the family gathering, Damie made his appearance; but he was immediately dispatched back to Haldenbrunn to procure all the necessary papers from the magistrate in the town-hall.

The first Sunday was an anxious day at Farmer Landfried's. The old people had accepted Amrei, but how would it be with the rest of the family? It is no easy matter to enter a large family of that kind unless the way is paved with horses and wagons, and all sorts of furniture and money, and a number of relatives.

Many wagons arrived that Sunday at Farmer Landfried's from the uplands and lowlands. There came driving up brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law, and all their relations.

"John has a wife, and he brought her straight home without her parents, without a clergyman, and without the authorities having had a word to say in the matter. She must be a beauty that he found behind a hedge somewhere!"

This is what all of them were saying.

The horses on the wagons also suffered for what had happened at Farmer Landfried's. They received many a lash, and when they kicked, they suffered all the more for it; for whoever was driving whipped them until his arm was tired. This caused many a wrangle with the wives, who sat beside the drivers and protested and scolded about such a reckless, cruel way of driving.

A little fortress of carriages stood in Farmer Landfried's courtyard, and in the house the entire large family was assembled. There they sat together in high water-boots, or in clouted laced-boots, and with three-cornered hats, some worn with the corner, others with the broadside forward. The women whispered among themselves, and then made signs to their husbands, or else said to them quietly: "Just let us alone—we will drive the strange bird out all right." And a bitter, jeering laugh arose when it was rumored here and there, that Amrei had been a goose-girl.

At last Amrei entered; but she could not offer, her hand to anybody. For she was carrying a large bottle of red wine under her arm, and so many glasses, besides two plates of cake, that it seemed as if she had seven hands. Every finger-joint appeared to be a hand; but she put everything so gently and noiselessly on the table, on which her mother-in-law had spread a white cloth, that everybody looked at her in wonder. Then, silently and without any signs of trepidation, she filled all the glasses, and said:

"My parents have given me authority to bid you a hearty welcome! Now drink!"

"We are not used to it in the morning," said a heavy man, with an uncommonly large nose; and he spread himself out in his chair. This was George, John's oldest brother.

"We drink only goose-wine (water)," said one of the women; and a scarcely-suppressed laugh went around the room.

Amrei felt the taunt, but kept her temper; and John's sister was the first to take the glass and drink to her. She first clinked her glass against John's with a "May God bless you!" She only half responded to Amrei, who also held out her glass. Now, the other women considered it impolite, even sinful,—for, at the first draught, the so-called "John's-draught," it is looked upon as sinful to hold back—not to respond; and the men also let themselves be persuaded, so that for a time nothing was heard but the clinking and putting down of glasses.

"Father is right," old Dame Landfried at last said to her daughter. "Amrei looks as if she were your sister, but she resembles still more Elizabeth, who died."

"Yes; none of you have lost by it. If Elizabeth had lived, the property would have been smaller by one share anyway," observed the father. And the mother added:

"But now she has been given back to us again."

The old man had hit the spot where, as a matter of fact, all of them were sore, although they tried to persuade themselves, and each other, that they were prejudiced against Amrei because she had come among them without any relatives of her own. And while Amrei was talking to John's sister, the old farmer said to his son in a low voice:

"One would never imagine, to look at her, what she has. Just think!—she has a bag stuffed full of crown thalers! But you must not say anything to any one about it."

This injunction was so well obeyed, that within a few minutes every person in the room knew about the bag of thalers, with the exception of John's sister, who afterward took great credit to herself for having been so friendly to Amrei, although she thought that Amrei had not a farthing of her own.

Sure enough! John had gone out, and he was now entering again with a large bag, on which was written the name "Josenhans of Haldenbrunn;" and when he poured out the rich contents, which rolled rattling and clinking over the table, all were dumbfounded. But the most astonished of all were the father and mother.

So Amrei had really had a secret treasure! For there was much more here than either one had given her. Amrei did not dare to look up, and every one praised her for her unexampled humility. And now she succeeded in winning them all over to her side; and when the numerous members of the family took their leave in the evening, each one said to her in secret:

"Look you; it was not I who was against you because you had nothing—it was so-and-so, who was always opposing you. I say now, as I said and thought before, that even if you had had nothing but the clothes you wore, you were cut out for our family; and I could not have wished for a better wife for John, or a better daughter-in-law for the old people."

It was easy to say that now, for they all thought that Amrei had brought with her a considerable fortune in cash.

In Allgau they talked for years of the wonderful way in which young Farmer Landfried had brought home his wife, and told how finely he and his wife had danced together at their wedding, and especially did they praise a waltz called "Silverstep," the music for which they got from the lowlands.

And Damie?—he is one of the most noted shepherds in Allgau, and has, moreover, a lofty name, for he is known in the country as "Vulture Damie." Why? Because Damie has destroyed the nests of two dangerous vultures, and thus avenged himself on them for twice having stolen young lambs from him. If it were the custom to dub men knights nowadays, he would be called "Damian of Vulturescraig." Moreover, the male side of the Josenhanses of Vulturescraig will die with him, for he is still a bachelor. But he is a good uncle—better than the one in America. When the cattle are brought in at the end of the summer, he has many stories to tell his sister's children, on winter nights, about life in America, about Coaly Matthew in Mossbrook Wood, and about shepherds' adventures in the mountains of Allgau. In particular, he knows a number of funny stories to tell about a cow which he calls his "herd-cow," and which wears a deep-sounding bell.

And Damie said once to his sister:

"Dame"—for that is what he always calls her—"Dame, your oldest boy takes after you, and uses just such words as you used to. What do you think?—the boy said to me today: 'Uncle, your herd-cow is your heart-cow too, isn't she?' Yes, the boy is just on your pattern."

Farmer John wanted to have his first little daughter christened "Barefoot," but it is no longer permissible to create names out of incidents in daily life. The name was not accepted in the church register, so that John had the child named "Barbara." But, on his own authority, he has changed that name to "Barefoot."

* * * * *



JEREMIAS GOTTHELF

* * * * *

ULI, THE FARMHAND

TRANSLATIONS AND SYNOPSES

BY BAYARD QUINCY MORGAN, PH.D.

Instructor in German, University of Wisconsin



CHAPTER I

A MASTER AWAKES; A SERVANT IS AROUSED

A dark night lay upon the earth; still darker was the place where a subdued voice repeatedly called, "Johannes." It was a tiny chamber in a large farmhouse; the voice came from the great bed which almost filled the further end of the room. In it lay a farmer and his wife, and to him the latter cried "Johannes" until he presently began to grumble and finally to ask, "What do you want? What is it?"

"You'll have to get up and fodder the stock. It's after half-past four, and Uli didn't get home till after two and fell downstairs at that when he tried to get into his room. I should think you'd have waked up, he made such a noise. He was drunk, and now he won't want to get up; and anyhow I'd rather he wouldn't take a lantern into the stable while he's tipsy."

"Servants are a trial nowadays," said the farmer, striking a light and dressing. "You can hardly get 'em or pay 'em enough, and then you're supposed to do everything yourself and never say a word about anything. You're not master in your own house any more, and you can't do enough of your own errands to keep from quarrels and from being run down."

"But you can't let this go on," said his wife; "it's happening too often. Only last week he went off on two sprees; you know he drew his pay before Ash Wednesday. I'm not thinking of you alone, but also of Uli. If nothing's said to him he'll think he's got a right to go on so, and will keep on worse and worse, and then we'll have to take it on our consciences; for masters are masters after all, and let folks say what they will about the new fashion, that it's nobody's business what the servants do out of working hours, we're masters in our own house just the same, and we're responsible to God and men for what we allow in our house and what we overlook in our servants. Then too I'm thinking of the children. You must take him into the sitting-room after breakfast, and read him the riot act."

You must know that there prevails on many farms, especially those which belong to the real farmer aristocracy—i.e., those which have for a long time been handed, down in the same family, so that family customs have been established and family respectability is cherished—the very pleasant custom of causing absolutely no quarrel, no violent scene, which could attract the neighbors' attention in any way. In proud calm the house stands amid the green trees; with calm, grave demeanor its indwellers move about and in it, and over the tree-tops sounds at most the neighing of the horses, never the voices of men. There is little noisy rebuke. Man and wife never rebuke each other in public; and mistakes of the servants they often ignore, or make, as it were in passing, a remark, let fall merely a word or a hint, which reaches only the ear for which it is intended. When something unusual occurs or the measure is full, they call the sinner into the sitting-room as unostentatiously as possible, or seek him out while he is working alone, and "read him the riot act," as the saying is; and for this the master has usually prepared himself carefully. He performs this duty in perfect calm, quite like a father, keeps nothing from the sinner, not even the bitterest truth, but gives him a just hearing too, and puts before him the consequences of his misdoings with respect to his future destiny.



And when the master is done he is content, and the affair is settled to this extent, that neither the rebuked one nor his fellows can detect the least thing in the conduct of the master—no bitterness, nor vehemence, nor anything else. These reprimands are mostly of good effect by virtue of the prevailing fatherly tone, the calmness of their delivery, and their considerately chosen setting. Of the self-control and calm serenity in such houses one can scarcely form a conception.

When the master was almost through in the stable Uli came along, but in silence; they spoke no word to each other. When the voice from the kitchen door called them to breakfast the master went at once to the well-trough and washed his hands, but Uli stood long undecided. Perhaps he would not have come to breakfast at all if the mistress herself had not called him again. He was ashamed to show his face, which was black and blue and bloody. He did not know that it is better to be ashamed of a thing before it is done, than afterward. But this he was to learn.

At the table no remark was passed, no question which might have concerned him; and the two maids did not even venture to show mocking faces, for the master and mistress wore serious ones. But when they had eaten and the maids were carrying out the dishes, and Uli, who had finished last, raised his elbows from the table and put his cap on his head again, showing that he had prayed and was going out, the master said, "A word with you," went into the sitting-room and shut the door behind them. The master sat down at the further end near the little table; Uli stood still by the door and assumed a sheepish expression which could as easily be transformed into defiance as into penitence. He was a tall, handsome lad, not yet twenty years old, powerful in build, but with something in his face that did not indicate innocence and moderation, and that by next year could make him look ten years older.

"Listen, Uli," the master began, "things can't go on this way; you're getting too wild to suit me. You go on night revels and sprees too often. I won't trust my horses and cows to a man whose head is full of brandy or wine, and I can't send him into the stable with a lantern, especially when he smokes as you do. I've seen too many houses burned up by such carelessness. I don't know what you're thinking of and what you think is going to come of all this."

He hadn't burned up anything yet, Uli answered; he had always done his work, no one had needed to do it for him, and nobody had paid for what he drank; it was nobody's business what he spent on drink, it was his own money.

"But it's my servant," answered the master, "that's drinking up his money. When you carry on it comes back on me, and the people say that you're the Bottom-Farmer's man and that they can't imagine what he's thinking of to let you carry on so and to have such a servant as you. You haven't burned up any house yet, but think, Uli, wouldn't once be too much, and would you ever have a quiet moment again if you thought you had burned up my house, and if we and the children couldn't get out and were burned to death? And how about your work? I'd rather have you lie abed all day long. Why, you fall asleep under the cows you're milking, and you don't see, hear, or smell anything, and stumble around the house as if your liver was out of whack. It's terrible to watch you."

He wouldn't take this, said Uli, and if his work wasn't good enough for him he'd leave. But it was always so nowadays, you couldn't satisfy a master any more, even if working all the time; one was worse than the other. As for pay, they wanted to give less and less, and the food got worse every day. After awhile one would have to gather fleas, beetles, and grasshoppers if one wanted to have meat and fat with his vegetables.

"Listen, Uli," said the master, "you're in a bad temper still, and I oughtn't to have said anything to you. But I'm sorry for you, for you've been a fine lad and used to be able to work. For awhile I thought you'd turn out well, and I was glad. But since you began this idling and night-running, you've become a different fellow. You don't care about anything any more; you're a sorehead, and when I say the least word to you either sauce me or sulk for a week. Go now, think it over, and if you're not willing to change, then in God's name leave me; I don't want you any longer. Give me your answer in a week."

He'd soon have his mind made up, it wouldn't take a week, Uli growled as he went out; but the master pretended not to hear.

When the master came out, his wife asked him as usual, "What did you say to him, and what did he say?"

"I couldn't do anything with him," answered the master. "Uli is still in a bad temper, for he hasn't slept off his spree yet; it would have been better to talk to him tomorrow or in the evening, after the natural seediness of 'the day after' had softened him up a little. Now I've given him time to think it over, and shall wait and see what comes of it."

Uli went out in bitter anger, as if the greatest injustice had been done him. He flung the tools around as though everything was to go to smash in the one day, and he bawled at the cattle until the master ached in every bone. But the latter forced himself to be calm, merely saying once, "Easy, easy!" With the other servants Uli had no dealings, but scowled at them too. As the master had not reprimanded him before the others, he did not care to inform them of his disgrace, and because he did not make common cause with them he considered that they were on the master's side and his enemies—a state of mind quite in accord with that deeply truthful saying: "He that is not for me is against me." So there was no one to put notions into his head, and he had no opportunity to swear that the devil or what-not might take him if he stayed here an hour after his time was up.

Little by little the wine and other spirits departed from him, and more and more sluggish grew his limbs; the previous tension yielded to an intolerable exhaustion, which affected not only body but mind. And as every act of the exhausted body is hard and painful to perform, so every past and potential act seems to the exhausted spirit, which would fain weep over what it laughed at before; what formerly caused pleasure and joy now brings only grief and sorrow; the things but yesterday eagerly grasped now bring a craze that would tear the hair from its head, aye, even the whole head from its body. When this mood envelops the soul it is irresistible, and over all a man's thought and ideas it casts its sickly gleam.

While Uli, as long as the effect of the wine was upon him, had been angry with the master for his rebuke, now that its force was spent he became angry at himself for his debauch. He recalled the twenty-three farthings which he had gone through in one evening, and which would now take almost a fortnight's work to earn again. He was angry at the work which he would have to do for this purpose, at the wine which he had drunk, at the tavern-keeper who had furnished it, and so on. He lost all sense, forgot everything, did everything wrong. He was uncomfortable, discontented with himself, hence also with all others, with the whole world; he had good words for none, and nothing suited him. He imagined that the mistress was intentionally cooking poor meals and preparing everything he didn't like; that the master was tormenting him with needless work; that the horses were all bad-tempered and that the cows purposely did everything they could to bother him—the stupidest cows that ever grazed on God's earth.

The farmer and his wife let the lad alone; it seemed as if they paid no heed to him. But it was not so. The mistress had once or twice remarked to her husband how wildly Uli was carrying on—she had never known him to be in such a state before. Had her husband spoken too sharply to him? But the farmer did not think so; Uli wasn't angry at him alone but at the whole world, he said—probably chiefly angry at himself and was letting it out on others.

On Sunday he would talk with him again. Things couldn't go on this way any longer; Uli would have to mend his ways or go. But he mustn't be too harsh, said the mistress. After all, Uli wasn't the worst in the world; they knew what he was, but they didn't know what they might get.



CHAPTER II

A QUIET SUNDAY IN A FINE FARMHOUSE

[This describes in detail the Sunday activities on the farm—churchgoing, visits from relatives, an afternoon walk, inspection of the crops and the cattle, a coffee party.]



CHAPTER III

A NOCTURNAL ADMONITION

After they had hung up the lantern out in the stable and bedded the horses, the master himself made a bed for the cow, which tramped restlessly back and forth and could not lie down for uneasiness, and then remarked that it might be an hour or two yet, and they would go out and sit on the bench and smoke a pipe; the cow would give warning when the time came.

It was a mild night, half spring, half summer. Few stars twinkled in the blue ocean above; a ringing shout, a distant wagon broke in at times upon the stillness of the night.

"Have you made up your mind now, Uli?" asked the master, when they were sitting on the bench before the stable.

Uli answered that he was still rather undecided, but his tone was no longer angry. He wouldn't take everything, but he shouldn't mind staying.

He had already adopted the generally accepted maxim, never to show eagerness lest the opponent draw an advantage from it. Hence the remarkable calm and cold-bloodedness in farmers, which diplomats should admire. But in its full extent and application it is a vicious policy, which causes unspeakable evil, estranges countless people, makes them appear enemies to one another, generates coldness where generous zeal should be kindled, and results in an indifference which causes an involuntary goose-flesh to scamper up the back of every friend of goodness.

The master did not take the reply amiss, but said that he felt the same way. He had nothing against Uli; but things would have to change. He wanted to know who was in the wrong, and whether he couldn't say a word in his own house any more without getting cross words all the week and seeing a face sour enough to poison all America.

He couldn't help it, said Uli. To look cross was his style of friendliness, and if his face hadn't looked the same as usual it wasn't on his master's account, for he had no special complaint against him or anybody. But he was only a poor servant after all, and had no right to a home or any fun; he was on earth only to be unhappy, and when ever he tried to forget his misery and have a good time everybody got after him and tried to put him down. Whoever could shove him into misfortune, did so. Who could be expected to look sweet all the time?

He ought to see that he didn't want to shove him into misfortune—quite the contrary, said the master. If any one was doing that it was himself. When a lad went with bad girls he was the cause of his own misfortune, and no one else. "No, Uli," continued the master, "you must give up your loose living; you make yourself unhappy, and I won't have such vexation as you've caused me this week."

He hadn't done anything bad, Uli rejoined.

"Ho, ho," said the master; "I wonder whether getting full is something good."

Oh, there were much worse than he, said Uli, and there were lots of farmers that he couldn't hold a candle to.

He couldn't deny it, said the master, but a bad man didn't make the others good, and even if many a farmer was a drunkard or even a scoundrel, that didn't make Uli any better if he was a loafer and other things besides.

Well, a man surely ought to be allowed to have some fun, said Uli; who'd want to live if he couldn't have any fun any more?

"But Uli, is it any fun if you don't want to see anybody for a week afterward, if you don't feel happy anywhere? Is it any fun if it can make you miserable and unhappy for the rest of your life? Such fun is the devil's bait. Of course you can have your fun; every man has a right to it, but in good and right ways. You can tell whether a man is good or bad by his enjoyment of good or bad things."

"Well, it's easy for you to crow," said Uli, "you've got the finest farm for miles around, your stables are full of good stock, you granaries full; you have a good wife—one of the best, and fine children; you can enjoy yourself, for you have things to enjoy; if I had 'em, I'd never think of sprees and wild living. But what have I got? I'm a poor lad, haven't a soul in the world that wishes me well; my father's dead, my mother too, and my sisters are all looking out for themselves. Misfortune's my lot in this world; if I get sick, nobody wants me, and if I die they'll bury me like a dog, and not a soul will cry over me. Oh, why don't they kill the like of me when we come into the world!" And with that, big strong Uli began to cry bitterly.

"Now, now, Uli," said the master, "you're not so badly off, if you'd only think so. Give up your wild life and you can be a man yet. Many a man has started with as little as you, and got house and farm and full stables."

Yes, said Uli, such things didn't happen any more, and then a man had to have more luck for that than he had.

"That's stupid talk," said the master; "how can a man talk of luck when he throws away and squanders all he gets his hands on? I never saw a coin yet that wasn't willing to leave the hand that spent it. But your mistake is just this—that you don't believe you could become a man. You think you're poor and will stay poor and are worth nothing, and so you stay poor. If you thought something different, things would go better. For everything still depends on what a man believes."

"But for goodness gracious sake, master," said Uli, "how should I get rich? Think how little my pay is, and how many clothes I need; and I have debts to boot. What's the use of saving? And can't I have any fun?"

"But for goodness gracious sake," echoed the master, "what are you coming to if you've got debts now, while you're strong and well and nobody to care for? You'll be a vagabond, and then nobody will want you any more; you'll earn less and less and need more and more. No, Uli, think it over a little; this can't go on. There's still time, and I tell you honestly it would be a pity."

"It's no use; what's the good of drudging and giving up all my fun? I shan't get anywhere; a poor lad like me can never be anything else," wailed Uli.

"See what the cow's doing," said the master. And when Uli came back with the reply that the calf was not coming just yet, the master said, "I shall remember all my life how our pastor explained serving in our religious teaching, and how he made it so clear that you had to believe him; and many a man has grown happy by doing so. He said that all men got from God two great funds to put out at interest—namely, powers and time. By good use of these we must win temporal and eternal life. Now, many a man has nothing to exercise his powers on, so as to use his time serviceably and profitably; so he lends his powers and his time to some one who has too much work, but too little time and powers, in return for a definite pay; that is called serving. But it was an unfortunate thing, he said, that most servants regarded this serving as a misfortune and their employers as their enemies or at least their oppressors; that they regarded it as an advantage to do as little as possible for them, to be able to waste as much time as possible in chattering, running, and sleeping; that they became unfaithful, for they withheld in this way from their masters what they had lent and sold to them—time. But as every disloyalty punished itself, so this also caused very direful consequences; for betrayal of the master was betrayal of oneself. Every action tended imperceptibly to form a habit which we could never get rid of. When a maid-servant or a man-servant had for years done as little as possible, worked as slowly as possible, always grumbled at each new task, and either run away, heedless of the outcome, or dawdled over it so that the very grass grew under their feet, had taken no pains with anything, spoiled as much as possible, never been careful but always indifferent to everything—this soon formed a habit, and after a while it couldn't be shaken off. Such a habit would be carried along into each employment, and if in time independence came and marriage, then who had to bear these habits—laziness, sloth, insubordination, discontent? The man himself had to bear them and all their consequences, distress and calamity, until death, through death, and before God's judgment seat. He told us to look and see how many thousands were a burden to their fellows and an offense to God, dragging themselves around as repulsive creatures, visible witnesses to the thoughtful, how unfaithfulness punishes itself."

"But as a man formed a habit by his acts, so also he made a name for himself among others. For this name, for his reputation or esteem among men, every man worked from childhood to the grave; every little act, yes, every single word, contributed to this name. This name opens or closes hearts to us, makes us worthy or unworthy, desired or rejected. However humble a man, he has his name, and his fellows judge his value to them by it. So every man-servant and maid-servant involuntarily creates a name, and the amount of their wages is determined by it; it opens a way to them or closes it. Then it's no use for a man to make long speeches and complain about former employers; that won't give him a good name, for his actions have already given him a bad one. His reputation would be known for miles around, one scarcely knew how. This name was a wonderful thing, and yet people gave much too little thought to it, especially those with whom it was only second in importance to their habits of mind; with these two things they wished to gain a third, a good living in the world, wealth; and a fourth—Heaven and its treasures. What a wretched wight he was, then, who had bad habits and a bad name, and who was losing Heaven and earth!

"And so, the pastor continued, every man who went into service ought to look on it not as slavery, nor the master as his enemy; but as schooling, and the master as a blessing from God; for what should the poor do—i.e., those who had but time and powers (and that was much after all), if no one would give them work and pay. They should regard their time of service as an opportunity to accustom themselves to work and industry and make a good name for themselves among men. According as they were true to the master they were true to themselves, and as the master profited by them they profited themselves. They should never think that only the master gained advantage from their industry; they gained at least as much from it. Then, even if they came to a bad master, they should by no means plan to punish him by bad behavior; they would only injure themselves thereby, inwardly and outwardly. Now when a servant worked better and better, was increasingly faithful and capable, that was his own possession which nobody could take from him, and in addition he had his good name. People would like him and intrust much to him, and the world would be open to him. Let him undertake what he would, he would find good people to help him because his good name was the best security. We should stop and think what servants men commended—the faithful or the unfaithful; and which among them attained property and respect.

"Then the pastor said a third thing, and that touches you especially. He said that men wanted to have pleasure and ought to have it, especially in their youth. Now when a servant hated his service and found work disagreeable, he would desire some special pleasures and so would begin to idle, to run wild, to take part in bad affairs, and finally would take delight in these things and meditate upon them day and night. But if maid or man had seen the light, realized that they might come to something, and had faith in themselves, then they would love their work, would take pleasure in learning something, in doing something well; pleasure in success at something, in the growth of what they had planted, what they had fed. They would never say, 'What do I care about this? What business is that of mine? I get nothing out of it.' No, they would take genuine pleasure in doing something unusual, undertaking something hard; thus their powers would best grow, thus they would make the best name for themselves. So they would take delight in their master's business, in his horses, cows, corn, grass, as if they were their own. 'Of that in which a man delights doth he think; where the treasure is, there is the heart also,' said the pastor. Now if the servant has his mind on his service, if he is filled with the desire to become a thoroughly capable man in the eyes of God and men, then the devil has little power over him, cannot suggest evil things to him, wicked thoughts for him to think continually, so that he hasn't his mind on his work but is drawn from one vice to another and is ruined in soul and body. Those were the pastor's words," concluded the master; "it seems as if it was today that he spoke them to us, and I have seen a hundred times over that he was right. I thought I'd tell it to you; it just fits your case. And if you'd only think so, you could be one of the finest lads in the world and have just the kind of life you want."



CHAPTER IV

HOW THE EARS OF A SERVANT ARE OPENED TO A GOOD MASTER

Uli's answer was cut off by the cow, which proclaimed her pangs more clearly: now there was work to do, and the conversation could not be continued. All went well, and finally there was a handsome calf, coal-black with a white star, such as neither had ever seen; it was decided to raise it. Uli was twice as active and attentive as usual, and the little calf he treated quite gently, almost tenderly, and regarded it with real affection.

When they were done with the cow and she had had her onion soup, the morning was already dawning, and no time was left to continue their conversation.

The ensuing work-days engrossed them with various labors and the master was frequently absent on business in the neighborhood, so that they had no further talk together. But it seemed to be assumed by both that Uli was to remain, and when the master came home his wife could not praise Uli enough, saying how well he had performed his duty and that she had not had to give him any orders; he had thought of everything himself, and when she had thought of it it had already been done. This naturally pleased the master very much and caused him to speak with increasing kindness to Uli and to show more and more confidence in him. Nothing is more vexatious for a master than to come home in the evening tired or sleepy and find everything at sixes and sevens and his wife full of complaints; to see only half the work done that should have been accomplished, much of it botched and ruined, so that it had better have been let alone; and then into the bargain to hear his wife complain half the night how the servants had been unruly, had given impudent answers, and done just what they pleased, and how she hated to have it so—and if he ever went away again she would run off too. It is terrible for a man who has to go away (and the necessity arises occasionally) if the heavy sighs begin on the homeward road, as soon as he can see his house. What has happened today, he thinks—what shall I see and hear? And so he scarcely wants to go home at all; and whereas he would like to return with love and joy, he has to march with thunder and lightning into his rebellious realm.

In Uli something new had awakened and was filling his whole frame, without his rightly knowing it as yet. As time went on he had to think more and more of the master's words, and more and more he began to believe that the master was right. It was grateful to him to think that he was not created to remain a poor despised lad, but might yet become a man. He saw that wild ways would not bring him to that, and that the more he persisted in them the more ground he would lose. He was strangely affected by what the master had said about habits, and about the good name that one could get in addition to his pay, and so keep on earning more and more the more faithfully he worked; and how one could not look better to his own interest than by being very faithful in the service of his master.

He found himself less and less ready to deny that it was so. More and more examples kept occurring to him of bad servants who had become unhappy and remained poor, and on the other hand he remembered how he had heard others praised by their old employers, who told how they had had a good man or maid, and how these had done well and were now Well off.

Only one thing he could not understand—how he, Uli, should ever come to money, to wealth; that seemed absolutely impossible to him. His pay was thirty crowns in cash, that is, seventy-five francs; also two shirts and a pair of shoes. Now he still had debts of almost four crowns and had already drawn much pay. Heretofore he had never been able to keep within his income; and now he was to pay debts and save, and that seemed impossible to him, for in the natural course of things he was prepared to see his debts increase each year. Of the thirty crowns he needed at least ten for clothes, and even then he could not dress very elegantly; for stockings, shoes, shirts, of which he had only three good and four poor ones, washing, etc., at least eight crowns would go; a packet of tobacco every week (and he generally used more) made two crowns more; that left ten crowns. Now there were fifty Saturday nights, fifty Sunday afternoons, six of which were dance-Sundays at that; nobody knew how many market-days; then there was a review, perhaps even a quartering of soldiers, not counting all the chance occasions for a lark, such as weddings, shooting, bowling, the newly fashionable masquerades, and evening parties, the most dangerous of all evil customs. Independence Day, which degenerates into a perfect orgy of debauchery, was not then in vogue. Now if he figured only two pence a week for brandy or wine, that made four crowns again. If he skipped three dance-Sundays, still he needed at least a crown if he was to pay the fiddler, have a girl, and, as was customary, go home full; and often he needed a thirty-fiver for each of the other three Sundays. Now for the market-days, reviews, and other sprees he had only three crowns left. With this, he thought, it was really humanly impossible to get along; two markets and the review alone would use up more than that; so he had nothing at all for the rest. He figured it over and over, tried to cut down on clothes, on other expenses; but it couldn't be done. He had to be clothed and have washing done; nor could he run barefoot. And so, let him figure as he would, he always came to the sad result that, instead of putting by, he would be falling behind.

One day soon after this calculation master and man were hauling stones for a new stove. On the homeward way they stopped at an inn, for they had a long and hilly road. Since the master was not so niggardly as to order the poorest wine when the servant was with him, and only a halfpence worth of bread for the two, Uli became talkative as they proceeded. "Listen, master," said Uli, "I have been thinking that the pastor who gave you your instruction wasn't altogether a fool; but he didn't know anything about what pay a farmer lad gets and what he needs; I suppose he thought it was about as much as a vicar's pay. But you ought to know better, and that saving and getting rich are no go. I've spent many a day in figuring, till I was like to burst the top of my head off; but I always got the same result: nothing comes of nothing, and zero from zero is zero."

"Why, how did you figure?" asked the master.

Uli went through the whole account again for him, and when he was done he asked the master mockingly, "Now, what do you say to that? Isn't it so?"

The master said, "By your account, to be sure; but there's a very different way of reckoning, my lad. Here now, I'll figure it up for you my way; I wonder what you'll say to it."

"I won't change much what you put down for clothes. It's possible that if you want to keep yourself in good condition, and in particular to have shirts that will save washing, and to look as a self-respecting lad likes to look on Sundays and work-days, you'll need even more at first. But for tobacco you've put down two crowns, and that's too much. A man that has to go into the stable and on the barn-floor ought not to smoke all day, not till after working hours. You don't need to smoke to offset your hunger on my place, and if you could get out of the habit altogether it would help you a lot. When a man doesn't smoke he always increases his wages.

"The other ten crowns that you put down for amusements of all kinds I'll strike out, every one. Yes, open your mouth and look at me like a stork at a new roof. If you want to cure yourself and come to something, you've got to make some decent resolution at the outset—a resolution not to squander a single penny of your pay in any way. If you resolve simply to go gallivanting a little less often, to spend a little less than before, that's just throwing your money to the winds. Once in the tavern, you're no longer master of yourself; the old companionship, the old habit will carry you along, and you'll spend two or three weeks' pay again. Then the after-thirst will come and you'll have to improve other evenings, and more and more you'll lose all belief that you could ever help yourself up, you'll become slacker every day, and you'll despair of yourself more and more. Besides, it's not so dreadful as the face you makeup. See how many people never take a glass the year round, or go into a tavern. It's not only poor day-laborers, who have all they can do to keep off the parish, but some of them are well-to-do, even rich people, who've made it a habit never to spend anything uselessly, and they are not only contented but can much less understand how a reasonable man can enjoy idling than you are willing to understand me when I say a man can live without idling."

"I walked home once with a little man from the Langental market. He was surprised to find me going home so early; usually he had to go home alone, he said. I answered that I hadn't had anything more to do, and that I didn't care to sit in the tavern till evening; that it cost money and time, and a man didn't know when and how he would finally get home. He felt the same way, he said. He had begun with nothing and barely got along. For a long time he had supported father and mother alone, but now he had his home and farm paid for and every year two cows to sell, and not one of them under six hundred pounds. But he had never wasted a cent from the very beginning. Only once, he remembered, in Burgdorf he had bought a roll for a halfpenny without needing to—he could have stood it till he got home, and had a cheaper meal there. Well, I told him I couldn't say as much; many a penny I had wasted. But one could overdo it, too, for a man had to live. 'Yes, to be sure,' said he. 'I live too, and am happy. A farthing saved gives me more satisfaction than another man gets from spending a crown. If I hadn't begun that way I'd never have come to anything. A poor lad doesn't know enough to stop at the right time when once he begins; when he's thrown away one penny it pulls a dozen along after it. But you mustn't think I'm a miserable miser. Many a man has gone away empty-handed from the big farm-houses and has got what he needed from me. I didn't forget who has blessed my work and will soon demand an account from me.' At this I looked the little man up and down with great respect; nobody could have told what was in him from his looks. Before we separated I wanted to buy him a bottle of wine for his good advice. But he refused; he didn't need anything, and whether he squandered my money or his would come to the same thing on that future account. Since then I've never seen him; probably he's gone to his account by now, and if nobody had a worse one than he many a man would be better off.

"So this is my opinion: every single farthing of your pay that you spend for such useless things is ill spent. Stay at home, and you'll save not merely ten crowns, but a lot besides. All the servants complain how many shoes and clothes they need, when they have to be out in wind and weather; but do you know how most of their clothes are spoiled? By running around at night in all kinds of weather, through thick and thin, and with all that goes on then. If you wear your clothes twenty-four hours, you evidently use 'em up more than if it was only fourteen. You don't go calling in wooden shoes, and do you burst out more shoe-nails by day, or by night when you can't see the stones, the holes, or the ditches? And tell me, how do your Sunday clothes look after you've stumbled around in them drunk, pulled each other about, and rolled in the mud? How many a Sunday jacket has been torn to pieces, the trousers ruined, the hat lost!

"Many a man would surely need less for his clothes if he stayed at home; I say nothing about the girls. And think, Uli, if you need ten crowns now for such useless habits, in ten years you'll need twenty and in twenty forty, if you have them; for a habit like that doesn't stand still it grows. And doesn't that lead straight as a string to your old ways?

"Finally, Uli, you get not only thirty crowns, but also many a penny in the way of tips when a cow or a horse is sold, and the like. Use those when you must have an outing and can't give up the tavern. Out of that money you can drink a glass or two at a review, if you like, or put it by against your going into garrison; there'll be plenty for that. You've drawn a lot of your pay; but if you'll believe me and follow my advice you can get out of debt this year; and next year you can start laying by. And if you believe me, I don't say that I can pay you only thirty crowns. When a servant attends to his business and doesn't have his mind set simply on foolishness; when I can intrust something to him and things go the same whether I'm with him or not, so that I don't have to come home every time in anxiety lest something has gone wrong—then I won't haggle over a crown or two. Think of that, Uli: the better the habits, the better the name, the better the pay."

At these words Uli's mouth opened and his nose lifted, and at last he said that that would be fine, but it probably would never happen; he didn't think he could stand it.

"Well, try it a month and see how it goes; and don't think about gadding, drinking, and the tavern, and you can do it all right."



CHAPTER V

NOW COMES THE DEVIL AND SOWS TARES AMONG THE GOOD SEED

[Uli's fellow-servants, on his master's farm and on the neighboring ones, attempt to drag him back into his old ways, chiefly with ridicule and mockery. At times his resolution fails him, but he masters himself again. Then a bad-hearted neighbor, who hates Uli's master, tries to lure him away from his new faith. He praises Uli to the skies, tells him he is not properly appreciated, and poisons his mind against his master. Uli grows more and more puffed-up, and is about ready to be caught in the neighbor's snare; for the latter merely wishes to use him for his own selfish ends.]



CHAPTER VI

HOW THE WEEDS WERE UPROOTED FROM ULI

[A Neighboring village, Brandywine, is to play a championship game of hurnuss (a kind of ball game played in spring and autumn in the canton of Bern), with Uli's village, Potato Hollow. There is deep enmity between the two places, and the contest is likely to be bitter. The losing team must give the winners a full dinner, with plenty of wine. Uli's master urges him to refuse the invitation to play on the team; but the malicious neighbor talks him over. Though the Potato Hollowers use all their skill and cunning, even to cheating the umpire, they lose the game by one point; they must set up the dinner, which ends in a free fight. A victory in this comforts Potato Hollow somewhat. But two of the Brandywiners claim damages, and the local players are afraid of severe judgment if it comes to trial, it being not the first offense. They agree to a plan, devised by the malicious neighbor, to let the entire penalty fall on Uli's head, so that they can go scot-free. Uli is to confess himself the guilty party, and in return for this service the others, all wealthy farmers' sons, will reimburse him for all expenses and give him a handsome bonus besides. Uli's master overhears his neighbor talking to Uli, decides to interfere, and points out to him the noose into which he is running his head. He advises Uli to demand a written promise, signed by all, that they will do what has been agreed upon. Uli brings home the written promise and shows it to his master; it turns out to be nothing but a certificate that Uli is the guilty party. Uli is in consternation; but the master promises to help him out if he will abide by his word in the future. Accordingly, Johannes meets the scheming neighbor and advises him to have the other players settle up and leave Uli in peace, or else Uli may have occasion to show the paper to the governor. Uli hears nothing more about the affair.]



CHAPTER VII

HOW THE MASTER KINDLES A FIRE FOR THE GOOD SEED

[The author points out the disastrous consequences of giving the servants on a farm only unheated rooms to live in, and no access to the warm house; on Sundays they seek warmth in the public-houses or elsewhere, and terrible immorality results. Uli feels the need of a warm room to sit in, and the master invites him into the house. The maids are at first much put out, and the mistress too; but the master upholds Uli, and gradually the new custom wins favor and results in a betterment of all the servants.]