Black Forest Village Stories

"Sha'n't I have a shake of the hand for good-night?"

Hedwig quickly put both her hands behind her back.

"In our parts we shake hands without asking: ha, ha!" said the old teacher.

At this hint our friend whisked round the tree to catch Hedwig's hand; but she drew them quickly before her. Not having the courage to pass his arms round her, he ran forward and backward around the tree, until he stumbled and fell down at Hedwig's feet. His head fell into her lap and on her hand, and he hastily pressed a warm kiss upon it and called her his in spirit. Finding him in no haste to get up, Hedwig raised his head, her hands covering his cheeks, and said, looking around in great confusion, "Get up: you haven't hurt yourself, I hope? See: this comes of such tricks: you mustn't learn them from my cousin here."

As he rose, Hedwig bent down to brush his knees with her apron; but this the teacher would not permit: his heart beat quickly at the sight of this humble modesty. He said "Goodnight" again; and Hedwig looked down, but no longer refused her hand.

He walked homeward without feeling the ground beneath his feet: a feeling of inexpressible power coursed through his veins, and he smiled so triumphantly on all he met that they stared and stood still to look after him.

But the mind of man is changeful; and when the teacher had reached his home he lapsed into cruel self-accusation. "I have suffered myself to be carried away by a sudden passion," he said. "Is this my firmness? I have committed myself, – thrown myself away upon a peasant-girl. No, no the majesty of a noble soul breathes from those lineaments."

Various other thoughts occurred to him. He knew something of the life of the villagers now; and, late in the evening, he wrote into his pocket-hook, "The silver cross upon her bosom is to me a symbol of sanctity and purity."

At home Hedwig had not eaten a morsel of supper, and her people scolded her for having overworked herself, – probably by having assisted the old teacher in the garden before supper. She protested the contrary, but made haste to join her grandmother, in whose room she slept.

Long after prayers, hearing her grandmother cough, and seeing that she was still awake, she said, "Grandmother, what does it mean to kiss one's hand?"

"Why, that one likes the hand."

"Nothing else?"

"No."

After some time, Hedwig again said, "Grandmother."

"What is it?"

"I wanted to ask you something; but I forgot what it was."

"Well, then, go to sleep, because you're tired: if it was something good, to-morrow will be time enough: you'll think of it again."

But Hedwig tossed about without sleeping. She persuaded herself that she could not sleep because she had lost her appetite; so she forced herself to eat a piece of bread with which she had provided herself.

Meantime the teacher had also made up his mind. At first he thought of probing himself and his affection, and of not seeing Hedwig for some time; but the more rational alternative prevailed, and he determined to see her often and study her mind and character as closely as possible.

Next day he called upon his old colleague and invited him out for a walk: he saw that, if only on Hedwig's account, he must cultivate this acquaintance. The old man never walked out, as his gardening afforded him all the exercise he needed; but our friend's invitation appeared to him an honor not to be refused.

It was long before a subject of conversation could be presented to the old man's mind which did not hang fire. His interest in every thing invariably went out as soon as his pipe, – for which he struck fire every five minutes. The young man did not wish to begin with Hedwig, but rather to study a little of the niece's character by the uncle's.

"Do you read much now?" he inquired.

"Nothing at all, scarcely. What would I make by it if I did? I've got my pension."

"Yes," replied the young man; "but we don't improve our minds only to make our money with, but to attain a more elevated mental existence, – to study deeper and understand more clearly. Every thing on earth-and intellectual life above all things-must first be its own purpose-"

The old gentleman stopped to light his pipe with great composure, and our friend paused in the midst of an exposition which had but recently presented itself to his own mind. They walked side by side without speaking for a time, until the younger began again: – "But you still practise your music, don't you?"

"I should think so. I sometimes fiddle for half a night at a time. I need no light, I don't damage my eyes, and I don't miss anybody's conversation."

"And you try to perfect yourself in it as far as you can?"

"Why not? Of course."

"And yet you don't make any thing by it."

The old man looked at him in astonishment. Our friend went on: – "Just as your perfection in music gives you pleasure without making you richer, so, methinks, it ought to be the case with reading and study. But in this respect many people are just like those who neglect their dress and personal appearance the moment they have no special interest in attracting some particular person. The other day I heard a young fellow scold a young married woman for her slatternly attire. 'Oh,' said she, 'where's the difference now? I'm bought and sold, and my old man must have me for better or for worse.' As if there was merely an external object in dressing ourselves neatly and it was not required for our own sakes, to preserve our self-respect. This is just the view many people take of education: they carry it on to subserve an external purpose, and the moment this incentive fails they neglect it.

"But, if we have a proper respect for our intellectual selves, we should keep them clean and neat, as we do our persons, and seek to bring out all their faculties to the greatest perfection attainable."

The young man suddenly perceived that he had been soliloquizing aloud, instead of keeping up the conversation; but the indifference exhibited by his companion dispelled every fear of having given him offence. With a sigh it occurred to him, for the hundredth time, how wearisome is the effort to give currency to any thoughts of a more general and elevated nature. "If the old teacher is so thick-skinned, what is to be expected of the farmers?" thought he.

After another pause, our friend began once more: – "Don't you think people are much more good and pious nowadays, than they were in the old times?"

"Pious? Devil take it! we weren't so bad in the old times either, only we didn't make such a fuss about it: too little and too much is lame without a crutch: ha, ha!"

Another long silence ensued, at the end of which the young man made a lucky move in asking, "How was it about music in old times?"

A light glistened in the old man's eyes: he held the steel and the tinder in his hand unused, and said, "It's all tooting nowadays. I was sub-organist in the Freiburg Cathedral for two years and a half. That's an organ, let me tell you. I heard the Abbé Vogler: there can't be any thing finer in heaven than his music was.

"I've played at many a harvest-home, too.

"In old times they had stringed instruments principally, and harps and cymbals. Now it's all wind, – big trumpets, little trumpets, and valve-trumpets, all blowing and noise. And what can a musician make at a harvest-home? Three men used to be plenty: now they want six or seven. It used to be small room, small bass, and big pay: now it's big room, double-bass, and half-pay.

"I once travelled through the Schaibach Valley with two comrades; and the thalers seemed to fly into our pockets as if they had wings. Once two villages almost exterminated each other because both wanted me to play at harvest-home the same day."

The old gentleman now passed on to one of his favorite stories of how a village had been so enchanted with his performance on the violin that they had made him their schoolmaster: the Government undertook to install another with dragoons, but the village rebelled and he kept his office.

"Didn't it injure your standing as a teacher to play at the harvest-homes?"

"Not a bit. I've done it more than fifty times in this village, and you won't see a man in it but takes off his cap when he meets me in the street."

The old man's eloquence continued to flow until they had returned to the garden. Our friend waited a long time, in the hope of seeing Hedwig, but in vain. Thus his first design was accomplished in spite of himself: he did not see Hedwig for a long, long time, – to wit, for full forty-eight hours.

Next day, as he strode alone through the fields, he saw Buchmaier driving a horse, which drew a sort of roller.

"Busy, squire?" asked the teacher: he had learned some of the customary phrases by this time.

"A little," answered Buchmaier, and drove his horse to the end of the field, where he halted.

"Is that the sorrel you were breaking in the day I came here?"

"Yes, that's him. I'm glad to see that you remember it: I thought you had nothing in your head but your books.

"You see, I've had a queer time with this here horse. My ploughman wanted to break him into double harness right-away, and I gave in to him; but it wouldn't do, nohow. These colts, the first time they get harness on 'em, work themselves to death, and pull, and pull, and don't do any good after all: if they pull hard and get their side of the swingle-tree forward, the other horse don't know what to make of it and just lumbers along anyhow. But if you have 'em in single harness you can make 'em steady and not worry themselves to death for nothing. When they can work each by himself, they soon learn to work in a team, and you can tell much better how strong you want the other horse to be."

The teacher derived a number of morals from this speech; but all he said aloud was, "It's just the same thing with men: they must learn to work alone first, and then they are able to help each other."

"That's what I never thought of; but I guess you're right."

"Is that the new sowing-machine? What are you sowing?"

"Rapeseed."

"Do you find the machine better than the old way of sowing?"

"Yes, it's more even; but it won't do for any but large fields. Small patches are better sown with the hand."

"I must confess, I find something particularly attractive in the act of sowing with the hand: it is significant that the seed should first rest immediately in the hand of man and then fly through the air to sink into the earth. Don't you think so too?"

"Maybe so; but it just comes to my mind that you can't say the sower's rhyme very well with the machine. Well, you must think it."

"What rhyme?"

"Farmers' boys used to be taught to say, whenever they threw out a handful of seed, -

"'I sow the seed:God give it speedFor me and those in need!'"

"Such a rhyme ought never to go out of use."

"Yes; as I was saying, you can think it, or even say it, with the machine: it's a useful invention, anyhow."

"Is it easy to introduce these new inventions?"

"No. The first time I put my oxen each into his own yoke the whole village ran after me. And when I brought this contrivance from the agricultural fair and went out into the field with it, the people all thought I'd gone crazy."

"What a pity it is that the common people are so slow to understand the value of these improvements!"

"Whoa, Tom! whoa!" cried Buchmaier, as his horse began to paw the ground impatiently: then, holding the bridle more firmly, he went on: – "That isn't a pity at all, Mr. Teacher: on the contrary, that's a very good thing. Believe me, if the farmers weren't so headstrong, and were to go to work every year to try all the machines that learned men invent for them, we'd have to starve many a year. Whoa, Tom! You must study agricultural matters a little: I can lend you a book or two."

"I'll come to see you about it; I see your horse won't stand still any more. Good luck to your labor."

"Good-bye, sir," said Buchmaier, smiling at the parting salutation.

The teacher turned to go, and Buchmaier went on with his work. But hardly had the latter walked a few yards, before he started on hearing Buchmaier whistle the "Lauterbacher." He was inclined to suspect an insult, but checked himself, saying, "The man certainly means no harm." And he was quite right, for not only did the man mean no harm, but he meant nothing whatever: he whistled without knowing what.

In a ravine, after ascertaining that he was unperceived, the teacher wrote in his pocket-book, – "The steady and almost immovable power of the people's character and spirit is a sacred power of nature: it forms the centre of gravity of human life, – I might say, the vis inertiæ of all institutions.

"What a hapless vacillation would befall us if every movement in politics, religion, or social economy were to seize at a moment's warning upon the whole community! Only that which has ceased to vibrate, and attained a calm, steady course of progress, is fitted to enter here: this is the great ocean in which the force of rivers is lost.

"I will respect the way of thinking of these people, even when I differ from them; but I will endeavor-"

What he meant to endeavor remained unwritten. But he had been fortunate in detecting features of interest in the affairs of village life.

It was some days before he again found an opportunity to converse with Hedwig. He saw her from her grandmother's seat; but she appeared to be very busy, and hurried by with very brief words of recognition. Indeed, she almost seemed to avoid him.

Love of the peasant-girl was strong within him, but at the same time the people's life, which had broken in upon his vision, occupied much of his thoughts and feelings. He often walked about as if in a dream; and yet he had never understood the realities of life so well as now.

The College Chap also gave him much trouble and vexation. The latter was curious to know what his grandmother and the teacher could have found to converse about. He joined them more than once, and always came down with a rude joke whenever a vein of deeper sentiment was touched.

When the teacher inquired, "Grandmother, do you never go to church now?" the College Chap quickly interposed, "Perhaps you remember who built the church, grandmother: the teacher would like to know; but he says he isn't going to run away with it."

"Be quiet, you!" replied his grandmother: "if you were good for any thing you'd be master in the church now, and parson." Turning to the teacher, she went on: – "It's five years since I was in church last: but on Sunday I can hear by the bells when the host is being shown, and when they carry it around; and then I say the litany by myself. Twice a year the parson comes and gives me the sacrament: he's a dear, good man, our pastor, and often comes to see me besides."

"Don't you think, Mr. Teacher," began the College Chap, "that my grandmother would make an abbess comme il faut?"

On hearing herself the subject of conversation in a foreign language, the poor old lady looked from one of the speakers to the other in astonishment not unmingled with fear.

"Certainly," said the teacher; "but, even so, I think she can be just as pious and just as happy as if she were an abbess."

"Do you see, grandmother?" exclaimed the College Chap, in triumph: "the teacher says, too, that parsons are not a whit better than other folks."

"Is that true?" said the old woman, sadly.

"What I mean is," replied the teacher, "that all men can go to heaven; but a clerical man who is as he should be, and labors diligently for the welfare of souls, occupies a higher grade."

"I think so too," assented the old woman. The perspiration was gathering on the poor teacher's forehead; but the relentless student began again: – "Isn't it your opinion, Mr. Teacher, that clergymen ought to marry?"

"It is the canon of the Church that they must remain single; and any one who takes orders with a perfect understanding of his own actions must obey the law."

"I think so too," said the old lady, with great vehemence: "those that want to get married are devils of the flesh, and clergymen must be spiritual and not carnal. I'll tell you what: don't speak to him any more at all; don't let him spoil your good heart. He has his wicked day, and he isn't as bad neither as he makes himself out to be."

Finding his grandmother proof against all assaults, the College Chap went away in an ill humor. The teacher also took his leave: again had a fine and tender relationship been rudely jarred. Not till he reached his dwelling did he succeed in conquering his depression and steeling himself against these unavoidable accidents.

On Sunday he at last found another opportunity to converse with Hedwig. He found her sitting with the old schoolmaster in his garden. They did not appear to have spoken much together.

After a few customary salutations, the teacher began: – "How fine and elevated a thing it is that the seventh day is hallowed by religion and kept clear of labor! If things were otherwise, people would die of over-work. If, for instance, in the heat of midsummer harvesters were to work day by day without intermission until all was gathered in, no one could endure it."

At first Hedwig and the old man listened in surprise; but soon Hedwig said, "Were you here already when the parson allowed us to turn the hay on Sunday in haying-time, because it rained so long and the hay might have been spoiled? I was out in the field too, but it seemed as if every pitchforkful was as heavy again as it ought to be. I felt as if somebody was holding my arm; and all next day, and all next week, the world was like upside-down, and it was as if there hadn't been a Sunday for a whole year."

The teacher looked at Hedwig with beaming eyes. There was her grandmother to the life. Turning to the old man, he said, "You must remember the time when they introduced the decades into France?"

"Ducats, do you mean? why, they come from Italy."

"I mean decades. They ordained that people should rest every tenth day, instead of every seventh. Then everybody fell sick also. The number seven is repeated in a mysterious manner throughout the whole course of nature, and must not be arbitrarily removed."

"Why, they must have been crazy! A Sunday every ten days! ha, ha!" said the old man.

"Do you know the story of the lord who is hewn in stone in our church here, with the dog?" asked Hedwig.

"No: tell it."

"He was one of those fellows, too, that didn't keep holy the Sunday. He was a lord-"

"Lord of Isenburg and Nordstetten," explained her grand-uncle.

"Yes," continued Hedwig: "at Isenburg you can just see a wall or two of his castle. He never cared for Sundays or holidays, and loved nothing in the world but his dog, that was as big and as savage as a wolf. On Sundays and holidays he forced people to labor; and, if they didn't work willingly, the dog would fly at them of his own accord and almost tear them to pieces; and then the lord would laugh: and he called the dog Sunday. He never went to church but once, – when his daughter was married. He wanted to take his dog Sunday to church with him, but the dog wouldn't go: he laid himself down on the steps till his lord came out again. As he came out, he stumbled over the dog and fell down stone-dead; and his daughter died too: and so now they're both chiselled in stone in the church, and the dog beside them. They say the dog was the devil, and the lord had sold him his soul."

The teacher undertook to show that this myth was probably suggested by the sight of the monument, the origin of which had been forgotten; that the feudal proprietors were fond of being pictured with crests and symbols, and so on: but he found little favor with his hearers.

No one was disposed to continue the conversation. Hedwig made a little hole in the sand with her foot, and the teacher discovered for the first time how small it was.

"Do you read on Sunday, sometimes?" he said, looking straight before him. No one answering, he looked at Hedwig, who then replied, "No: we make the time pass without it."

"How?"

"Why, how can you ask? We talk, and we sing, and we take a walk."

"What do you talk about?"

"Well," she cried, laughing gayly, "to the end of my days I wouldn't have expected to be asked such a question! We haven't much trouble about that: have we, uncle? My playmate, Buchmaier's Agnes, will be here directly, and then you'll stop asking what we talk about: she knows enough for a cow."

"But haven't you ever read any thing?"

"Oh, yes, – the hymn-book and the Bible-stories."

"Nothing else?"

"And the Flower-Basket, and Rosa of Tannenburg."

"And what else?"

"And Rinaldo Rinaldini. Now you know all," said the girl, brushing off her apron with her hands, as if she had poured out her entire stock of erudition at the teacher's feet.

"What did you like best?"

"Rinaldo Rinaldini. What a pity it is he was a robber!"

"I will bring you some books with much prettier stories in them."

"I'd rather you'd tell us one; but it must be grizzly and awful. Wait till Agnes comes: she does like to hear them so much."

At this moment a boy came to tell the old teacher that Beck's Conrad had just received a new waltz, and that he must come with his violin to play it. He rose quickly, wished the visitors "pleasant conversation," and went away.

The teacher's heart trembled on finding himself alone with Hedwig: he had not the courage to look up. At last he said, almost to himself, "What a good old man he is!"

"Yes," said Hedwig; "and you must learn to know him. You must not be touchy with him: he's a little short and cross to all teachers, because he was put out of office, and so he seems to think every teacher that comes here after him is to blame for it; and yet how can they help it, when the consistory sends them? He is old, you see; and we must be patient with old folks."

The teacher grasped her hand and looked tenderly into her eyes: this loving appreciation of another's feelings won his heart. Suddenly a dead bird fell at their feet. They started. Hedwig soon bent down and picked up the bird.

"He is quite warm yet," said she. "The poor little thing was sick, and nobody could help it: it's only a lark; but still it's a living thing."

"One is tempted to think," said the teacher, "that a bird that always mounts heavenward, singing, must fall straight into heaven when it dies, it soars so freely over the earth; and yet, at death's approach, every thing that rose out of the earth must sink into it again."

Hedwig opened her eyes at this speech, which pleased her greatly, though she did not quite understand it. After a pause, she said, "Isn't it too bad that his wife or his children don't seem to care a bit about him, but just let him fall down and die? but maybe they don't know he's dead."

"Animals, like children," said the teacher, "do not understand death, because they never reflect upon life: they see them both without knowing what they see."

"Are you sure of that?" asked Hedwig.

"I think so," replied the teacher. Hedwig did not continue the subject, as it was not her custom to follow up any idea to its source. But the teacher said to himself, "Here is a mind eminently fitted for cultivation and the germ of fresh and vigorous thought." Taking the bird out of her hand, he said, "This denizen of the free air should not be buried in the gloomy soil. I would fasten him to this tree, so that in death he may return to his native element."

"No, that won't do: there's an owl nailed against Buchmaier's barn, and I feel like taking it down every time I look at it."

So they buried the bird together. The teacher, having been so fortunate in his discoveries, desired to see how far Hedwig would be accessible to a more refined culture.

"You talk so sensibly," he began, "that it is a pity you should speak this harsh and unpleasant farmers' German, You could surely talk like me if you chose; and it would become you so much better."

"I'd be ashamed of myself to talk any other way; and, besides, everybody understands me."

"Oh, yes: but, if good is good, better is better. In what language do you pray?"

"Oh, that's quite another thing! I pray just as it's in the book."

"But you ought to talk with men in the same language in which you talk with God."

"I can't do that, and I won't do it. Why, I wouldn't have any thing to say if I had to be thinking all the time how it ought to be said. I'd be ashamed of myself. No, Mr. Teacher: I'll lay your words on silken cushions, but this won't do."