Transcriber's Notes:

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BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

Authorized Editions.

WALDFRIED. A Novel. Translated by Simon Adler Stern, 12mo, cloth, $2.00.

THE VILLA ON THE RHINE. A Romance. Translated by James Davis. With a portrait of the author. 16mo. Leisure Hour Series. 2 vols., $1.25 per vol.; Pocket Edition, four parts, paper, uniform with the Tauchnitz books, 40 cents per part, or $1.50 complete.

BLACK FOREST VILLAGE STORIES. Translated by Charles Goepp. Illustrated with fac-similies of the original German wood-cuts. 16mo, Leisure Hour Series, $1.25.

THE LITTLE BAREFOOT. A Tale. Translated by Eliza Buckminster LEE. Illustrated, 16mo, Leisure Hour Series, $1.25.

JOSEPH IN THE SNOW. A Tale. Illustrated, 16mo. Leisure Hour Series, $1.25.

HENRY HOLT & CO.,

25 Bond Street, New York.

W A L D F R I E D

A N O V E L

BY

BERTHOLD AUERBACH

T R A N S L A T E D

BY

SIMON ADLER STERN

AUTHOR'S EDITION

NEW YORK

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

1874

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
HENRY HOLT,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

Maclauchlan,
Stereotyper and Printer, 56, 58 and 60 Park Street, New York.

WALDFRIED.

BOOK FIRST.

CHAPTER I.

In a letter bringing me his greetings for the New Year, 1870, my eldest son thus wrote to me from America:

"We have been sorely tried of late. Wolfgang, our only remaining child, lay for weeks at death's door. I avoided mentioning this to you before; but now he is out of danger.

"'Take me to your father in the forest,' were the first distinct words he uttered after his illness. He is a lusty youth, and inherits his mother's hardy Westphalian constitution.

"In his feverish wanderings, he often spoke of you, and also of a great fire, in strange phrases, none of which he can now recall.

"He has awakened my own heartfelt desire to return, and now we shall come. We have fully determined to leave in the spring. I lose no time in writing to you of this, because I feel that the daily thought of our meeting again will be fraught with pleasure for both of us.

"Ah, if mother were still alive! Oh, that I had returned in time to have seen her!

"Telegraph to me as soon as you receive tidings of brother Ernst. I am anxious once again to behold Germany, which is at last becoming a real nation. We who are out here in America are beginning to feel proud of our Fatherland.

"We are surely coming! Pray send word to my brothers and sisters.

"Your Son Ludwig."

The postscript was as follows:

"Dear Father,--I shall soon be able to utter those dear words to you in person.

"Your Daughter Constance."

"Dear Grandfather,--I can now write again, and my first words are to you. We shall soon join you at 'grandfather's home.'

"Your Grandson Wolfgang."

* * * * *

I had not seen Ludwig since the summer of 1849, and now I was to see him, his wife, and his son. I instructed Martella to send the news to my children and sons-in-law; and to my sister who lives in the Hagenau forest I wrote in person.

Joyous answers were returned from every quarter. But the happiest of all was Rothfuss, our head servant. And well he might be, for no one had loved and suffered so much for Ludwig's sake as he had done.

Rothfuss is my oldest companion. We have known each other so long that, last spring, we might have celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of our first meeting. When that occurred, we were both of the same age--he a soldier in the fortress in which I was confined as a political prisoner. For one hour every day I was permitted to leave my cell for a short walk on the parapet. On those occasions a soldier with loaded musket walked behind me; and it often happened that this duty was assigned to Rothfuss. His orders were not to speak to me; but he did so, nevertheless. He was constantly muttering to himself in an indistinct manner. This habit of talking to himself has clung to him through life, and I doubt if any human being has a greater fund of curses than he.

One day, while he was thus walking behind me, I heard him say quite distinctly: "Now I know who you are! Oh!"--and then came fearful oaths--"O! to imprison such a man! You are the son of the forest-keeper of our district! Why, we are from the very same part of the country! I have often worked with your father. He was a hard man, but a just one; a German of the old sort."

"I am not allowed to accept money from you, but if you were to happen to lose some, there would be no harm in my finding it."

"Of course you smoke? I shall buy a pipe, tobacco, and a tinder-box for you, and what you give me over the amount will not be too much for me."

From that day, Rothfuss did me many a service. He knew how to circumvent the jailer,--a point on which we easily silenced our scruples. Five years later I regained my freedom, and when I settled on this estate, Rothfuss, as if anticipating my wishes, was at my side. Since that time he has been with us constantly, and has proved a faithful servant to me, as well as the favorite of my children.

I had inherited the estate and the grand house upon it from my father-in-law. As I was a forester's son, I found but few difficulties in attending to the timber land, but the two saw-mills and the farm that belonged to the estate gave me much trouble. For this reason, so faithful and expert an assistant as Rothfuss was doubly welcome to me.

He is a wheelwright by trade, and can attend to anything that requires to be done about the house. Near the shed, he built a little smithy, and my boys were his faithful apprentices. They never asked for toys, for they were always helping him in making some article of use. But my son Richard had no liking for manual labor. He was a dreamy youth, and at an early age manifested a great love of study.

Of my daughters, Bertha was Rothfuss' favorite. Johanna avoided him. She had a horror of his oaths, which, after all, were not so seriously meant.

While quite young she evinced much religious enthusiasm, and Rothfuss used to call her "The little nun," at which she was always very angry, for she was quite proud of her Protestantism. While preparing for confirmation she even went so far as to make repeated attempts to convert both myself and my wife.

While Richard was yet a mere student at the Gymnasium of our capital, Rothfuss dubbed him "The Professor;" but when Ludwig came home from the Polytechnic School to spend his holidays with us, he and Rothfuss were inseparable companions. He taught Rothfuss all of the students' songs, and insisted that this servant of ours was the greatest philosopher of our century.

Ludwig had settled in the chief town as a master builder. He was also known as "The King of the Turners." He was President of his section, and his great agility and strength gained him many a prize. He was of a proud disposition, and followed his convictions, regardless of consequences. Older persons remarked that in appearance and bearing he was the very picture of what I had been in my youth.

I am glad that all of my children are of a large build. Ludwig resembles me most of all. Fortunately his nose is not so large as mine, but more like the finely chiselled nose of his mother. His eloquence, however, is not inherited. His oratorical efforts were powerful and convincing, and his voice was so agreeable that it was a pleasure to listen to it. He had very decided musical talent, but not enough to justify him in adopting music as his profession. In spite of the advice of his music teachers, he determined on a more practical calling. His refined and easy manner soon won all hearts; and he was beloved by those who were high in station as well as by the lowly laborers.

In the year 1849, Ludwig was laying out a portion of the great road which was being built along the low land beyond the mountain. He was the idol of his workmen, and always said, "For me they will climb about the rocks that are to be blasted, like so many lizards, just because I can myself show them how it is done." The road was divided into many so-called tasks, each of which was assigned to a separate group of workmen who had agreed to finish it by a certain day. As one of these gangs was unfortunate enough to chance upon springs at every few steps, the soft soil gave it much trouble, and greatly prolonged its labors.

The other engineers avoided the soft places when making their surveys. But Ludwig, with his high boots, stepped right into the midst of the laborers, and helped those who were working with their shovels and spades.

He had also arranged the fire service of the whole valley, and had so distinguished himself at the fire in the little town that he received a medal in recognition of his having saved a life. The more excited members of our political party were of the opinion that he ought to refuse it, alleging that it was wrong for him to receive so princely a decoration; but he replied: "For the present the Prince is the representative of the popular voice." He accepted the badge, but fastened it to the fireman's banner.

CHAPTER II.

I had been elected a member of the Frankfort Parliament.

September's days of terror were doubly terrible to me. I had been told that my son Ludwig was leading a body of Turners who had joined the malcontents, and that they had determined to reverse the decision of the majority of the popular delegates, and to break up the Parliament.

At the imminent peril of my life, I climbed from barricade to barricade, hoping to be able to induce the Turners to retreat, and perhaps to find my son.

One of the leaders, who accompanied me as a herald, called out at the top of his voice, "Safe-conduct for the father of Ludwig Waldfried!"

My son's fair fame was my best protection; but T could not find Ludwig.

I have suffered much, but those hours when, with my wife and my next son Ernst, then six years old, I heard the rattling of muskets without the door, were the most wretched that I can now recollect.

In the following spring, when the Parliament was dissolved, the revolution had already begun with our neighbors in the next state.

For a long time the fortunes of battle seemed doubtful. I never believed that the uprising would succeed; but yet I could not recall my son. At that time we no longer heard the rattling of musketry, and I can hardly bear to think of how we sat at home in sad but fearful suspense. One thing, however, I would not efface from my memory. My wife said, "We cannot ask for miracles. When the hailstorm descends upon the whole land, our well-tilled fields must suffer with the rest." Oh, that I could recall more of the sayings of that wise and pure hearted being!

The uprising had been quelled; but of Ludwig we had no tidings. We knew not whether he was lost, had been taken prisoner, or had escaped into Switzerland.

One day a messenger came to me with a letter from my wife's nephew, who was the director of the prison in the low country. He wrote to me to come to him at once, to bring Rothfuss also, and not to omit bringing passports for both of us. He could tell me no more by letter, and cautioned me to burn his epistle as soon as I had read it.

"It is about our Ludwig: he lives!" said my wife. The event proved that she was right. She induced me to take my daughter Bertha with me. She was then but sixteen years old--a determined, courageous girl, and as discreet withal as her mother. For to a woman paths often become smooth which to men present insurmountable obstacles. Bertha was glad to go; and when in the cool of the morning she stood at the door ready to depart, with her mother's warm hood on her head, and her face all aglow with health and youth, she said to me roguishly: "Father, why do you look at me so strangely?"

"Because you look just as your mother did when she was a bride."

Her bright merry laughter at these words served in a measure to raise our depressed spirits.

Terror and excitement reigned on every hand. When we reached the first village of the next state, we found that the side nearest the river bank had been destroyed by artillery. I learned that Ludwig had been in command there, and had shown great bravery.

On the way, Bertha's constant cheerfulness lightened our sorrow. To know a child thoroughly, you must travel with one alone. When Bertha saw that I sat brooding in silence, she knew how to cheer me up with her childish stories, and by engaging me in memories of an innocent past, to dispel my sad thoughts. At that early day she gave an earnest of what she was so well able to accomplish later in life.

In spite of our having the proper passports, we were everywhere regarded with suspicion, until I at last fortunately met the son of the commandant of our fortress. While he was yet a lad, and I a prisoner at the fortress, I had been his teacher, and he had remained faithful and attached to me. I met him at an outlying village where he was stationed with a portion of his regiment.

He recognized me at once, and exclaimed, "I am doubly glad to see you again. So you were not with the volunteers? I heard your name mentioned as one of the leaders."

I was about to reply, "That was my son;" but Bertha quickly anticipated me, and said, "That was not my father."

CHAPTER III.

After that the young officer bestowed but little attention upon me; his glances were now all for Bertha, to whom he addressed most of his remarks.

Who can foretell what germs may awaken into life in the midst of the storm? My young pupil, who had but the day before been appointed first lieutenant, gravely delivered himself of the opinion that there was no real military glory in conquering volunteers. When speaking of me to Bertha, he was profuse in his assurances of gratitude and esteem.

Bertha, generally so talkative, was now silent. The young officer procured a safe-conduct for us, and we continued on our journey.

I have never yet seen the ocean, but the country, as it then appeared to me, awakened impressions similar to those which must be aroused when the tide has ebbed and the objects which before that dwelt in the depths of the sea are left lying upon the strand.

At last we reached my nephew's. He conducted me to his official residence, where I followed him through numerous apartments, until I at last reached his room, where we were closeted under lock and key.

He then told me that, while walking through the town the day but one before, he had met a young peasant with a rake on his shoulder, who, while passing, had hurriedly said to him, "Follow me, cousin; I have something to tell you."

The director followed, but not without first making sure of his revolver.

When they had got into the thicket, the peasant suddenly turned about and said to him, while he removed his hat, "Don't you know me? I am Ludwig Waldfried." The director's heart was filled with terror. Ludwig continued, "You, and you alone, can save me. Put me in prison until I have a chance to run away. Our cause is lost; but for my parents' sake as well as my own, I must escape."

The cousin was not unwilling to assist Ludwig, but was at a loss how to go about it. Ludwig, however, had studied strategy. He had carefully considered every step in advance, and now caused the director to enter him on the list of prisoners under the name of Rothfuss.

A state of siege, dissolving as it does all forms of civil procedure, made it possible to carry out so irregular a proceeding; aside from which there was the inspiring effect of being engaged in a task that required shrewd and delicate manœuvring. It was this, too, that helped to relieve my meeting with Ludwig of much of its sadness.

Still it could not but pain me to find that in order to save one person it was necessary to victimize others. Ludwig guessed my thoughts, and said to me, "I am sorry, father, that I am obliged to drag you into this trouble. I know that such affairs are not to your taste; but there is no help for it."

Rothfuss looked upon the whole affair as a merry farce. He did not see the least harm in outwitting and deceiving the officers and the state. And in those days there were many thousands who felt just as he did. It is a fit subject for congratulation, and perhaps an evidence of the indestructible virtue of the German people, that in spite of Metternich's soul-corrupting teachings there is yet so much righteousness left in our land.

When Ludwig had donned the Rothfuss' clothes, one could hardly recognize him. The transformation afforded Rothfuss great delight.

"They can do no more than lock me up by myself, and I have always said that 'he who is wet to the skin need not dread the rain.'"

This was a favorite saying of his. He had but one regret, and that was that he would not be allowed to smoke in the prison; but, for Ludwig's sake, he would gladly make that sacrifice.

We departed, taking Ludwig with us. My heart trembled with fear. The knowledge that I was committing a breach of the law, even though it was only caused by necessity and for the sake of rescuing my son, filled me with alarm. I felt as if every one knew what I was doing; but it seemed as if the people we met along the road did not care to interfere.

Here again Bertha proved a great treasure to us. She had a wonderfully cheerful flow of spirits; and perhaps, after all, women are greater adepts in the arts of self-control and deception than we are.

When we arrived near the borders of the Palatinate, Ludwig met a companion who had been hiding there. He was a man of about my age. It now became my turn to take part in the dangerous game. I was obliged to remain behind and allow the fugitive to take my place at Bertha's side. Bertha was equal to the situation, and at once addressed the stranger as "father."

I followed on foot, imagining that every step would be my last.

I passed the border without mishap, and in the first village found the rescued ones awaiting me. As our old comrade had already become drunk on French wine, we left him behind at the village and took up our journey to my sister, the wife of the forester at Hagenau.

The most difficult task of all was to endure the vainglorious boasting of the Frenchmen. My brother-in-law treated us as if he were a gracious nobleman, who had taken us under his protection. His neighbors soon joined the party, and proud words were heard on every hand: the French were the great nation--theirs was the republic--their country the refuge of the oppressed and persecuted. And we--what were we? Rent asunder and bound down, while our Rhine provinces were happy in the faith that they would soon become a portion of proud and beautiful France. Another brother-in-law, the pastor of Hünfeld, who had studied at Erlangen, gave us some little consolation, for he said that in science the Germans were the greatest of nations.

"Father," said Ludwig, "I cannot endure this; I shall not remain here another day."

I felt as he did, and we took our departure for Strasburg. At the Gutenberg Platz we were obliged to halt our horses, for the guard were just marching by. All seemed as happy if a piece of good fortune had just befallen them. All was as merry as a wedding-feast, while with our neighbors beyond the line there was funereal sadness.

Strasburg was crowded with fugitives, by some of whom Ludwig was at once recognized. We went with a party of them to the Grape Vine Tavern, and whom should we meet at the door but the very comrade we had left behind.

He had a curious contrivance about his throat. It was a simple rope with a knot tied in it; and he called out to Ludwig that he too was entitled to wear this grand cordon. He conducted us into the room where, at a table apart from the rest, were seated young men and old, all of whom had ropes around their necks.

"Ah! here comes the father of 'the King of the Turners'!" were the words with which a large and powerfully built man welcomed me. I recognized him as the man who had been my guide during the September riots. "Hurrah, comrades! Here comes another companion. This way, Ludwig; this is the seat of honor. All who are seated here are under sentence of death, and as a badge we wear this rope about our necks." And they sang:

Should princes ask: "Where's Absalom?"
And seek to learn his plight--
Just tell them he is hanging high;
The poor, unlucky wight.
And though he's dead, he hangeth not
From tree, nor yet from beam.
He dreamt that he could Germans free
And 'twas a fatal dream.

Their ribald jokes disgusted me, and I was therefore glad to chance upon one who had been a fellow-member of the Frankfort Parliament, and who shared my feelings at such distorted views of an unsuccessful attempt at revolution.

I have known many pure-hearted, unselfish men, but never have I met with one whose love of freedom was greater than that of our friend Wilhelmi. Over and above that, he had a genuine love for his fellow-men. There are, unfortunately, many lovers of freedom who are not lovers of mankind, a contradiction which I have never been able to understand.

Friend Wilhelmi gave me an insight as to the character of the old refugee, who was by nature of a peaceable disposition, but, giving way to the frenzy which in those days seemed to fill the very air, had lost all self-control. He was unable to endure the sufferings of exile. A deep longing for home preyed upon his spirits. To drown his grief, he indulged in wine, and the result of his copious draughts was that he became bold and noisy. This seemed to be his daily experience. In his sober moments he sat brooding in silence, and was often seen to weep. Wilhelmi had of course painted his picture in mild colors.

I must add that the refugee at last died in a mad-house in America. It is sad to think of the many noble beings who were ruined and sacrificed during those terrible days.

There was something inspiring in the words and thoughts of Doctor Wilhelmi. When I heard his voice I felt as if in a temple. And at this very moment memory revives the impression then made upon me.

Meanness and detraction were without any effect upon him; for he could look over and beyond them. He had determined to emigrate to America with his wife, who was his equal in courage and confidence. Bertha, who found but little to her fancy in the rude and dreary life that here environed us, and who was especially indignant that the soldiers who had simply done their duty were referred to so contemptuously, spent most of her time in Madame Wilhelmi's room. She was constantly urging our speedy return. And Wilhelmi could endure neither the mockery of one class of Frenchmen nor the pity of the others. Ludwig determined to join his friend. Wilhelmi had a serious task with his comrades, for nearly all of them were firmly convinced that the troubles in Germany would be renewed with the morrow, and that it was their duty to remain on the borders so that they might be at hand when needed. Wilhelmi, on the other hand, warned them against such self-deception, which, if persisted in, would only lead to the destruction of the mere handful that was left of them. He often declared to me that he at last acknowledged that our German nation is not fitted for revolution. It has too many genial traits, and is devoid of the passion of hate. He felt assured that, when the crisis arrived, the German monarchs would of themselves see that, both for their own sakes and that of their people, it would be necessary to introduce an entire change in our political system. But when and how this was to be done (whether in our lifetime or afterwards), who could foretell?

"We should not forget," said Wilhelmi, "the significance of the fact that the German people, so long bound down by a system of police espionage, has at last become aroused; nor will its oppressors forget it. Now they are furious against the evil-doers; but a second generation will not find so much to blame in their deeds, and, as you well know, my dear friend, for you are a forester, there is an old proverb which tells us that 'vermin cannot destroy a healthy tree.' The May beetles would rather prey on the oak than on any other tree, but although they destroy every leaf, and cause the tree to look like a dry broom, it renews its leaves with the following year."

In olden times when men swore eternal friendship, a man would sometimes say, "This is my friend, and without knowing what he intends to say, I will swear that it is the truth, for he cannot tell a lie." In my own heart I had just such faith in Wilhelmi.

I found it as sad to part from him as from Ludwig, and this circumstance overshadowed the grief I felt when saying "farewell" to my son.

"What does fate intend by driving such men away from home, and far beyond the seas?" These were the parting words of my friend Wilhelmi. They moved me deeply; but I could not answer his question.

I felt as if beholding a hail-storm beating down a field of ripened grain. How many a full ear must have fallen to the ground?

I also met a young schoolmaster by the name of Funk. Although there had been no real reason for his leaving home, he had fled with the rest. I easily persuaded him to return with me.

He was full of gratitude and submissiveness. In spite of this, however, my daughter even then, with true foresight, concluded that he was deceitful. I was for a long while unwilling to believe this, but was at last forced to do so.

Funk had done nothing more than attend to some of the writing in the ducal palace which the revolutionists had taken possession of. But it was with great self-complacency that he spoke of his having dwelt in the very palace which, during his student years, he had never passed without a feeling of awe.

I often thought of my son, but quite as frequently of that good old fellow, Rothfuss. Ludwig is free, but how does Rothfuss endure his captivity? And as it was just harvest time, it was doubly inconvenient to be without him.

We were bringing home our early barley. I had walked on ahead and the loaded wagon was to follow. I opened the barn door, the wagon approached, and on it was seated Rothfuss, who call out at the top of his voice, "Here I am on a wagon full of beer. So far it is only in the shape of barley. Hurrah for freedom!"

As Rothfuss had been imprisoned by mistake, he was soon set at liberty, and it was both affecting and diverting to listen to his accounts of his experience as a prisoner.

He told us how good it is to be in jail and yet innocent. While he was there, he was reminded of all the sins he had ever committed, and he at last began to believe that he deserved to be locked up.

"By rights," said he, "every one ought to spend a couple of years in jail, just because of what he has done. When we meet a man who has just got out of prison we ought to say to ourselves: 'Be kind to him for it is mere luck that you have not been there yourself.'" Thus spoke Rothfuss. He had thought he would find it pleasant to be sitting in his cell while the other folks were hard at work with the harvest, but it had proved terribly monotonous. The meals were not to his taste, nor could he enjoy his sleep. He could not endure such idleness, and after the second day, he begged the inspector to set him at chopping wood; a request which was not granted.

And was not Rothfuss the happiest fellow in the world, when he heard the news of Ludwig's return?

He complained that it was rather hard to know of a thing so long beforehand. Impatience at the delay would make one angry at every day that intervened.

When I consoled him with the idea that the chief part of enjoyment lies in anticipation, his face lighted up with smiles, and he said, "He is right." When he praises me, he always turns away from me as if talking to some one in the distance, and as if determined to tell the whole world how wise I am. "He is perfectly right. It is just so. It is a pleasant thirst when you know that there are just so many steps to the next inn, and that the cooling drink which is to wash your insides and make you jolly, lies in the cellar there, waiting for you."

Rothfuss had already started for the village, when he came running up the steps and called out: "I have found another nest; the locksmith's Lisbeth and our three Americans will be happiest of all when they hear the news. It is well to drink, but if one can first pour out a joyous cup for another, it is still better. I shall be back soon," he called out as he hurried up the road.

The widow of Blum the locksmith lived in the back street. Her husband had settled in the village, intending to follow his trade, and also to till a small piece of land. Partly by his own fault, and partly through misfortune, he had not succeeded.

He then desired to emigrate to America. His wife, however, had been unwilling to do so until she could feel assured of their being able to get along in the new world.

At home she had her own little house and her three children. For some time the locksmith worked at the factory in the neighboring town, returning to his home only on Sundays. His idea of emigrating had, however, not been given up, and at last he departed for America with the hope of mending his fortunes, and then sending for his wife and children.

When he arrived there, the war between the North and the South was at its height. He heard my son's name mentioned as that of one of the leaders, and at once enlisted under him. Ludwig was delighted to have one at his side who was both a countryman of his and a good artilleryman.

It was not until after the locksmith had enlisted that he spoke of his having left a family at home. At the battle of Bull Run he lost his life, and his wife and children, who are still living down in the village, are in regular receipt of the pension which Ludwig secured for them.

When the widow heard the news, she came to me at once, and told me with tears in her eyes, that she could hardly await Ludwig's return. She speedily acquainted the whole village with the event that was to prove a festival to my household, and when I went out of doors every one whom I met wished me joy; especially happy was one of the villagers who had been among Ludwig's volunteers in 1848, and was quite proud of his having been able to lie himself out of that scrape.

CHAPTER IV.

Before I proceed further, I must tell you of Martella.

It were of course better if I could let her speak for herself; for her voice, though firm, has an indescribably mellow and touching tone, and seems to hold the listener as if spell-bound. She had thick, unmanageable brown hair, and brown eyes in which there was hardly any white to be seen. She was not slender, but rather short, although there were moments when she would suddenly seem as if quite tall. Her manner was not gentle, but rather domineering, as if she would say, "Get out of the way there! I am coming!" In disposition she was wayward and passionate, vain and conceited. It was only in our house that she became pliant and yielding, and acquired mild and modest ways. I do not mean modest in the current acceptation of the word; she had genuine respect for those who were higher and better than she. My wife effected a miraculous change in her without ever attempting to instruct, but simply by commanding her. She was the betrothed of my son Ernst, who, as I have already mentioned, was with us at Frankfort in the year 1848.

It is difficult, and to us of an older generation perhaps impossible, to discover what impression the events of 1848 must have made on a child's mind.

For my part, I have learned through this son, that failure on the part of the parents induces in their offspring a feeling which can best be described as pity mingled with a want of respect. Like William Tell, we had long carried the arrow of revolution in our bosoms, but when we sent it forth it missed the mark.

In the autumn of 1848 my wife came to visit me at Frankfort and brought Ernst with her.

Old Arndt was particularly fond of the lad, and often took him on his knee and called him his "little pine-tree." When the Regent, on the day after his triumphal entry, appeared in public, he met Ernst and kissed him.

During the summer Ernst attended a preparatory school in the neighboring town. But he seemed to have no real love for study, while the teachers were over-indulgent with the handsome lad, who was always ready with his bold glances and saucy remarks.

When I asked him what he intended to become, he would always answer me, "Chief forester of the state."

To my great horror, I learned that he often repeated the party cries with which members of the different factions taunted each other. I sent him home after September, for I saw that his intercourse with those who were high in station was making him haughty and disrespectful.

I am unable to judge as to the proper period at which a youthful mind should be induced to interest itself in political questions. I am sure, however, that if such participation in the affairs of the country be chiefly in the way of opposition, it must prove injurious, for its immediate effect is to destroy every feeling of veneration.

Years passed on, Ernst was educated at the house of my wife's nephew, who was a professor at the Gymnasium at the capital. He also spent much of his time with his sister Bertha, who had married Captain Von Carsten.

I must here remark that my son-in-law, in spite of the obstinate opposition of his haughty family, and the strongly marked disapproval of all of his superiors, up to the Prince himself, had married the daughter of a member of the opposition, and had become the brother-in-law of a refugee who was under sentence of death. He is a man of sterling character.

When it was time for Ernst to leave for the university, or, as he had always desired, to attend the forester's school, he declared quite positively that it was his wish to enter the army. He remained there but one year. "The army of the lesser states," he said, "is either mere child's play, or else all the horrors of civil war lurk behind it." He visited the university only to remain there two terms, after which he entered himself with Hartriegel, the district forester.

Ernst's unsteadiness gave us much concern, and I was especially shocked by the sarcastic, mocking manner, in which he spoke of those objects which we of the older generation held in reverence.

He was disputatious, and maintained that it was one's duty to doubt everything. Indeed he did not even spare his parents in that regard, and was bold enough to tell me and my wife which of our qualities he most admired.

He once uttered these wicked words: "The present generation does not look upon the fifth commandment as really a command: but I have a reason for honoring my parents; and I am especially grateful to you, father, for the good constitution I have inherited from you."

My hand itched when I heard Ernst's words; but a glance from my wife pacified me, and I shall forever be grateful to her that I succeeded in controlling myself. Had I given way to my just anger, I would have had myself to blame for Ernst's desperate course and his lost life. That would have been adding guilt to misfortune, and would have been insupportable.

I had yet much to learn. As a father I was sadly deficient in many respects. But, with every desire to improve herself, my wife was already a perfect being, and could therefore be more to the children than I was. I was disposed to neglect my family on account of what was due my office. She was vigilant and severe, and supplied what was lacking on my part. But although she was sterner than I was, the children were more attached to her than to me.

Although Ernst's views of life gave me deep concern, he was often kind and affectionate; for his good-nature was, at times, stronger than his so-called principles.

I sought consolation in the thought that children will always see the world in a different light from that in which it appears to their parents. Even that which is ideal is subject to constant change, and we should therefore be careful not to imagine that the form which is pleasing to us, and to which we have accustomed ourselves, will endure forever. And, moreover, was it not our wish to educate our children as free moral agents, and was it not our duty to accord full liberty even to those who differed with us?

I have often seen it verified that a perfect development cannot take place with those who, either through birth or adverse circumstances, are deficient in any important moral faculty. With all of Ernst's love of freedom, he was entirely wanting in respect or regard for the feelings of others. Piety, in its widest sense, he was utterly devoid of. From his stand-point, his actions were perfectly just; as to their effects upon others, he was indifferent.

On the Wiesenplatz in Frankfort, during the autumn of 1848, I had gone through a heart-rending experience. And now, after many years, I returned to the same spot only to be reminded of my former grief by painful and conflicting emotions. I had gone to Frankfort to attend the Schützenfest. The city was alive with joy; a spirit of unity had for the first time become manifest. I was standing close by the temple for the distribution of the prizes. Although surrounded by a gay and laughing crowd, I was quite absorbed in my own reflections, when suddenly a voice thus addressed me:

"Ah, father! Are you here, too?" I looked around to see who it was, and beheld my son Ernst. He carried his rifle on his shoulder, and the rewards for his well-aimed shots were fastened under the green ribbon of his hat. Before I could get a chance to congratulate him, he had said to me, "Father, you should not have come; I am sorry that I meet you here."

"Why so?"

"Why! Because this is for us young lads. We are here for the purpose of gaining prize-goblets by our lucky shots; and the great speeches that are being held in yonder hall are nothing more than a mere flash in the pan. They are trying to persuade each other that they are all heroes and willing to bear arms for their Fatherland, and their talk is, after all, a mere sham. The good marksmen have not come here for the sake of their Fatherland and such stuff: all they desire is simply to gain the prize--that, and nothing more."

"Do you not know that I, too, made a speech in there yesterday?"

"No. I was informed that some one named Waldfried had been speaking; but I could not imagine it was you. One should have nothing to do with such inflammable thoughts when fire-arms are at hand. If we were to govern ourselves by your speeches, our brotherly-feeling would very soon be at an end, and there would be naught but violence and murder among us riflemen."

I tried to explain to him that our hope lay in our able-bodied youth, and that we would not rest content until we had a real, united Fatherland. To which he answered:

"Ah, yes. The students, those of brother Richard's sort, live on yesterday: the politicians live on to-morrow: we live in the present."

His features trembled, and it was with an effort that he added, "Forgive me, father; perhaps I, too, will have as much confidence in mankind as you have, when I am as old as you are."

What could I answer to this? While all about me was loud with joy, my soul was filled with sorrow. My youngest son denied the gods to whom I offered up my prayers.

And yet, when I saw him among a group of riflemen, my fatherly pride was aroused. His proud, lithe form towered above the rest. New-comers saluted him, and the eyes of all seemed to rest upon Ernst with serene satisfaction.

CHAPTER V.

One day Ernst visited us and went about for a long while in silence,--now going out to Rothfuss in the stable, and then again joining us in the room; but here again he uttered no word. Although I could see that he was agitated, I did not ask him the reason. I had been obliged to accustom myself to allow him to speak when it suited him, and to avoid any advances on my part until it pleased him to seek them.

We were just about to rise from the dinner-table when he said to us in a hurried manner, "Before you hear it from others, I must announce it to you myself:--I am engaged to be married."

We looked at each other in silence. Not a sound was heard, save the ticking of the two Black Forest clocks in our room. At last my wife asked: "And with whom?"

I could tell by the tone of her voice how many heavy thoughts had preceded these words.

"With a healthy girl. I--I know all about selection in breeding," answered Ernst, while he lit his cigar.

I reprimanded him severely for his tone. Without changing a feature, he allowed me to finish my remarks. After that he arose, threw his rifle over his shoulder, put on his green hat, and left the house. I wanted to call him back, but my wife prevented me. I reproached myself for the violent manner in which I had spoken to him. Now he will rush into misfortune--who knows what he may do next? With mild words, I might have been able to direct him on the right path; but now he may, perhaps, not return, and will even persuade himself to hate me.

My wife consoled me with the words: "He will return before nightfall."

And it was so. In the evening he returned, and addressing me with a voice full of emotion, said: "Father, forgive me!"

Rothfuss was in the room at the time, and I beckoned to him to leave; but Ernst requested that he should remain, and continued:

"I have done wrong. I am heartily sorry for it. I have also done wrong to Martella. I should not have acted as I have done, but ought to have brought her to you first of all. She deserves quite different treatment--better indeed than I do. I beg of you, give back the words that I uttered! Forgive me! and, above all things, do not make Martella suffer for what I have said."

He uttered these words with a trembling voice. Rothfuss had left the room. I held out my hand to Ernst, and he continued firmly:

"You have so often told me, and as I am always forgetting it, you will have to tell it to me many a time again, that there is something in me which causes me at times to express myself quite differently from the way in which I intended to. I also know, dear father, that such a word lingers in your memory like a smouldering spark, especially when the word is uttered by your own child; and that in your grief you picture to yourself the utter ruin of a character that can indulge in such expressions. I understand you, do I not? Trust in me: I am not so bad, after all.

"I do not believe in the possessed; and yet there must be something of that kind. Enough on that point, however. Though I seemed cheerful, I had a heavy heart; but now I am one of the happiest beings alive; and if I were obliged to be a wood-cutter for the rest of my days, I could still content myself. O mother, I would not have believed that I could have found such a creature in a world in which all others are mere pretence and rouge, lies and deceit.

"She is in perfect health, and as pure and as fresh as a dewdrop. Although she has learned nothing, she knows everything. She cannot couch it in words, but her eyes speak it. Her heart is so thoroughly good,--so strong,--so pure,--indeed, I cannot find the right word for it. She has no parents, no brothers or sisters. She is a child of the woods, and as pure and as holy as the primeval forest itself.

"O, forgive me all! I cannot describe my emotions. Now I understand and believe everything. They tell us that in the olden time, a Prince once lost his way while hunting in the forest, and that he found a maiden whom he placed upon his horse and led to his castle and then made her his queen. Those stories are all true. I cannot make a queen of Martella, but through her I am ennobled; and it grieves me that it will not do to have our wedding at once. But I will wait. I can wait. Or, if you like it better, we will wander forth to America, and, far from the world, shall live there as our first parents did in Paradise. Believe me, there is indeed a paradise.

"O mother! You are certainly all that a human being can be, but still you have one fault;--yes, yes; you have wept--and the first commandment should be, 'Man, thou shalt not weep.' And, just think of it, mother, Martella has never yet wept! She is as healthy as a doe, and I swear it to you, she shall never know what it is to weep. O mother! O father! in the depths of the forest I have found this pure, innocent child, so wise and clever, so strong and brave. This flower has blossomed in the hidden depths of the forest; no human eye had ever seen her before. I am not worthy of her, but I will try to become so."

His voice became thick. He beat his breast with both hands, and drew a long deep breath. I have never yet seen a being so refulgent with happiness. Thus, in the olden time, must they have looked who thought they were beholding a miracle; and even now, when I write of these things, feeble as my words seem, I tremble with emotion.

And could this be my child, my son, my madcap, who now felt so humble and contrite. I had lost all memory of his former rudeness and sarcasm. It was some time before we could answer his words.

The sun was going down in the west, its last broad rays fell into the room, shedding a glow of light over all, and as we sat we heard the evening chimes.

CHAPTER VI.

"I believe in your love," said my wife at last.

"O mother!" cried Ernst, throwing himself at her feet; and then kissing her hands, he wept and sobbed while he rested his head on her knee.

I lifted him up and said, "We are independent enough not to ask where our daughter-in-law comes from, so that she be but good and will make our child happy."

Ernst grasped both of my hands and said, "I knew it. I do not deserve your love, but now I shall try to be worthy of it."

"But where have you been since dinner-time?" said my wife, trying to change the conversation.

Ernst replied that he had left the road and had wandered far into the forest, where he had lain down and fallen asleep; and that within him two sorts of spirits had been battling. The spiteful spirit had urged him not to take back the rude words, and desired him, without heeding father or mother, to wander forth into the wide world with his Martella; she would follow him wherever he led.

The humble spirit had, however, warned him to return and undo the harm he had done. The conflict had been a long one. At last he rose to his feet and ran home as if sent by a messenger of happiness.

My wife listened attentively, and regarded him with that glance of hers which seemed to penetrate the deepest recesses of the soul. No other being can listen so attentively as she could, and no glance is as soothing as hers was. She would not attempt to assist you when at a loss for words, or by her manner imply that she knew what you meant. She patiently permitted you to explain yourself, to stop or to continue; and when she was listening, you could not but feel wiser than you really were. Her glance illumined your very soul.

When Ernst had finished she said to him: "You are on the right path at last. I know that you think you have already reached the goal, and that all is done. But, believe me, and do not forget what I now tell you,--the spiteful spirit will return again; now he only feigns death. But rest content, for from this day you will be his master. I see this as clearly as I see your very eyes. The best possession in the world is now yours--pure, righteous love. Yes, you may well laugh, for now it is your goodness that laughs."

Rothfuss came to tell me that the Alsatian cattle-dealer who wanted to purchase our fat oxen, wished to see me. I was about to send word to him to wait or to come some other time, but I understood my wife's glance, which told me that I had better leave her alone with Ernst.

I left the room, and, while going, I heard her say, "Ernst, you must now eat and drink something; such emotions as you have felt awaken hunger and thirst."

When I returned, Ernst sat at the table eating his supper. He called out to me, "Father, mother has arranged everything nicely, and if you are satisfied, why--"

"Eat now, and let me speak," said my wife. And then she continued:

"From all that Ernst has told me--and we depend upon his truthfulness--I am convinced that Martella is a real treasure-trove. No one but such a girl could banish this spirit of unrest. We are, thank God, so circumstanced that besides a good family name we can also bestow worldly goods upon our children. Ernst and his bride[¹] are both young and can work for themselves. He loves in her the child of nature; but he understands that there is much of good which she can and must yet take up into this pure nature of hers. He used to say that he could never be happy except with a woman who sang beautifully, but now he no longer finds singing a necessity. But he cannot do without spiritual sympathy and harmony in his higher life. She need not learn French; I have forgotten what I once knew of it. But Ernst is accustomed to a refined home; and when he goes home to his wife in his forest house, he should be able to find refreshment and rest in noble and elevating thoughts.

"If a forester is denied the proper delights of home and married life, there is nothing left him but the pleasures of the tavern; and they will certainly ruin him.

"Martella must not be confused or taught in school-girl fashion. That which is noble and refined in life cannot be imparted by precept or command. It must become a necessity to her, just as it has become to our own son, and not until then can they both be happy.

"Neither will the world be satisfied with mere nature and forest manners. Does it not seem the very thing that she of her own accord has said to Ernst, 'Let me spend a year as a servant to your sister, the captain's wife, or what would be still better, with your mother, and then come for me? If you do not object, I think we had better do this. Early to-morrow morning I shall drive over into the valley with Ernst, and in the evening I shall return with Martella, who will remain with us until all is arranged and she has become used to our ways and customs, so that Ernst may live happily with her, not only in his youth, but until his eighty-third year--for my father lived to that age."

I do not know which to admire most in my wife--her shrewdness or her kindness. She always had the right word at the right time.

I, of course, approved of her plan, and on the morrow she started off with Ernst in the wagon. Rothfuss drove the two bays.

Towards evening, I walked down the road to meet them on their return.

The sun was going down behind the Vosges Mountains. The rosy sunset shed its glow over the rocks and the waters of the brook.

The Englishman stood at the bank angling. He never saluted those whom he met, but lived entirely for himself. Every year, as soon as the snows began to melt, he came to our valley, and remained until the winter returned. He dwelt with Lerz the baker, and was always fishing up and down the valley. He gathered up his complicated fishing-tackle and departed, followed by a day laborer carrying a fish basket.

CHAPTER VII.

I waited down by the village saw-mill, where they already knew that Ernst's bride was coming to live with us. With all his gentleness and candor, Ernst had announced this in order that we should be bound by it. I met Rautenkron the forester, who was known in the whole neighborhood as "The wild huntsman."

He was the best of shots, and could endure no living object. The people thought he merely avoided men, but I knew that he hated them. He always considered it a piece of good fortune when he heard bad news of any one. He lived in solitude, for whenever he had been seduced into helping some one he had always repented of it afterward. A ball had once passed through his hat, and, during the examination, the magistrate had said to the officer, "If he should ever be killed by a shot, you had better examine the whole village, for we shall all have had a share in it." He lived strictly within the law, however. He did not want to be beloved: it was his boast that every one could say, "He is severe, but just." He had no consideration either for rich or poor.

He was in the vigor of life, with a gray beard, aquiline nose, and wondrously clear liquid blue eyes, of a piercing brilliancy.

He came up to me with a friendly air, that was quite unusual on his part, and told me that Ernst had been with him that day.

Ernst had said nothing to me of this. Rautenkron declared that he did not concern himself about other people, but that he was really sorry that Ernst was about to throw himself away. Here was another young man who was fit for heroic deeds, but was ruined in this good-for-nothing age, and was about to sacrifice his life to a coquettish forest girl. It was unpardonable that we should countenance him in this, and consent to take a creature from out of the thicket into a house which had always borne so honorable a name.

"Mark my words! She will be just like a young fox that is caught before he has finished his growth,--he will never be perfectly tamed, but will run away to his home when you least expect it, and be right in doing so."

It is always galling to hear pure affection thus abused and misconstrued.

I endeavored to change the subject, but Rautenkron affected not to hear me, and indulged in the most violent language against the stranger. Indeed, he prophesied that our thoughtless conduct would drag us into misfortune, and called the miller to bear witness to what he thus told me.

I abruptly refused to continue the subject, and now Rautenkron called out to me, his eyes beaming with joy, "Enough. Let us speak of something else. I have to-day done one of the prettiest deeds of my life. Shall I tell you what? All right! You know Wollkopf the wood dealer. He has such a mild, insinuating way about him, but always eyed me as the usurer does a suspicious-looking pledge. He did not trust me. 'But,' thought I to myself, 'just wait! I will bide my time; he will come yet.' And he has come at last, within shooting distance too. At the last sale of wood in my district, he had bought a large lot of logs, and then came up to me and said that he wanted to speak plain German with me. Now listen to what the honored town-councillor--you know that is his position--the acknowledged man of honor, calls plain speaking! He offered me a bribe if I would keep such and such logs out of his lot. Of course I agreed. Smoking our cigars, we went on walking through the woods. I quickly cut down an oak sapling, pulled the branches from it, and with the green wood beat the lean man of honor to my heart's content. He cried out with all his might, but no one heard him save the cuckoo, and I enjoyed beating him until he was black and blue; just as the cuckoo enjoys swallowing the caterpillar which poisons the fingers of your soft-skinned gentry. I tell you there is no greater pleasure than administering personal chastisement to a sharper. Men say that the kiss of the beloved one is good; perhaps it is, but this is better.

"And when I was satisfied, and he too, I suppose, had enough, I let him run, and said to him, 'Now, my sweet gentleman, you may sue me if you choose; but, if you do, it will be my turn to tell my story.'"

While Rautenkron told his story, his features acquired an uncanny expression of glee. I must admit that I did not begrudge the sharper the beating he had received; and besides that, the recital had engaged my attention, and thus had relieved me from the sad thoughts which had before that filled my mind.

It was already dusk when the wagon arrived. It halted. My wife said to the girl who was sitting at her side, "This is father. Speak to him."

"I hope you are well, father!" exclaimed the girl.

I heard Rautenkron beside me muttering angrily. His words, however, were unintelligible. Without saying more he hurried off into the forest.

"What ails the misanthrope now?" said my wife. "But why need that trouble us? My child, you had better get out here and follow with father."

I helped the child to alight. She seemed loth to obey.

CHAPTER VIII.

I was obliged to halt. I felt as if trying to drag a heavily laden wagon up the hill.

But let me proceed. I have many a steep path yet to climb.

I stood with the girl on the highway. I extended my hand and uttered a few words of welcome, but they did not come from the heart. Our wayward son had imposed a great burden on us. The young maiden appeared to pay no attention to what I was saying, but looked about in every direction. As it was dusk, I could not see her distinctly. I could perceive, however, that she was a powerful creature. She did not regulate her step by mine, but I was forced to keep step with her unless I wished to be left behind.

"What dog is this running after us?" said I.

"It is my dog. Isn't it so, Pincher? Aren't you my dog?"

The dog answered with a bark, and kept running back and forth, now up the road and now down. When she whistled to him, in huntsman's style, he obeyed.

"Master," asked she, without resting a moment while speaking, "and does all as far as the eye can reach belong to you?"

"Why do you inquire?"

"Why? because I want to know. It must be jolly here in the daytime."

"Indeed it is."

"Is that the graveyard where I see the crosses and the white stones?"

"Yes."

"Can it be seen from your house?"

"It can."

"Too bad! that will never do. I can't bear to look out of the window. I can't stay there, I won't stay; you must take away that graveyard; how can one laugh or sing with that constantly before one's eyes? Or how could I eat or drink? I once found a dead man in the forest. He had been lying there ever so long, and was quite eaten away. I can't bear to have Death always staring me in the face. I won't stay here."

I was obliged to stop. I felt so oppressed that I could not move from the spot.

The oxen that I had sold the day before were just being led down the hill. When Martella saw them she cried out, "Oh what splendid beasts! are they yours?"

"They are no longer mine. I sold them yesterday, and they are to be led to France."

"A pleasant meal to you, France!" said Martella, laughing boisterously. I could not help noticing her hearty laughter, for I felt quite shocked by it. What can this child be, thought I? What will become of our tranquil household?

We arrived at the house. The room seemed lighted up more brilliantly than usual. We ascended the steps, Martella preceding me. My wife was waiting for us on the threshold, and taking both of Martella's hands in hers, said, "Now, child, thou art at last at home."

"I am at home everywhere. And so is my dog. Isn't it so, Pincher?" said Martella in a bold tone.

We entered the room. There were three lights on the table. My wife's eloquent glance told me to have patience, and when I saw her lay her hand on her heart I felt that she was confident that she could direct everything for the best.

I now, for the first time, had a good look at Martella. In carriage and feature she seemed as wild and defiant as a gypsy. Her face was full of an expression of boldness. But she was indeed beautiful and fascinating when she spoke, and even more so when she laughed.

"Why do you have three lamps on the table?" said she.

"That is the custom," answered my wife, "when a bride comes to the house."

"How lovely!" exclaimed Martella. "The one light stands for us who are as one. The other two lights represent the parents." And she laughed most heartily. Her next question was, "Why do you have two clocks in your room?"

"You ask a great many questions," I could not avoid answering. But my wife said, "That is right. Always ask questions, and you will soon learn all that you need know."

Martella may have imagined that she had been too precipitate, for she soon said:

"To-morrow is yet another day. I am so tired. I would like to go to sleep now. But I must have my dog with me, or else I cannot rest."

Indeed, her gentle good-night and her curtsey seemed strangely at variance with her usually bold and defiant manner.

When she had left us, my wife said to me, "Do not take this affair to heart. It is indeed no trifle. But remember that Ernst might have made a much more serious mistake. He loves the wild creature, and our duty is to help him as best we can. Let Rothfuss and me take charge of the girl. For the present, you had better treat her with an air of reserve. We two will attend to all. You may be glad that we have so faithful a servant as Rothfuss. They are friends already, and he says, 'By the time the potatoes are brought home, she will lay aside her red stockings.' I was wishing for that on our way here. But she refused so positively, that I desisted from my endeavors to persuade her."

After a little while, she continued:

"A voice in the forest helped me to bring all things about as they should be. I heard the cuckoo's cry, and was reminded by that, that he would leave his young in a strange nest, and that other birds would patiently and affectionately nurture the strange birdling. We are something like these cuckoo parents. What they do without thought, we do consciously."

When at early dawn on the following day, I looked out of my window, I saw Martella and her dog at the fountain in front of the house. Seen by day, and in her light attire, she seemed wondrously beautiful and fascinating.

She washed her face and plaited her thick brown hair. Her every movement seemed free and noble, and almost graceful enough to please an artist's eye.

She sang in a low voice, and would from time to time exclaim, "Cuckoo!"

Rothfuss, who saw that she was washing herself, called out to her that she must not do that again. "The cows drink there, and if you wash yourself in that basin, they will never go there again."

"I have already noticed," she replied, "that the cattle have the first place in this house."

When she saw me, she called out in a clear, ringing voice:

"Good-morning, master. Ernst was certainly right when he told me that it is lovely here. One can see so far in every direction. I shall yet climb every one of those hills. How good the water is! Do you, too, hear the cuckoo? He is already awake, and has bid me good-morning. Old Jaegerlies[²] has often told me that I was the cuckoo's child. And do you know that the cow got a calf during the night? A spotted cow-calf? We have already given the cow something warm to drink. The calf drank milk when it was hardly two minutes old. Rothfuss said it would be a pity to kill the calf. I am going to drive out into the fields with Rothfuss to get some clover. Yes, a cow has a good time of it in your house. But look! the cuckoo is flying over your house! That is an omen!"

She went to the stable, and I followed her a short time afterwards. She looked on dreamily while the cow was licking the new-born calf, and said at last,

"That is what you folks call kissing."

Rothfuss asked her:

"Are you fond of cows?"

"I don't know; I never had one."

He showed her our best cow and said,

"Three years ago, when she was a calf, she got the first prize at the agricultural exhibition. She puts food to the best use. Everything that she eats turns either to meat or to milk."

Rothfuss told Martella to put on a little jacket. They soon drove out to the fields, and when she held up the scythe, she exclaimed, "Cuckoo!" It seemed to me as if I were dreaming, and yet I remembered quite distinctly that my wife had spoken to me on the previous night of the cuckoo's young ones.

What a strange coincidence it seemed!

Martella returned from the fields in good spirits, and during the morning lunch was quite cheerful. She was constantly talking of the daughter-in-law, and the cow-calf that had come into the family during the night before.

I then said to her, "I will give you the cow-calf. It is yours."

She made no answer, but looked at me with an air of surprise.

Rothfuss told me that when in the stable, she had said to the calf: "You belong to me. But of course, you know nothing of it. You really belong to your mother. But your mother belongs to the master, the master belongs to Ernst, and Ernst belongs to me; and that is how it is."

When evening came, Rothfuss expressed his opinion in the following words:

"If her inside is like her outside, she need not be made any better than she already is."

Our oldest maid-servant, Balbina, seemed quite kindly disposed to the new arrival, and Martella said that Balbina had told her something with the air of imparting a secret of which she was the only possessor. And what was it? "Why, nothing more than that it is sinful to lie and steal."

I have given the story of this first day in its smallest details. It is only for the first green leaves of spring that we have an attentive eye. They go on, silently increasing, until they become so numerous that they excite no comment.

CHAPTER IX.

Martella did not become attached to any one in the house except Rothfuss, whom she was constantly plying with questions about Ernst's childhood. When in pleasant evenings during the week, and on Sunday afternoons in clear weather, the youths and maidens would march through the village, with their merry songs, she would sit with Rothfuss on the bench by the stable, or, unattended by any companion save her dog, would be up in the woods that lay back of our house.

When she had any special request, she would communicate it through Rothfuss.

Among other things, she wanted to go out into the forest with the wood-cutters. From her thirteenth year she had wielded the axe, and could use it as cleverly as the men. We did not grant this wish of hers.

Her craving for knowledge was insatiable, and I marvelled at the patience and equanimity with which my wife told her everything she wanted to know.

Things to which we had become accustomed were to her occasions of the liveliest surprise. This did not seem to change, for she never could get used to what with us had, through daily habit, become a matter of course. To her all seemed a marvel.

Her glance was full of courage. Her voice seemed so full of sincerity, that her strangest utterances required no added assurance of their truthfulness. Her laughter was so hearty that it seemed contagious.

Rothfuss was quite proud that he could control Martella, just as he did the two bays that he had raised from the time they were foals, and delighted to speak of the fact, that our youngest--as he called Ernst--was the best of marksmen. He had secured the best prize. For there could be no other girl so wise and merry as Martella. And she was so full of merry capers that the very cows looked around and lowed, as if to say, "We, too, would be glad to laugh with you, if we only could. But, alas! we cannot. We have not the bellows to do it with."

She had named her calf "Muscat." She would nurse it as if it were a younger sister. She maintained that it was a perfect marvel of health and wisdom, and that the old cow was jealous, and tried to butt her because she had noticed that the calf had greater love for Martella than for its own mother.

There was one point on which she and Rothfuss always quarrelled. She had an inexplicable aversion to America, of which Rothfuss always spoke as if it were Paradise itself. The manner in which Lisbeth, the locksmith's widow, had been provided for, was his chief argument in its favor. "None but a free state would provide so well for the families of the men killed in battle. How different our Germans are about that."

Towards my wife and myself, Martella was respectful, but diffident.

Ernst came to us but twice during the summer, remaining but a few hours each time.