the next morning when her uncle came, amrie declared that she should remain at home. there was a strange mixture of bitterness and benevolence when her uncle said, “indeed, thou tak’st after thy mother, who would never have any thing to do with us. but i cannot take dami alone, even if he would go. for a long time he would do nothing but eat bread. thou couldst have earned it.”
amrie urged, “that for the present they would remain here in their village, and later, if her uncle remained of the same mind, she, with her brother, could go to him.”
the resolution of amrie was somewhat shaken by the manner in which her uncle expressed his sympathy for the children, but she did not venture to say so, and only answered, “greet your children and say to them, that it is very hard for me never to have seen my nearest relations, and as they are going over the sea, i shall probably never see them in my whole life.”
[54]their uncle only said, “greet dami from me; i have no time to bid him farewell,” and he was gone.
as soon as dami came in, and learned that he was gone, he would have run after him, as indeed amrie was almost inclined to do, but she constrained herself again to remain. she spoke and acted as though some one had ordered every word and every motion, and yet her thoughts flew on the way that her uncle had taken. she went with her brother, hand in hand, through the village, and nodded to every one she met. she had now returned to them all. she was on the point of being torn away, and she thought they must all be as glad as herself that she did not go. but, alas! she soon remarked that they not only would have willingly parted with her, but they were angry that she did not go. krappenzacher opened his eyes and said, “yes, child, you have a proud spirit, and the whole village is angry with you for thrusting your fortune away with your foot. every one says, ‘who knows but it might have been a fortune for thee,’ and then they calculate how soon you will come upon the parish. do something, therefore, that you may not come upon the public alms.”
“yes, ah! what shall i do?”
“madame rodel would have willingly taken you into service, but her husband would not consent.”
[55]amrie felt, that from henceforth she must be doubly brave, that she might meet no reproach from herself or from others, and she asked again, “do you then know of nothing that i can do?”
“indeed you must be afraid of nothing but of begging. have you not heard that the foolish little fridolin yesterday killed two of the sacristan’s geese? the goose-herd’s service is now open, and i advise you to take it.”[a]
this soon happened, and by noon of that day amrie was driving the geese upon the holder green, as they called the pasture-ground upon the little height by hungerbrook. dami helped his sister faithfully in this work.
brown mariann was very much dissatisfied with this new servitude, and asserted, not without some truth, “that the odium followed a person their life long, who once held such an office. people never forget it. if you attempt any thing else they say, ‘ah, that is the goose-herd;’ and if, even out of pity, they should take you, you will receive a poor reward, and bad treatment. they will say, ‘ah, it is good enough for a goose-herd.’”
“that will not be so very bad,” answered amrie; “and you have related many hundred histories where goose-herds have become queens.”
“that was in the olden time. but who knows,[56] thou art of the old world; many times it appears to me that thou art not a child. who knows then, thou ancient soul! perhaps some miracle will happen to thee!”
this opinion, that she was not on the lowest step of the ladder of honor, but that there was something upon which she could step down, made amrie suddenly pause. for herself she could gain nothing more at present, but she would no longer suffer dami to herd the geese with her. he was a man, and he should be one. it might injure him if it could afterwards be said that he had formerly kept the geese. but with all her zeal she could not make it clear to him. he was angry with her. it is always so. at the point where the understanding ceases, there begins an inward obstinacy; inward imbecility passes into outward injustice, and sometimes into injurious action.
amrie rejoiced, that dami could be for so many days angry with her; she hoped he would learn to stand up against others and assert his own will.
dami also received an office. he was apprenticed by his guardian as scarecrow. he turned the rattle the whole day in the quiet garden of rodel’s farm to scare the sparrows from the early cherries, and from the salad-beds. but this, which in the beginning was only play, he soon gave up.
[57]it was a pleasant, but also a troublesome office, that amrie had undertaken. it was especially often painful that she could do nothing to attach the animals to her. indeed, they were scarcely to be distinguished, one from another; and was it not true what brown mariann had once said to her as she came out of the moosbrunnenwood?
“animals that live in herds, are all, each for himself, stupid.”
“i think,” added amrie, “that geese on this account are stupid; that they can do too much. they can swim, and run, and fly, but they are neither in the water, nor on the ground, nor in the air, expert, or at home, and that makes them stupid.”
“i will stand by this,” said mariann, “in thee is concealed an old hermit.”
in fact there formed itself in amrie a disposition to solitary dreaminess, which was rarely interrupted by the occurrences of life. but, as through all the dreaming and observation of nature she continued industriously to knit, and to let no stitch drop; and as on the corner by the service-tree, the deepening night shadows and the refreshing strawberries were so near each other, that they appeared to sprout from the same root:—thus were the distinct representations of nature and the dreamy twilight of life near each other in the heart of the child.
holder green was no solitary, secluded place,[58] filled with fairy tales that the curious world only would willingly seek. in the midst, through the holder pasture, led a field-path, to endringen, and not far from it stood the different colored boundary pillars, with the armorial bearings of the two gentlemen proprietors whose lands joined each other. peasants passed through with every species of agricultural implements; men, women and girls went by with hatchets, sickles and scythes. the bailiffs of both estates often came through, and the reflection of their rifles glittered long before and long after they passed. amrie was always greeted by the several bailiffs when she sat by the way, and was often asked whether this one or that one had passed by, but she never betrayed any one. perhaps this concealment was from that inward dislike that the people, and especially the village children, have for the bailiff, who is always represented as the armed enemy of the peasantry, going about to seek whom he can insnare.
old manz, who was employed to break stones on the road, never spoke a word to amrie. he went sadly from one heap of stones to another, and the sound of his pick was incessant as the tapping of the woodpecker, or the shrill chirp of the grasshoppers in the meadows and clover-field.
notwithstanding all these human influences, amrie was often borne into the kingdom of dreams. freely soared her childish soul upwards and cradled itself in unlimited ether. as the[59] larks in the air sang and rejoiced without knowing the limits of their field, so would she soar away beyond the boundaries of the whole country. the soul of the child knew nothing of the limits placed upon the narrow life of reality. whoever is accustomed to wonder, will find a miracle in every day.
“listen,” she would say; “the cuckoo calls! this is the living echo of the woods which calls and answers itself. the bird sits over there in the service-tree. if you look up, he will fly away. how loud he calls, and how unceasingly! that little bird has a stronger voice than a man! place thyself upon the tree and imitate him,—thou wilt not be heard as far as this bird, who is no larger than my hand. listen! perhaps he is an enchanted prince, and suddenly he may begin to speak to thee. yes,” she said, “only tell me thy riddle, and let me think a little, and i will soon find the meaning of it; and then i will disenchant thee, and we will go into thy golden castle and take mariann and dami with us, and dami shall marry the princess, thy sister, and we will then seek mariann’s john through the whole world, and whoever finds him shall conquer thy kingdom. ah! were it then all true? and why could i think it all out if it were not true?”
while the thoughts of amrie thus soared beyond all limits, the geese also felt themselves at liberty to stray and enjoy the good things of the neighboring[60] clover or barley field. awaking out of her dreams, she had heavy trouble to bring the geese back; and, when these freebooters came in regiments, they had much to tell of the promised land where they had fed so well. to their gossiping and chattering there seemed no end. here and there was heard an old goose holding on, after all the others had ceased, with a drowsy or significant word, while others stuck their bills beneath their wings, and continued to dream of the goodly land.
again amrie soared, “look! there fly the birds. no bird in the air goes astray; even the swallows, in their continually crossing flight, are always safe, always free! oh! could we only fly! how must the world look above where the larks soar. hurrah! always higher and higher, farther and farther! oh, could i fly! i would fly into the wide world and to the landfried, and see what she does, and ask her whether she ever thinks of me.
‘thinkest thou of me in distant lands?’”
thus she sang herself suddenly away from all the noise and from all her thoughts. her breath, which by the thought of flight had become deeper and quicker, as though she really hovered in the higher ether, became again calm and measured.
but not always glowed her cheek in waking dreams; not always did the sun shine clear in the open flowers and in the bending grain. in the spring came those cold, wet days, in which the[61] blossoming trees stood like trembling foreigners, and all day long the sun scarcely beamed upon them. a sterile frost pierced through the natural world, interrupted only by gusts of wind that tore and scattered the blossoms from the trees. the larks alone kept jubilee, high in the air, above the clouds; and the finches’ little complaining note was heard from the wild pear-tree, against which amrie leant. now, in white stripes, rattled down the hail, and the geese pointed their beaks upwards, that the tender brain might not be hurt. there above, behind endringen, it is already clear, and the sun will soon break through the clouds and the hills; the woods and the fields will look like the human countenance, which has been bathed in the tears of grief, but now shines out with beams of joy. the geese, which through the shower had pressed close together, and turned their bills upward, now venture to spread themselves apart and graze, and gaggle of the passing storm to the young, tender, downy brood, who have never before lived through such an experience.
immediately after amrie had been overtaken by the hail-storm, she endeavored to provide for the future. she took with her, out upon the green pasture, an empty corn-sack, which she had inherited from her father. two axes, crossed with the name of her father, were painted upon it. when the showers came down, she covered and folded herself within it, and looked out from a protecting[62] roof upon the wild conflict in the sky. a cold shower of snow would end in melancholy, which would sometimes overpower her. then she would weep over the destiny which left her so alone—deprived of father and mother—thrust out, as it were, from her fellows. but she early gained a power that trial and difficulty teaches one to exert, to swallow down her tears. this makes the eyes sparkle, and to be doubly clear in the midst of all trouble.
amrie could conquer her melancholy, especially when she recollected a proverb of brown mariann’s. “who will not have his hands frozen in the cold, must double his fist.” amrie did so, both spiritually and physically. she looked proudly into the world, and soon cheerfulness came over her face. she rejoiced at the beautiful lightning, and held her breath till the thunder followed after. the geese pressed close together, and looked strangely at the lightning.
“they,” said amrie, “experience only good. all the clothing they need grows upon their bodies; and for that which is pulled out in the spring, other is already provided. when the shower is over, there is joy in the air and in the trees, and the geese rejoice in the rare luxuries it has left, pressing upon each other, greedily consume the snails and the young frogs that venture forth after it is over.”
of the thousand-fold meanings that lived in amrie’s[63] soul, brown mariann received only, at times, the intimation. once, when she came from the forest with her load of wood, and imprisoned in her sack may-bugs and worms for amrie’s geese, the latter said to her,—
“aunt, do you know why the wind blows?”
“no! do you know?”
“yes; i have remarked every thing that grows must move about. the bird flies, the beetle creeps; the hare, the stag, the horse, and all animals, must run. the fish swim, and frogs also. but there stand the trees, the corn, and the grass; they cannot go forth, and yet they must grow. then comes the wind and says, ‘only remain standing, and i will do for you what others can do for themselves. see, how i turn, and shake, and bend you. be glad that i come; i do thee good, even if i make thee weary.’”
brown mariann said nothing, except her usual speech:
“i maintain it; in thee is concealed the soul of an old hermit.”
once only mariann led the quiet observation of amrie upon another trace.
the quail began already to be heard in the high rye-fields; near amrie, the field-larks sang the whole day incessantly. they wandered here and there, and sang so tenderly, so into the deepest heart, it seemed as though they drew their inspiration from the source of life—from the soul itself.[64] the tone was more beautiful than that of the skylark, which soars high in the air. often one of the birds came so near to amrie, that she said, “why cannot i tell thee that i will not hurt thee? only stay!” but the bird was timid, and removed farther off. then amrie considered quickly, and said, “it is well that the birds are timid, else we could not drive away the thievish starlings.”
at noon, when mariann came to her, she said, “could i only know what a bird, all through the live-long day, has to say; and, even then, he has not sung it all out.”
mariann answered, “look, an animal can keep nothing back to reflect upon and resolve it in himself. but in man something is always speaking; it does not cease, although it is never loud. there are thoughts that sing, weep, and speak, but quietly; we scarcely hear them ourselves. not so the bird—when he ceases singing, he is ready to eat or sleep.”
as mariann turned and went forth with her bundle of wood, amrie looked smiling after her. “there goes a great singing bird,” she thought. none but the sun saw how long the child continued to smile and to think.
thus, day after day, amrie lived. long she sat dreaming, as the wind moved the shadows of the branches around her. then she gazed at the motionless banks of clouds on the horizon, or upon the flying clouds that chased each other through the sky. as without, in the wide space, so in the soul of the child the cloud-pictures arose and melted away, receiving, for the moment only, existence and form. who can tell how the soul of the child interpreted and gave life to the cloud, within or without?
when spring breaks over the earth, thou canst not comprehend the thousand-fold seeds and sprouts spread over the ground—the singing and jubilee upon the branches and in the air. a single lark seizes upon eye and ear. it soars aloft. for a time thou canst follow it as it spreads its wings; for a time thou canst not determine whether that dark point is thy vanishing lark. now it is gone from thy eye, and soon from thy ear; for thou canst not tell if the singing thou hearest comes from thy vanished lark. couldst thou listen for a whole day to a single lark in the whole wide heaven, thou wouldst hear that the morning, the mid-day, and the evening song, are wholly different; and couldst thou trace it from its first trembling pipe, through the whole year, thou wouldst find what various tones mingle in its spring, its summer, and its harvest song. over the first stubble-field sing a new brood of larks.
when the spring breaks in a human soul,—when the whole world opens before it and within it,—thou canst not understand the thousand voices that make themselves heard. thou canst[66] not seize nor hold the thousand buds and blossoms that perpetually unfold and extend themselves; thou only knowest that there it sings, and that it expands.
how quietly spring appeared again in the firmly rooted plant. there, by the meadow-hedge and the pear-tree, the sloe blossomed early, and was only rarely ripe. what a beautiful bloom has the whortleberry, and what a powerful perfume it has! the little pears are quite formed, and glow with a faint red; and the poisonous night-shade already looks dark. soon will come those clear, sharp-cut, harvest days, when the atmosphere is of so clear and cloudless a blue, that during the whole day the half-moon can be seen in the sky; then we mark how it fills itself, and how it wanes, till only a finely-cut side, like a little cloud, stands in the horizon. in nature, and in the human soul, there is a pause before the goal is reached.
there was soon life upon the road that led through the holder green. quickly rattling went the empty peasants’ wagons, where sat women and children, and laughed,—shaken by laughing as well as by the rolling of the wagons. then they came, sheaf-laden, slowly back, creaking homewards. reapers, both men and women, passed very near amrie.
she gained of the rich harvest only what her geese, who boldly followed the laden wagons, robbed from their hanging sheaves.
[67]there often comes into men’s souls, with all their joy over the harvested fields and the harvest blessing, a certain timidity. expectation has become certainty; and where all was so moving and transitory, it is now quiet. the season has changed. summer has turned to frost.
the brooks upon holder green, in whose flood the geese contentedly struggled, had the best water in the place. the passer-by often paused at the broad channel to drink, while their animals ran before. then, rinsing their mouths, they ran, shrieking after them. others, returning from the fields, watered their beasts here.
amrie gained the favor of many through a little earthern cup which she had begged from mariann. often, when the passers came to the brook, amrie offered her cup, saying, “you can drink better with this.” upon the return of the cup rested many friendly glances, sometimes a longer, sometimes a shorter time upon her. this did her so much good, that she was almost vexed if any one went over without drinking. she would stand by the brook with her cup full, running over; and, if these signs failed, she surprised her geese with an unlooked for bath. one day there came a berner chaise with two stately white horses. a broad, oberland farmer completely filled the double seat. he drew up and asked, “girl! hast thou nothing to drink with?”
“indeed i have—all ready.” trembling, amrie brought her cup full of water.
[68]“ah,” said the oberlander, after he had taken a good draught, and with dripping mouth half in the cup, half out, “in the whole world there is no such water as that.”
he began again, and winked to amrie that she should be quiet, for he had but just begun; and it was particularly disagreeable to speak while one was drinking. the child seemed to understand this; and, after he had given back the cup, she said, “yes, the water is good and healthy. if your horses would drink, it is for them, especially, good.”
“my horses are warm, and need not drink at present. are you of holderbrunnen, maiden?”
“truly.”
“and what is your name?”
“amrie.”
“to whom dost thou belong?”
“to no one now. josenhans was my father.”
“what! the josenhans that worked with farmer rodel?”
“yes.”
“i knew him well. it was hard that he must die so early. wait, child, i will give you something.” he drew a great leather purse from his pocket, and felt a long time within it, and said at last,
“see, take that.”
“i do not take any presents, i thank you. i take nothing.”
[69]“take it. of me you can certainly take something. is not farmer rodel your guardian?”
“yes. well?”
“he should have known better than to make you a goose-herd. god bless thee!”
the carriage rolled on, and amrie held the money in her hand. “‘of me you can certainly take something!’ who, then, is the man who said that, and why did he not make himself known? eh! this is a groschen. there is the bird upon it. well, it will not make him poor, nor me rich.”
the whole day long, amrie did not offer her cup to a single passenger. she felt a secret timidity lest she should have another present.
when she came home in the evening, mariann told her that farmer rodel had sent to say she was to go to him immediately. she hastened to his house. rodel said, as she entered,
“what did you say to the esquire landfried?”
“i know no squire landfried.”
“he has been to-day on the holder green, and has made thee a present.”
“i did not know who it was, and there is his money.”
“that is nothing to me! tell me instantly, honestly, and truly, did i persuade you to be goose-herd? if you do not give it up this very day, i am no longer your guardian. i will not be slandered!”
[70]“i shall inform everybody that it is not your fault,” said amrie; “but to give the service up, that i cannot. till the summer is over i must remain in it. i must finish what i have engaged to do.”
the farmer’s wife, who lay sick in bed, cried out to her, “thou art right. remain only so, and i prophesy that you will do well. a hundred years hence they will say of one who is fortunate in this village, ‘this is like brosis’ severin and the josenhans.’ amrie, take courage! thy dry bread will yet fall into a honey cup!”
the sick woman was thought crack-brained; and, from fear of madness, amrie, without answering, hastened away.
she soon imparted to mariann that a wonderful thing had happened to her. the esquire landfried, of whose wife she thought so often, had spoken with her, had said something of her to rodel, and had made her a present. she showed her the money.
mariann cried, laughing, “ah, that i could have guessed. that is like the landfried! that is noble! to give the poor child a false groschen!”
“why, is it then false?” asked amrie, and the tears sprang into her eyes.
“that is a worn-out birds’ groschen, worth only half a kreutzer.”
“he would have given me the other half,” said[71] amrie, gravely. and now for the first time she showed an inward opposition towards mariann. the latter rejoiced at every thing wicked that she heard of people. amrie, on the contrary, ascribed every thing to good motives. she was always happy. she forgot all realities in the happy dreams of her solitude. she expected nothing from others. she was therefore surprised if she received any thing, and was always thankful for the slightest favor.
“he has given me only half a kreutzer; that is enough, and i am satisfied.” she repeated this proudly to herself, while she ate her solitary supper, as though she were yet speaking to mariann, who was not in the house, but meantime milked her goat.
in the night, she stitched the coin between two pieces of cloth, and hung it as an amulet around her neck, and concealed it on her breast. it seemed as though the impression of the bird upon the money waked the bird in the heart upon which it rested. full of inward joy, she sang and hummed her songs all day from morning till evening; and thus she thought always again of farmer landfried’s lady. she had now seen both, and had of both a memento, and it seemed to her as though they left her only for a short time there; and that the berner chaise, with the two white horses, would come again,—the farmer’s people sitting within,—and bring her away. and they would[72] say, “thou art our child;” for certainly the landfried would relate at home how he had met her.
with penetrating glances she looked into the autumn sky,—it was so clear, so cloudless,—and then upon the earth, where the meadows were yet green; and the hemp, lying in rows, spread out to dry, appeared like a fine net upon the ground, the autumn flowers looking up between,—the ravens flying above, their black wing feathers glistening in the bright sunshine. no wind blew; all was calm. the cows ruminated upon the stubble-fields; cracking of whips and songs echoed from all the meadows; and the pear-tree shivered its branches together, and shook down its leaves; autumn was there.
when at evening amrie went home, she looked askingly in mariann’s face; she thought it must tell her that the landfried had sent to fetch her. with a heavy heart, she drove her geese to the stubble-field that was so far away from the road that led to the holder green, where she longed to return. but the hedges were already leafless. the larks, in their heavy downward flight, scarcely twittered a single note,—and yet there came no message; and amrie felt as timid, in prospect of the winter, as she would have been before a prison. she consoled herself a little with the reward she received, which was especially rich. not one of her fledglings had fallen—not one was lamed. mariann not only sold the feathers that amrie had[73] collected, at a good price, but advised her not to follow the old custom,—which, at the time her salary was paid, for every goose that had been herded, to give a piece of church-consecrated cake. mariann advised her to exchange the cake for good, sound bread. thus they had bread the winter through, of very old baking indeed; but, as mariann said, “amrie’s teeth were as sound and white as those of a mouse, and could nip through every thing.”
throughout the village, nothing was now heard but the thresher’s flail, and amrie said, “the whole summer long, the corn in the ear heard only the song of the lark; now, men bruise its head with the flail, and how different is the sound!”
“an old hermit’s soul is concealed within thee,” was the final sentence of brown mariann.
