farmer schecken’s house was rebuilt handsomer than before the fire. with the winter came the drawing for recruits, but never was there such sorrow at drawing an exemption as that dami displayed. he was in despair, and amrie grieved with him, for she thought the soldier’s discipline an excellent means to make the indolent dami more firm and steadfast. but she said, “take it as a sign that you must from this time forth support yourself like a man. you are like a little child that cannot feed himself, but must have his food given him.”
“you would reproach me,” said dami, “for what you do for me.”
“no, indeed, that i did not mean. do not stand there so doleful, to see who will do something for you, either good or bad; act for yourself!”
“that i will,” said dami, “i will do something that will astonish you.”
[113]for a long time he gave no hint of what he had in his mind; he went boldly through the village, and talked freely with every one, and worked industriously in the forest at wood-splitting. he had his father’s axe, and seemed with it to have gained his father’s strength.
as barefoot one day, in the early spring, met him returning from the forest, he said, taking the axe from his shoulder,—
“where do you think this is going?”
“into the wood,” answered his sister; “but it cannot go alone—you must send it there.”
“you are right. but it is going to its brother; one will strike above, and the other beneath, and then there will be a crashing of trees like the sound of a loaded cannon; you will not hear it—unless you choose it. but none in this place will hear it.”
“i do not understand one word,” said barefoot. “i am too old to guess riddles; speak plainly.”
“yes, i am going to our uncle in america.”
“what—to-day?” said barefoot, jokingly. “do you know what martin, the mason’s son, called to his mother? ‘mother, throw me a clean shirt out of the window, for i am going to walk to america.’ those who would fly away so easily, stay where they are.”
“we shall see how long i stay here,” said dami, and turned without another word into the coal-burner’s house.
[114]barefoot at first would have made herself merry over dami’s strange plan, but it would not succeed. she felt that there was something serious in it. at night, when all in the house were in bed, she hastened to her brother in the forest, and declared to him, once for all, “that she could not go with him.”
she thought thus to turn him from his plan, but he answered shortly,—
“well, but i am not grown to thee.” he seemed more decided than ever.
barefoot felt again all the agitation of uncertainty, which she had experienced in childhood; but she went not now for counsel to the wild service-tree, as though that could answer her doubts, as out of all question the conclusion was clear, “it is right for him to go; it is also right for me to remain here.” she secretly rejoiced that dami could take so bold a resolution; it indicated so much manly strength of mind; and though it affected her deeply to be left alone in the wide world, she thought it right and noble that her brother should act with so much healthy courage. yet she did not entirely trust him, for the next evening, when she met him, she said in passing—“say nothing to any one of your plan of emigrating, for if you should not carry it out, you will be laughed at.”
“you are right,” said dami, “but not because other people are to influence me; for as certainly[115] as i have five fingers on this hand, so certainly i shall go before the cherries are ripe; even if i must beg or steal the means to go. only one thing i am sorry for, that i must go away and not serve schecken a trick that he should remember during his whole life.”
“that is true man’s revenge”—barefoot hastened to say, “that is real wickedness of heart, to leave behind one the memory of injury. there, over there, lie the graves of our parents—come! come with me, and repeat there, if you can, what you have just said. do you know who is the most worthless of men? he who would injure another. give me the axe. you are not worthy to hold in your hand what has once been in our father’s. give up the axe, or i know not what i shall do. if you do not instantly tear out that thought, both root and branch, from your soul, i know not what i shall do! give me the axe. no one shall have it who talks of stealing and murder. give it to me, or i know not what i shall do!”
dami said in a whisper, “it was only a thought; believe me, i did not mean it, i could not do it; but as they always call me milksop, i thought for once i would curse and threaten. you are right, and if you wish it i will go to-night to schecken, and tell him that i harbor no malice, no bad thoughts in my heart against him.”
“that is not necessary; that would be too[116] much, but since you are reasonable, i will help you all i can.”
“it were best that you went with me.”
“no, that i cannot—i know not why, but i cannot! i have made no vow that if you write me you go on well with our uncle, that i will not follow you; but it is so uncertain, so in the mist, when one knows nothing; and then i do not willingly change. i am very well here. now let us consider about your own affairs.”
it is the case with many emigrants, and it discloses a dark side of human nature, that they take what they hope may remain unpunished revenge. with others, the first act in the new world is to write home to the officers of justice, and reveal secret crimes. it was on this account that amrie felt so much excitement lest her brother should associate himself with those who strike in the dark. she felt doubly joyful when dami conquered his desire for revenge. no benevolent deed is so refreshing to the soul, as that of turning another from vice and error.
with her usual clearness of intellect, amrie weighed all the circumstances. her uncle’s wife had written that they were doing well—thus they knew the place of their residence. dami’s savings were very small, her own would not go far, and though dami thought the parish were bound to pay something, his sister would not hear of it—“that,” she said, “should be the last recourse, if[117] all others failed.” she did not explain her intentions, but her first thought had been to write to farmer landfried’s wife. she feared how such a begging letter would strike the farmer’s wife, who perhaps had no ready money. then she thought of farmer rodel, who had promised her a place in his testament: she would ask him to give her now what he intended for her, if it were ever so little. then it occurred to her, that perhaps schecken, who was now so prosperous, might be moved to lend her a small sum—she said nothing to dami of all this, but as she collected his garments, and with much trouble persuaded mariann to let her have upon trust a piece of her treasured linen for shirts, which she sat up all night to cut out and make,—all these preparations made dami tremble,—he had indeed acted as though his plan of emigrating was unalterable, and yet it seemed to him now as though he was constrained and forced by the stronger will of his sister to carry his plan into execution. she even appeared to him hard-hearted, as though she wished to get rid of him. he did not venture to say this distinctly—he only brought forward little difficulties, which barefoot treated as necessary obstacles to leave-taking that would vanish when he went. she hastened to farmer rodel, expressly desiring that he would give her now what he promised to leave her in his will.
the old farmer asked, “why are you so pressing? can you not wait? what is the matter?”
[118]“nothing—but i cannot wait.”
she then told him that she wanted to fit out her brother, who was going to america.
this was a lucky excuse for the old farmer; he could make his stinginess pass for wise forethought and consideration for her; he declared he would not give a single farthing to help her to sacrifice herself for her brother. barefoot entreated him to speak to farmer schecken. at last he consented, and boasted that he, a stranger, was going to beg of a stranger, for a stranger, but he put it off from day to day. amrie would not spare him, and he, at last, took the path to schecken’s farm. as it might have been foreseen, he came back with empty hands; for when schecken asked what he intended to give, and he answered,—
“for the present, nothing!”
schecken said, “he was also of the same mind.”
when poor amrie revealed to mariann her sorrow at the hard-heartedness of men, the old woman broke out with angry emotion,—
“yes,” she said, “just so are men; if to-morrow one were to cast himself into the water, and he were drawn out dead, every one would say, ‘had he only told me what was the matter, what he wanted, i would so gladly have helped him! what would i not give to bring him back to life!’ but to help him while he was yet alive, not one would move a finger!”
strange as it was, though the whole labor of the[119] thing rested upon barefoot, she learnt to bear it cheerfully. one must depend on one’s self alone, was her inward resolve, and instead of being disheartened by all her difficulties, she was only made stronger and firmer. she collected every thing that she could turn to money; she carried the necklace she had formerly received from landfried’s wife to the widow of the former sacristan, who solaced her widowhood by lending upon pledges; even the ducat, she formerly threw back from the surveyor, in the churchyard, she now demanded back again. still more surprising, rodel himself offered to demand of the village council, in which he sat, a certain sum for the service of dami. with the public money he was always generous, as well as honest.
after a few days, he alarmed barefoot by telling her that every thing was settled with the council, upon the condition that dami should give up all claims to a home in the village. this had been understood from the first, but now that it was made a condition, it seemed frightful to barefoot, that dami should no longer have a home with her, or in any place. she said nothing of her thoughts to him, and he again appeared gay and good-humored. mariann especially, encouraged him; she would gladly have sent the whole village to foreign countries, that they might learn something of her john. she now firmly believed that he had crossed the sea. raven zacky told her that the[120] salt flood of the sea prevented the tears from flowing for one who was upon the other shore.
amrie obtained permission from the farmer to go with her brother to the next town, to make arrangement with the agent for his passage. they were astonished to find it had already been done. the village council had settled every thing, and while dami enjoyed the privilege of poverty, its duties were exacted from him. from the deck of the ship, before it sailed into the wide sea, he must sign a certificate of his departure; not till then was the money paid.
the brother and sister returned full of sadness; they went silently into the village. dami was oppressed with the feeling that something would happen, because he had once said so, and barefoot was deeply grieved that her brother, at last, seemed to be thrust hastily away.
when they reached the entrance of the village, and the sign-post, upon which were the names of the village and the district, dami said aloud, “thou that standest here, god keep thee! thou wilt be no longer my home, and all the people here will be no more to me than thou art.”
barefoot wept. she determined it should be the last time till after dami had gone. she kept her resolution, and the village people said, “barefoot had no heart, for her eyes were dry when her brother departed!” they would have seen her weep. what were the tears that were shed in[121] secret to them? she took care to keep strong and active. only on the few last days, when dami’s departure was delayed, did she neglect her usual work. she would be always with her brother. when rose scolded her, she said only, “you are right,” and ran again to dami. she would not lose a minute while he was there. every hour she thought she could do something, or say something that would last him his life long; then she tormented herself that she could say only common things, and that she had so often disagreed with him.
oh, those hours of leave-taking! how they press upon the heart; how all the past and the future is crowded together into one agonizing moment, and only one look, and one embrace, must express all!
amrie gained time for more words. when she counted her brother’s new shirts, she said, “these are good clean shirts; keep thyself good and pure within them.” as she packed every thing into the sack upon which their father’s name was marked, she said,—“bring this back again full of money, and we shall see how gladly they will restore to you all your rights. the farmer’s rose, if she remains single, will spring over seven houses after thee.” when she laid her father’s axe in the great chest she said,—“oh! how smooth the handle is, how often has our father’s hand gone over it. it seems as though i felt his hand still[122] upon it. so, now, i have a good motto,—‘sack and axe,’ working and saving—with these, one becomes hearty, and healthy and happy. god protect thee! say often to yourself, ‘sack and axe.’ i will also often say it. this shall be our mutual thought; our call to each other when we are far,—far apart,—till you write to me, or come to fetch me, or—as god will have it. ‘sack and axe.’ this contains all. all that we think, and all that we gain.”
when dami sat in the wagon, and for the last time she gave him her hand, which she could not draw away till he started, then, in a clear voice, she cried after him,—
“remember, ‘sack and axe!’” he looked back, nodded, and he was gone!
