praised be america! cried the night-watch, when he called the hour of the night, to the amusement of the village, many nights after dami went, instead of the usual “praised be god!”
raven zacky, who was not well off himself, and always scolding about the poor, said at going out of church on sunday, and also when sitting on the long bench before the village inn,—“columbus was a true savior for us. yes, america is the slop-pail for the old world. we shake into it what cannot be used in the kitchen. cabbage and turnip—all will answer for those who dwell in the castle behind the house, and understand french, oui! oui! it makes good food for them.”
through poverty of other materials, the departure of dami was for a long time the subject of conversation in the village, and those who belonged to the village council praised its wisdom in freeing itself of one who would certainly have[124] become a charge to the parish. for he who drives many trades will certainly at last drive to ruin.
there were naturally many good-natured people who repeated all they said of her brother, and their ill-natured jokes to barefoot. but she only laughed, and when there came from bremen a beautiful letter from dami (they could not believe he could have written it so correctly), she had her triumph in the eyes of all, and read her letter many times over to them. in her heart she was sad at having lost such a brother, perhaps forever. she also reproached herself that she had not put him more forward, as now he showed what a brave fellow he was, and, moreover, so good. now, he who would have taken leave of the whole village as he would of the sign-post, filled a whole page with greetings for every one. he called them the “dear,” the “good,” the “brave.” barefoot gained much praise whenever she showed these greetings. she always pointed to the place, with “see, there it stands in black and white.”
amrie was for a long time quiet and reserved; she appeared to repent that she had let her brother go, or that she had not gone with him. formerly, whether in the house or the barn, in the kitchen or the chamber, she was always singing, and when she went out with the scythe on her shoulder, she was still singing. now they heard no sound from her lips. some burthen held back her melody.[125] yet there was a time when her songs were heard again; when she put the rodel children to sleep, she sang softly; and long after they were asleep, her voice was heard in tender melodies. then she would hasten to mariann, and fetch her wood and water, and all else that she needed.
on sunday afternoons, when all were seeking amusement, barefoot remained still and motionless at the house door, looking far into the wide space, and into the sky. she saw where the birds were flying, and lost herself in dreams,—sometimes of dami, where he was, and how it was with him; then she would fix her glance upon an over-turned plough, or upon a hen that buried itself in the sand. when a carriage passed through the village, she would look up and say, as to herself,—“they are going to some one; but upon all the streets of the wide world there is nobody coming to me—nobody thinks of me. could i not hear them even here?” and then it seemed as though she expected something. her heart beat quicker, as though somebody was coming, and involuntarily came from her lips,—
“the little brooks, they freely take
their courses to the sea;
but ah! no friend upon the earth
can share his heart with me.”
“i would i were as old as you are,” she said one day, when, dreaming thus, she entered mariann’s cottage.
[126]“be glad that your wish is not the truth,” said the other. “when i was of your age, i was merry, and weighed down at the plaster mill a hundred and thirty-two pounds.”
“you are always the same, always cheerful. it is not so with me.”
“ah, simpleton! do not fret away your youth; no one can give it back to you. age comes of itself.”
mariann easily succeeded in consoling barefoot. only when she was alone an unwonted timidity oppressed her. what could it be?
strange rumors were in the village. for some days it had been said, that in endringen there was to be a wedding, such as there had not been in the memory of man. the eldest daughter of dominic and amelia was to marry a rich timber-merchant of murgthal, they said, and there were to be gay doings, such as they never had before.
the day came ever nearer. when two girls met, one would draw the other behind the hedge, or the haystack, and there was no end to the talk, although they were both in a prodigious hurry. they said people were coming from oberland and from murgthal, and from thirty leagues distant, for the family had extensive connections. at the village fountain there was lively excitement. no young girl would acknowledge that she was going to have a new dress, that she might enjoy the surprise the next day when it appeared. in[127] the hurry of question and answer, they forgot to draw their water, and barefoot, who came last, went first away, bearing her full bucket. what was the dance to her? and yet she seemed to hear music in the air all around her.
the next day she had much to do in the house, and constant running, for she had to dress rose. rose had a quantity of hair, and the most was to be made of it. to-day she would try something new; something in the maria theresa style, as here in the country they called a braid of fourteen strands. barefoot succeeded in accomplishing this difficult work of art; but scarcely was it finished, when rose, in a rage, tore it down, and looked wildly out from the hair hanging over her face. still, she was beautiful and stately in this disorder, and she knew it. “i will never marry into a family where they keep less than four horses,” she said, haughtily. in fact, she had many suitors among the farmers’ sons, but she seemed not inclined to choose among them. she now decided upon the country custom of two braids down her back, ornamented with red ribbons reaching to the ground. she stood there ready dressed, and wanted only a nosegay to complete her adornment. she had allowed her own flowers to wither; and, spite of all barefoot could say, she must rob all the blossoms from the beautifully cherished flowers in the window. at length she also demanded the little dwarf rose-mariè; but[128] barefoot would be torn to pieces before she would cut that. rose scoffed and laughed, scolded, and called her “only a simple goose-girl, who was now so selfish, though they had taken her into the family through charity.” barefoot said not a word, but she gave rose a look which made her cast down her eyes. just then a red rosette had become loose upon her left shoe, and amrie knelt down to fasten it; when partly in joke, and partly through repentance of her ill-nature, rose exclaimed, “i have taken a fancy, barefoot, that you shall also go to the dance to-day.”
“do not laugh at me,” said barefoot. “what have i done?”
“i am not laughing,” rose declared. “once in a life you shall dance, for you are also a young girl, and there will be some of your condition there. our stable-boy is going, and some peasant’s son will dance with you. i will see that you have a partner.”
“leave me in peace,” said amrie, still kneeling, “or i will prick you.”
“rose is right,” exclaimed the farmer’s wife, who had till now been silent; “i will never say a good word for you again, if you do not consent to go to this dance. come, sit down, and i, for once, will be your dressing-maid.”
crimson blushes succeeded each other over barefoot’s face, as she sat there, served by her mistress; and when she turned her hair back from[129] her forehead, she felt as though she should sink down for shame. her mistress said, “i will dress your hair as the algäuer girls wear it. that will be very becoming to you, for you look like an algäuer—so plump and brown. yes, you look like one of the daughters of farmer landfried of zusmarshofen.”
“why so! how like her?” asked barefoot; and her whole frame trembled. why was it that she should just now be reminded of this friend that, from a child, she had never forgotten; and who, from that time, had remained in her memory like a benevolent fairy in a fairy tale. she had no ring that she could turn to make her appear. in her mind only could she conjure her hither, and that only involuntarily.
“keep quiet, or i shall pull thy hair,” said her mistress. barefoot sat motionless,—scarcely breathing. as she sat there with her hands pressed together, and her mistress sometimes bending over her, she felt her warm breath on her face—she seemed to herself as though she were suddenly enchanted. she said not a word, and sank her glances humbly to the ground, lest she should scare away the enchantment.
“would that i could dress you thus for your own wedding,” said her mistress, who to-day overflowed with benevolence. “i would give thee a right honest farmer, and no one would be taken in by thee. but now-a-days things do not happen[130] thus. money runs after money. however, do not be discouraged; as long as i live, you shall want for nothing; and if i should die—for i have sad thoughts when i think of my heavy hour—promise that you will never leave my children, but be a mother to them.”
“oh, heavens! how can you have such thoughts?” cried barefoot, and tears ran down her cheeks. “it is a sin! for it is sinful to allow bad thoughts to come into one’s mind.”
“yes, yes! you are right,” said her mistress. “but wait—sit still! i will fetch my necklace. you must wear that on your neck.”
“oh, no, no! i can wear nothing which is not my own. i should sink to the earth with shame.”
“yes! but you cannot go thus. perhaps you have something of your own that you can wear.”
barefoot related that she had once a necklace which she received when a child, from madam landfried; but to provide funds for dami’s emigration, she had pledged it to the sacristan’s widow.
her mistress exacted a promise that she would not move, nor look at herself in the glass, till she came back, and hastened forth to reclaim the ornament, and herself became surety for the payment.
what timidity ran through the soul of barefoot, as she sat there waiting. she, the servant, so humbly served—and, in fact, she sat as though enchanted. when she thought of the dance she[131] trembled—she was treated so kindly; and who could tell that she might not be thrust out of the dance, with none to care for her, and all her outward ornaments and her inward pleasure be in vain. “no,” she said to herself, “if i have only that which i now enjoy, it is sufficient. if i must immediately undress and remain at home, i have still had the pleasure.”
her mistress came in with the necklace in her hand. praise of the ornament, and blame of the sacristan’s widow, who could take such shameful interest from a poor girl, were strangely blended together. she promised herself to pay the pledge, and gradually deduct it from barefoot’s wages.
now, at last, she was permitted to look at herself. her mistress held the glass before her, and from the expression of both there shone, as it were, a mutual hymn of joy.
“i do not know myself! i do not know myself!” cried barefoot, pressing both hands upon her face. “oh, that my mother could see me thus! but she will certainly bless you for being so good to me. yes, from heaven she will support you in your heavy hour. you need fear nothing.”
“ah, a different face, not that melancholy one, must go to the dance,” said her mistress. “but it will come when you hear the music.”
“i think i hear it now,” said barefoot. “yes—listen—there it is.” in fact, there now came[132] on through the village the leading wagon, covered with green branches, in which sat all the musicians. raven zacky stood up in the midst and blew a trumpet.
it was time to go, and all the village hastened after. bernese chaises, with one horse and with two, from this village and from the neighborhood, passing through, were driven as though running for a wager. rose sat on the front seat with her brother, while barefoot went in the basket behind. as long as they were in the village she kept her eyes cast down; only when passing the house of her parents she looked up, as mariann stood there to greet her. the old cock upon the wood-pile crowed, and the service-tree nodded a “god bless you, on the way.”
now they pass through the valley where old manz was breaking stones, and now over the holder common, where an old woman took care of the geese. barefoot gave her a friendly nod. “oh, heavens,” she thought, “how did i come to this—that i can sit here so proud and well dressed. it is but an hour’s ride to endringen. it seems as though we had but just started, and we must already alight.”
rose was immediately surrounded and greeted by friends. “is that a sister of your brother’s wife that you have brought with you?” her friends asked.
“no! it is only our maid,” said rose. some[133] beggars from holdenbrunn, who were there, looked astonished; and after observing her a long time, cried “ei! yes; that is barefoot.”
these little words, “only our maid,” sunk deeply into barefoot’s mind; but she recovered herself, and smiling, said to herself, “let not a little word spoil thy pleasure. if you begin so, you will continually tread upon thorns.”
rose took her aside and said, “go now upon the dancing-platform, or wherever you find acquaintance. by and by when the music begins, i will see you again.”
yes, there stood barefoot, as though deserted. it seemed to her as though she had stolen her clothes, and had no right to be there. she was an intruder. “what was i thinking of,” she asked herself, “when i consented to come to a marriage-feast?” and she gladly would have returned home. she went in and out through the village, and passed the beautiful house that was built for the brosis, and where there was much life to-day; for the mother of the brosis, with her sons and daughters, had their summer residence there. barefoot went again into the village, walked about, but would not look round, though she longed to have some one call her, that she might find a companion.
at the end of the village she met a genteel horseman upon a white horse, who was riding into the village. he wore the dress of a farmer of another part of the country, and sat on his horse[134] proudly. he stopped, and while he held out his riding-whip in his right hand, he patted with the left the neck of his horse. “good-morning, pretty maiden,” he said. “already tired of the dance?”
“of unnecessary questions i am already tired,” she answered.
the horseman rode on, and amrie sat a long time behind a hazel-hedge, where thoughts crowded upon her, and her cheeks crimsoned with shame and anger at the petulant answer she had given to a harmless question. perplexity, and an incomprehensible internal agitation came over her. involuntarily the song of the lovers came to her lips:
“there were two lovers in allgäu,
they were to each other so dear.”
full of joy she had begun the day, and now she wished herself dead. “here, behind this hedge,” she said, “to fall asleep and wake no more. oh, how delightful that would be. there is no more joy for me on earth. why strive to obtain it? how the crickets chirp in the grass, while a warm perfume arises from it. the hedge-sparrows twitter continually as though they strove to bring out deeper, and fresher, and more musical warblings; as though they could not express or say what out of the whole heart they had to say. far above sing the larks. every bird sings for himself—none listen—no bird checks another, and yet, all——”
[135]never in her life before had she fallen asleep in the day-time—and now, to sleep in the bright morning! she had drawn her handkerchief over her eyes, but the sunbeams kissed her closed lips, that in sleep were pressed poutingly together, and the light red upon her chin grew deeper. she slept perhaps an hour, then starting, awoke. the horseman upon the white horse had ridden back, and the horse was pressing with both fore feet upon her breast.
it was only a dream. amrie looked around as though she had suddenly fallen from heaven. she scarcely knew where she was, but the sound of the music quickly aroused all her faculties, and she went with new strength back to the village where increased gayety inspired every one. she had rested, and all was forgotten that had annoyed her in the morning. now should partners come, she could dance till morning, without rest or weariness.
a fresh bloom, like that of a child, lay upon her cheeks, and every one looked astonished at her beauty. she went to the dancing-platform. the music sounded from an empty room. there were no dancers there, only the girls that had come to wait upon the guests, were twirling round with each other. raven zacky looked long at amrie—then shook his head—he appeared not to know her. she met dominic, the farmer from the ridge, who that day was in his glory.
[136]“pardon me,” he said, “does the maiden belong to the marriage-guests?”
“no, i am only a maid, and came with the daughter of the house, rose, from rodel farm.”
“good. go up then to the farm to my wife, and tell her that i sent you to help her. they cannot have too many hands to-day.”
“as you please, willingly,” said amrie, and went immediately. on the way she could not help thinking that dominic had once been a servant—and now— but such a thing does not happen once in a hundred years. it cost much blood also, to elevate him to this rank.
amelia welcomed the newly-arrived help, and drawing off amrie’s gay spencer, she gave her a great apron with a breast cover. she must refresh herself with food before she began work. amrie consented, and with the first word, won the good will of amelia. “i am hungry,” she said, “and i will not give you trouble to press me to eat.”
amrie remained in the kitchen, and gave such excellent assistance to the waiters, and knew so well how all the dishes should be arranged, that dominic’s wife said, “you two amries, you and my niece amrie, can now manage every thing so well, that i will repair to the guests.”
amrie, from siebenhöfen, the niece, who by all the neighborhood was called proud and haughty, was so wonderfully friendly and condescending to our amrie, that amelia said to her, “it is a[137] pity you are not a young man, for i believe amrie would marry you at once, and not send you off as she does all her other suitors.”
“i have a brother at her service,” said amrie; “but he is in america.”
“there let him stay,” said the other amrie. “it is a pity we could not send all the young fellows there, and we remain by ourselves.”
barefoot would not leave the kitchen till every thing was in its place. when she drew off her apron, her dress was as clean and unwrinkled as when she first put it on.
“you must be tired, and not able to dance,” said her friend, as, with a present, amrie took leave.
“why tired? this is only play. believe me, i am better for having done something to-day. i could not be happy to pass a whole day in amusement; this was certainly the reason i was so melancholy this morning. something was the matter; but now i am just in the humor for gayety. i could dance all day, could i but find partners.”
amelia thought she could show barefoot no greater honor, than to take her as an equal all over the house, and into the bride’s chamber, where she showed her the large chest with the wedding-presents. then she opened the tall, blue painted presses, with the name and the year marked upon them, all filled with the dowry of numerous pieces[138] of linen tied with gay ribbons, and with borders worked with pinks. in the clothes-presses were at least thirty dresses, and beside the high beds, the cradle, the distaff and beautiful spindles, it was hung round with children’s playthings, presented by her young companions.
“ah,” said barefoot, “how happy is such a child, in such a house!”
“art thou envious?” asked amelia; then remembering that she was showing all these things to a poor girl, she added, “believe me, these things do not make one happy. many are happy who have not received even a stocking from their parents.”
“ah, yes, i know that. i am not envious of these riches, but rather that your child has you and so many friends to thank for all these, and for all she has received from them. such garments, the gift of a mother, must keep one doubly warm.”
amelia showed her benevolence towards barefoot, by going with her to the door of the court-yard, and treating her with as much respect as though she had eight horses in the stall.
all was lively confusion, when amrie came again upon the dancing-ground. she remained at first, standing timidly upon the platform. where now were the troops of children, who formerly enjoyed here a foretaste of the joys that awaited them in after-life. ah! indeed, all that is now forbidden by the high states government. the[139] church and school commission have banished the children. they dare not turn in the waltz, as they did in amrie’s childhood. this is also a quiet sword thrust from the green-cloth.
over the now empty floor, where a guest occasionally passed, walked up and down a solitary policeman. when he saw amrie coming, as it were, beaming with light and joy, he went up to her, and said,—
“good-evening, amrie! so you are here also?”
amrie trembled, and turned pale as death. had she done any thing wrong? had she gone into the stable with a bare lighted candle? she examined her whole life as far as she could remember, and yet he was as familiar as though she were already a transported criminal. she stood trembling as though her guilt were manifest. at last she said,—“thank you, i know nothing about it, or why we are so intimate. do you want any thing?”
“oh, ho! how proud we are! i shall not eat you! will you give me a plain answer. why are you so angry?”
“i am not angry. i would not hurt anybody. i am only a stupid girl.”
“do not pretend to be so innocent.”
“how do you know any thing about me?”
“because you flaunt round so with the light.”
“where? when? how do i flaunt round with[140] a light? i always take a lantern when i go into the stable.”
the policeman laughed, and said,—“there! there, with your brown sparklers. there you flaunt with the light—your eyes—they are like two fire-balls.”
“get out of the way then, lest i burn you. you may be blown up with the powder in your pocket-flask.”
“there is nothing there,” said the policeman, embarrassed. “but you have singed me already.”
“i do not see it. you are all whole. enough of this. let me go.”
“i do not keep you. you may live to torment some poor man yet.”
“no one need have me,” said amrie, and escaped as though a chain which held her had suddenly broken. she stood in the door where many spectators had gathered, and as a new tune began, she rocked backward and forward in harmony with the melody. the consciousness of having trumped the policeman, made her contented with the whole world. he soon appeared again, however, and placing himself behind amrie, addressed every word to her. she did not answer, and appeared not to hear him, while she nodded to the dancers as they waltzed near her. at length he said,—“when i make up my mind to marry, i will take thee.”
[141]“how take me?” she answered. “if i give myself, it will not be to thee!”
the policeman was glad to get any answer, and he continued, “if i only were allowed to dance, i would instantly dance with you.”
“i cannot dance,” said amrie; and as the music ceased, she pressed through to find a retired spot, where she could remain unseen. she heard those behind her say, “she can dance, and better than any girl in the country.”
