barefoot stood, one sunday afternoon, at the house door, looking dreamingly into the vague distance, when the grandson of charcoal mathew came running down the village street, and nodding to her from a distance, cried,—
“he has come, barefoot; he has come!”
barefoot’s knees sank beneath her, and with a trembling voice she cried, “where is he,—where?”
“at my grandfather’s, in moosbrunnenwold.”
“where? who? who sent thee?”
“thy dami. he is below in the forest.”
barefoot was obliged to sit down upon the stone bench before the house, but only for a minute; then recovering herself quickly with the words,—“my dami! my brother!”
“yes, barefoot’s dami,” said the boy, good-humoredly, “and he promised me you would give me a farthing if i brought the message to you. now give me one.”
“my dami will give you three.”
[169]“oh, no,” said the boy, “he told my grandfather that he had not a penny.”
“neither have i any at present, but i will remember it.”
she went quickly back into the house, and asked one of the maids to milk the cow in the evening, in case she did not get home in season, for she had to go out directly.
with her heart beating, sometimes in contempt at dami, sometimes in sadness at his ill luck, then again in anger that he had come back; and then she reproached herself that she could meet her only brother with such emotions. she went through the fields and down the valley, to the moosbrunnenwold. the way to charcoal mathew’s could not be missed, although it turned aside from the foot-path. the odor of the kiln-burner led infallibly to it.
how merrily the birds sing in the trees, she thought, and a sorrowful child of man wanders beneath them. how melancholy must it be for dami to see all this again, and how hard it must be for him, if he has no other resource, to come home and depend upon me, and take all that i have. other sisters have help from their brothers, and i——. but i will show thee, dami, that thou must now remain where i place thee.
full of such thoughts, amrie at last reached the coal-burner’s. she saw no one except mathew, who sat by his hut and smoked a wooden pipe,[170] which he held with both hands. a coal-burner is like his kiln,—he is always smoking.
“has anybody made a fool of me?” barefoot asked herself. “oh, that were a shame! what have i done to anybody, that they should put so miserable a joke upon me?”
with clinched hands and a burning face, she now stood before mathew. he scarcely raised his eyes, much less did he utter a word. so long as the sun shone he was perfectly dumb; at night only, when no one could look him in the face, he began to speak.
barefoot stared a moment in the face of the coal-burner, and then asked,—
“where is my dami?”
the old man shook his head, as much as to say, “he did not know.”
then amrie asked again, stamping her foot,—
“is dami here with you?”
the old man opened his hands, pointing right and left, and shook his head again, as though he could not be in either path.
“who then sent for me,” said barefoot, more vehemently. “pray speak!”
the coal-burner pointed with his thumb to the side where the foot-path led round the mountain.
“oh, speak one word,” said barefoot, now weeping violently, “only one word. is my dami here, or where is he?”
at last the old man said, “he is there! he[171] has gone up the foot-path to meet you,” and then, as though he had said too much, he pressed his lips together and went to his kiln.
there stood amrie, and laughed in derision and sadness at the simplicity of her poor brother. “he sends for me, and then cannot remain in the spot where i could find him. how could he believe that i should take the foot-path? it will occur to him now, and he will take the other path; we shall be running away from each other as in a fog.”
she sat down upon the stump of a tree. her heart throbbed and glowed. the flame could not break out; it consumed her inwardly. the birds sang sweetly. the branches in the forest rustled. ah, what is all this, if no clear note is returned in the heart? as if in a dream, barefoot remembered how she had once cherished thoughts of love. “how,” she asked herself,—“how couldst thou suffer such wishes to arise? hadst thou not misery enough in thyself, and in thy brother?” the thought of this love was to her now like the recollection of a warm sunny day, in the midst of winter. we can believe that it was once warm and sunny, but we can understand it no longer. she must now learn the misery of waiting, of hope deferred, standing high upon a summit, where there is scarcely a hand’s-breadth to support one. the old misery returns, forever increasing.
she went into the stone hut of the coal-burner;[172] there lay a sack scarcely half full, with the name of her father upon it.
“oh! how you have been dragged about,” she said, half aloud. she checked her excitement. she wished to see what dami had brought back with him. “he has at least the good shirts that i made from the linen i bought of mariann, and perhaps there is a present from our uncle in america; but if he had any thing decent, would he have gone first to the coal-burner in the forest? ah, no! he would have shown himself in the village.”
barefoot had time for these reflections, for the sack was truly artistically knotted together. her usual skill and patience alone succeeded, at last, in loosening it. she took out all that was in the sack, and with an angry glance said to herself,—
“oh! thou good-for-nothing! there is not a whole shirt in the sack; and now you can take your choice, to be called ‘beggar-man,’ or ‘rag-man.’”
this was not a good disposition in which, for the first time, to meet her brother; and this dami felt, for he stood waiting at the door of the hut till she had put every thing back into the sack; then he stepped up to her, and said, “god bless thee, amrie! i bring you nothing but dirty clothes; but you are neat, and will soon—”
“oh! dear dami, how you look!” shrieked amrie, and lay upon his breast; but quickly she[173] tore herself away, and said,—“in heaven’s name, you smell of brandy! oh! have you come to that?”
“no! mathew gave me a little spirit of juniper, for i could no longer stand. it has gone ill with me, but i am not bad. this you may believe, although i cannot prove it.”
“i believe you! you would not deceive the only person there is left to believe you. oh, how wild and miserable you look! what a beard you have got. i cannot suffer that. that must come off. but you are well? nothing is the matter with you?”
“yes, i am well—and will go for a soldier.”
“what you are, and what you will be, that we will not now consider. now tell me how it has fared with you?”
dami thrust aside with his foot a half-burnt log, called a useless brand, and said, “look! exactly such am i; not wholly burnt to a coal, and yet no longer sound wood.”
barefoot reminded him, that he should tell his story without complaint; and dami entered upon a long, long history, amounting to this:—“that he could not remain with his uncle, who was hard-hearted and selfish, and his wife grudged every mouthful that he put into his mouth; that he left him, and sought work elsewhere; but that he always experienced more and more of the selfishness of men. in america they[174] could see a man fall into misery, and never look after him.”
barefoot could not help smiling, as his relation always ended in——“and then they threw me upon the street.” she could not help saying,—
“yes, that is like you. you always allow yourself to be thrust aside. you were so as a child. when you stumbled a little, you let yourself fall like a log of wood. ‘out of a stumbler we must make a hopper.’ from this comes the proverb.[b] be cheerful! do you know what you must do when people would annoy you?”
“we must go out of the way.”
“no; we must annoy them if we can. it will always annoy them most, to see us keep an upright position, and a bold face. you stand before the world, and say,—‘treat me well, if you please, or treat me ill. kiss me, or beat me, whichever you please.’ this is easy enough. you submit to their treatment, and then you pity yourself. would i allow any one to send me here or there, if i did not choose it myself? you must stand up like a man for yourself. you have been knocked about in the world long enough. it is time to show yourself as master of yourself.”
reproach and advice often appear to the unlucky like unjust severity. such appeared to dami the words of his sister. it was horrible [175]that she could not look upon him as the most unfortunate of men. it is the most difficult thing in the world to give a man confidence in himself. most people gain it only after they have been successful. dami would not relate another word to his heartless sister, and it was only later that she succeeded in gaining a particular account of all his adventures, and how at last he came back to the old world as a stoker on board a steam-vessel. and now, when she reproached him for his self-tormenting susceptibility, was she secretly aware that she was not free from it herself.
through her almost exclusive intercourse with mariann, she had been betrayed into thinking and speaking too much of herself, and had become too sad at heart. now, that she had to raise and cheer her brother, she unconsciously cheered herself; for there is this mysterious power in sympathy, that when we help another, we also help ourselves.
“we have four strong, healthy hands,” she said, in conclusion; “and we will see if we cannot force our way through the world; and to force one’s way through, is a thousand times better than to beg one’s way through. come, dami! now come home with me.”
dami was very unwilling to show himself in the village; he shrank from the ridicule which would break out on every side. he wished to remain concealed. but barefoot said, “come,[176] go with me through the village on this bright sunday afternoon, and let them have their laugh out. let them talk, and point, and laugh—then it will be all over; you will have swallowed the bitter dose at once, and not drop by drop.”
after long and violent opposition, and when the silent mathew had joined his persuasions with amrie’s, dami consented to go; and, in fact, coarse jokes rained from every side upon “barefoot’s dami,” who, they said, “had taken a pleasure voyage to america at the expense of the parish.” mariann, alone, received him in a friendly manner; and at the second word, asked him, “hast thou heard any thing of my john?”
in the evening barefoot brought the barber, who took off his wild beard, and gave him the smooth face customary in that place.
early the next morning dami was summoned to appear in the public hall, and as he trembled, he knew not why, amrie promised to follow him there, although she could not much help him.
the council gave him notice, that he was expelled from the place. he had no right to remain longer where he might become a burthen. how astonished were the councillors, when barefoot arose and said, “yes, well! you may expel him, but when? when you can go out to your churchyard, where our father and our mother lie, and say to their buried bones, ‘arise, and go forth with your child.’ then you may expel him. you cannot[177] turn a child away from the place where his parents are buried. there he is more than at home. if it is written a thousand and a thousand times in your books,” pointing to the bound registers upon the table, “it cannot happen; you cannot do it.”
one of the council whispered to the schoolmaster,—“barefoot has learnt this from dark mariann;” and the sacristan nodded to the mayor, and said, “why do you suffer this? ring for the policeman, and send her to the madhouse.”
but the mayor only smiled, and explained to barefoot, that the community had bought itself free from all expense for dami, by paying the greater part of the passage-money for his voyage to america.
“yes,” said barefoot. “but where is he then at home?”
“where they will take him; but not here. and for the present nowhere.”
“nowhere have i a home!” said dami. he was almost pleased to be always and still more unfortunate. now no one could deny that he was the most unhappy man in the world. barefoot would have striven longer, but she saw that it would be of no use. the law was against her. she declared she would work the nails off her fingers, rather than receive any thing for her brother or herself from the parish. and she promised to pay back what dami had already received.
[178]“shall i make a record of that also?” asked the secretary of the council.
“yes,” said barefoot, “write it down; for only what is written has any value here.” she signed the record. in the mean time dami was told, that, as a stranger, he had permission to remain three days in the village; at the end of that time, if he had not found some means of support, he would be expelled; and, if necessary, he would be carried by force beyond the limits.
without another word barefoot left the hall, taking dami with her, who wept because she had constrained him to bear this unnecessary humiliation. it would have been better to remain in the forest, and to have been spared the mortification of being expelled as a stranger from his birthplace.
barefoot would have answered, that it was better to know distinctly the worst that could happen, but she felt that she needed all her strength to keep herself firm. she, also, was expelled with her brother, and stood alone before a world that supported itself by might and law, while she had nothing to oppose to it but her empty hands.
she held herself firmer than ever. dami’s unhappiness and misfortune did not weigh her down, for thus we are made; when an all-absorbing sorrow fills the heart, another, however heavy, is more easily borne, than if it had come alone; and as barefoot was oppressed by a secret grief, against[179] which she could make no resistance, she bore herself more proudly against that which was known. she gave not a single minute to reverie, but with strong arms and clinched hands, she asked, “where then is the work, even if it be the heaviest, i will undertake it, if it will only save me and my brother from dependence and indigence.” she often thought of going with dami to alsatia, to work in a factory. it was terrible to her, that they should be obliged to do this, but she would accustom herself to the thought, and when the summer was over they would go, and then, “farewell, home! we shall be at home with strangers!”
the nearest advocate that both the orphans had in the place was now powerless. old farmer rodel was lying dangerously ill, and the night after the stormy meeting of the council, he died. barefoot and mariann were those who wept the most genuine tears at his funeral. on their return home, the old woman mentioned as especial reason for her tears,—“he was the last among the living, who danced with me in my youthful days. my last partner is now dead.”
soon after she held a different opinion of him, for it appeared that rodel, who for long years had consoled barefoot with the promise of remembering her in his will, so far from leaving her any thing, he did not even mention her. as mariann would not cease scolding about it, amrie said to her,—“it is all the same, misfortunes never come[180] single. they hail now from every side upon me, but the sun will surely shine again.”
the heirs of farmer rodel presented barefoot with some of his old clothes. she would gladly have refused them. but could she now venture to show more pride? dami, also, refused the old clothes, but was obliged to yield. it seemed to be his fate, to spend his life in the clothes of the departed.
dami found a home with mathew. the wood-carrier told him that he should begin a process, for as he had no home, his silence would be giving up all right to one. the people made themselves merry, that the poor orphans had neither time nor money to begin a lawsuit. dami was quite happy in the solitude of the forest. it suited him exactly, not to be obliged to dress or undress. it was with the utmost difficulty that barefoot could make him wash and dress himself on sunday afternoons, when she would sit with him and mathew. little was said by either of them. she could not prevent her thoughts from wandering about the world, in search of him who had once, for a whole long day, made her so happy; indeed, had lifted her into heaven. “did he, then, never think of that, or of her? can a man forget another, one with whom he has been so happy?”
one sunday morning, towards the end of may, every one had gone to church. it had rained the day before, and a cool refreshing breath came from[181] mountain and valley, while the sun shone brightly. barefoot intended to go to church as usual, but she sat at the window, listening to the church-bells, till it was too late. this had seldom or never happened before. but as it was too late for church, she would remain in her room and read her hymn-book. she looked over her drawers, and was surprised at the quantity of things she possessed. then she sat upon the floor, and read a hymn, then sang it, softly. something moved at the window. she looked around, and there was a white dove standing upon the sill, and looking at her. when the glances of the maiden and the dove met, the latter flew away, and as amrie looked after him, she saw him soar away far over the fields before he descended to alight.
this little occurrence, which was indeed so natural, made her instantly happy. her thoughts went out over mountain, fields and woods, and the whole day she was cheerful. she could not say why, but it seemed as though a new joy opened in her soul, she knew not whence it came. at noon, when she leaned against the door, she shook her head, as she thought of this strange occurrence. “it must be,” she thought, “it must surely be, that some one has had good thoughts of me; and why may it not happen, that a dove should be the silent messenger to bring them to me? animals live in the same world where the thoughts of men[182] are floating about, and who knows whether they are not the bearers of them all?”
little could the people who saw amrie, as she leaned on the door, imagine the strange life passing within her.
