there is no living an equal, uniform life. night and day, rest and motion, wild tumult and stagnant repose, and all the changes of the season; thus it is in the life of nature; thus it is in the human heart, and it is well for that heart, if in all its changes, it does not wander from its true path.
it was broad daylight when the lovers reached the town. a long time before, when they first met a person walking, they both dismounted; they felt that their appearance was singular, and that first man, a messenger from memory, reminded them that they must come out of eden and assume again the order of humanity and custom. john led the horse in one hand, and gave the other to amrie, and thus they silently entered the town. when they looked at each other, their faces shone like those of children just awaked from sleep, but when they looked away, or down upon themselves, they were anxious about what should next occur.
as though she had already talked with john,[233] and he had prudently reflected upon the subject, amrie said,—
“indeed, it would have been wiser if we had calmly arranged matters beforehand. if you had gone home, and i, in the mean time, had remained somewhere,—if nowhere else, with mathew the coal-burner in the forest,—and you had come for me with your mother, or written to me, and i could have followed with my dami. but do you know what i think?”
“not quite all that you think.”
“i think regret is the stupidest thing one can allow to come over him. do what we may, we cannot make yesterday to-day. what we did in the jubilee of our hearts was right, and must remain right; we must not, now that we are a little more sober, reproach ourselves for it; we must now reflect how we can make the future good and useful to us. you are a sensible man, and you will see that it is best to consider and tell me every thing freely. say what you may, you will not distress me; but if you conceal any thing from me, it will distress me sorely. say, do you repent what we have done?”
“can you guess a riddle?” asked john.
“yes, as a child, i could.”
“well, now tell me this, it is a simple word. take away the first letter and you might as well lose your head; put it back again, and it is all right.”
[234]“that is too easy,” said barefoot. “it is childish; it is rue and true,” and as the larks began to sing, they also sang riddle-songs with them. then john sang:
“now love! i will give thee to guess,
but if not, i will marry thee, no less.
what is whiter than snow?
what is greener than grass?
what is black as the sloe?
dost thou guess it? ah, love,
will you marry me?”
amrie:
“the cherry bloom is whiter than snow,
but when it falls off, the green bud’s below.
the fruit’s like the sloe; in beauty it glows,
and i’ll be thy wife, as thou so well knows.”
john:
“what king has no sway?
what servant has no pay?”
amrie:
“the king of clubs has no sway;
the dumb waiter has no pay.”
john:
“there is a fire that has no heat,
there is a knife that has no point.”
amrie:
“a painted fire has no heat;
a broken knife has no point.”
suddenly, john snapped his fingers. “now i have one,” and he sang,—
“what has no head and yet has feet?
what without sugar, still tastes sweet?”
[235]amrie could not guess, and john sang:
“without head, the yard measure has feet;
and the kiss of thy lips is always sweet.”
they entered the door of the first inn they came to, and as john called for coffee, amrie said:
“how beautifully is every thing ordered in this world! here are people who have furnished a house with chairs and tables and benches; in the kitchen burns the fire, and there is coffee and milk and sugar, and a beautiful service for the table, and all for us, as though we had ordered it; then, as we go further we shall find the same; it is exactly as in a fairy tale,—‘table be covered.’”
“but this belongs to it,” said john, taking a handful of money from his pocket. “without this we could get nothing.”
“ah, yes,” said amrie, “upon these little wheels one can roll through the world. but tell me, john, did you ever in your life taste such good coffee: and this fresh, white bread! but you have ordered too much of it; what can we do with it? i can take the bread with me, but the coffee! oh! what a good breakfast it would give many poor persons. we must leave it, and you must pay for it!”
“that cannot be helped,” said john. “one cannot calculate so exactly in the world.”
“yes, yes, you are right. but i am not accustomed to the world; you must not take it ill if i say things that are not clever and sensible.”
[236]“you can easily say that, but you know that you are clever.”
amrie rose soon from the table, and as she stood before the glass, she cried,—
“oh, dear heavens! do i look like that? i do not know myself!”
“but i know you,” said john, “you are amrie, and barefoot, and salt duchess, and that is not all; you will soon have another name; landfried is not bad.”
“oh! can that be? i think sometimes it cannot be possible.”
“there are some hard boards to bore through,” said john, “but they do not frighten me. now lie down and sleep a little, while i look about for a berner wagon; we cannot in the day-time ride on one horse; beside we need a wagon.”
“i could not sleep, and i must write a letter to holdenbrunn; i am strong; and i have enjoyed much good there; i have also some directions to give.”
“oh, well! get it over when i come back.” john went, and amrie looked after him with somewhat troubled thoughts. “there he goes, and yet he belongs to me. is it possible? is it true? is he mine? he does not look back. how proudly he goes, and the dog goes with him!”
amrie made a sign to the dog; he came running back and jumped upon her. as they went into the house together, she said, “yes, it was[237] good, it was right of thee to remain with me, that i might not be alone; but come in, i must write.”
she wrote a long letter to the mayor of holdenbrunn, thanking the whole parish for what they had done for her, and promising to take an orphan child from thence, when she was able. she besought the mayor that mariann’s hymn-book might be placed beneath her head. when she had sealed her letter, she pressed her lips upon it, and said, “now i have done with all the living in holdenbrunn.” but she tore her letter open again, for she thought it her duty to show john what she had written.
he was a long time gone, and amrie blushed painfully when the landlady said to her,—
“your husband has probably business in the town.” to hear john for the first time called her husband, sank deeply into her heart; she could not answer, and the hostess looked at her with astonishment. to escape her curious glances, amrie went out and sat down upon a pile of boards; the dog sat opposite, waiting for john; she caressed him and looked deeply into his honest eyes. no animal seeks and bears the steady, penetrating eye of man, like the dog, but he also at last turns away.
how full of riddles, and yet also how manifest is the world!
amrie went with the dog into the stable, where the horse was eating. “yes, dear silver trot,”[238] she said, “enjoy thy breakfast and bring us well home, and god grant that all may be well!”
it was a long time before john came back; when at last she saw him, she ran to meet him, and said,—
“promise me that if you have business again on the road, you will take me with you?”
“what! were you afraid? did you think i had left you? ah! what if i had left you sitting there, and had ridden off?”
amrie trembled from head to foot. then she said very seriously, “you are not witty, and if you intended by that a joke, it was dreadfully stupid. i pity you if you said it seriously. you would have done something very wicked if you would have ridden away and thought to have left me—you thought, perhaps, as you had a horse and money, that you were the master. no! your horse brought us here together; i consented to come with you; what would you think if i made such a joke, and said, ‘what if i left you sitting there!’ i pity you, that you could say it.”
“yes, yes, you are right!” john answered,—“but say no more about it.”
“no! when i am offended i must say all that is in my mind. i know best when to be silent, for it is you who have offended me. if another had said any thing that was unjust, i should have turned from it; but in you i dare not leave a single shadow unobserved. to joke of our relation to[239] each other seems to me as profane as to play with the crucifix as if it were a doll.”
“oh, ho! not so bad as that; but it seems you do not understand a joke.”
“i understand it well, as you will soon learn; but now no more of this; i have done; it is all well!”
this little difference showed both of them early, that with all their loving devotion, they must each respect the other. amrie felt that she had been a little too warm, and john learnt that amrie’s dependent condition, and her unbounded confidence and trust in him, must be no subjects of sport.
the few morning clouds soon were scattered by the penetrating beams of the sun, and amrie was as gay as a child, when a pretty, green berner wagon came to the door, with a round, cushioned seat. before the horse was harnessed, she jumped in, and clapping her hands for joy, she said to john,—
“now you must make me fly; i have ridden with you, i am going to drive with you, and nothing remains but to fly.”
it was a beautiful morning, and a well-built road. the horse found easy work, and the dog ran before them, barking for joy. after some time, amrie said,—
“only think, john, the hostess took me for your wife.”
“and so you are, and i shall ask no one’s leave,[240] and care not what they say. thou, heaven, and ye larks, and you trees, and fields, and hills,—look, this is my little wife! when she scolds she is just as dear as when the most beautiful things drop out of her mouth. oh! my mother is a wise woman! ah! she knows! she told me to observe how a woman appeared when she was angry, for then, all that is within comes out. that was a dear, sharp, cutting, beautiful, wicked little thing, that came out to-day when you were angry. now i know you, and all the kindred, and i like them. oh! thou wide, wide world, i thank you all,—all in the world; and i ask you, if so long as you have stood, you have ever seen such a dear little wife? huzza! huzza!”
when they met or passed anybody, john would cry, “see! this is my wife; look at her!” till amrie besought him not to do it—when he said, “he could not for joy help it. i would call the whole world to rejoice with me—and i cannot tell how the men who are at work in the fields, or who are splitting wood, or doing any thing else, are not able to know how blessed i am.”
a poor woman came limping after them, and amrie seized quickly a pair of her beloved shoes and threw them to her. the woman looked astonished, and nodded her thanks. amrie felt for the first time in her life, that blessed emotion of giving away a thing which she valued herself. she never thought how much she had done for mariann, but[241] that she had given her shoes, appeared to her the first benevolence of her heart. she was more pleased than the woman who had received the shoes; she smiled at herself, as though she had a secret in her soul that made her heart leap for joy, and when john asked, “what is the matter? why do you smile like a child in its sleep?” she said, “ah! it is all like a dream. i can now make a present—and am going home in thought with that old woman, and can see how happy she will be.”
“that is brave,” said john; “i like to see you generous.”
“oh! how can you call it so, to give when one is happy? it is as though a full glass should overflow. i would give every thing away. i feel as you do, that i would call all men to be happy; i mean, i should like to feast them all. i think i am sitting at a long table, alone with you, but i cannot eat, i am satisfied.”
“ah, that is well,” said john; “but do not throw away more of your shoes. when i look at them, i think how many beautiful long years you will wear them—how many beautiful long years you will run about in them, till they are worn out.”
“how came you to think of that? how many hundred times have i had the same thought, when i have looked at the shoes; but now tell[242] me something of your home, else i shall always chatter of myself.”
john did that willingly, and while he related, and amrie listened with wide-opened eyes, there always moved throughout it in her imagination, the happy image of the old woman with the new shoes. after john had described his family, above all, he praised the cattle—“they are all so well fed, so healthy and round, that no drop of water will stand upon them.”
“i cannot understand,” said amrie, “how i can be so rich. when i think of it, it seems as though i had slept all my life, and had just been waked. no, no! it cannot be so; i am frightened when i think of the responsibility i shall feel. tell me, will not your mother help me; she is active yet, i hope? i do not know how i shall help giving every thing to the poor; but no—that must not be, for it is not mine.”
“giving does not make one poor, is a proverb of my mother’s,” said john.
it is impossible to say with what joy the lovers went on. every word they uttered made them happier. amrie asked, “have you swallows at your house?”
john answered, “yes,” and added, “that they had also a stork’s nest upon the housetop.” this made amrie completely happy. she imitated the chattering of the storks, and described, so as to make john laugh, the grave and earnest expression[243] of the stork, as he stood upon one leg and looked down into his house.
was it by agreement, or was it the inward power of these moments of happiness, that they said nothing; that they did not appear to think of what lay before them,—their entrance into the parental house, till towards evening when they reached the district in which zusmarshofen lay. but now as john began to meet peeple who knew him, greeted him, and looked at them curiously, he said to amrie, “he had thought of two plans, as to the best way of proceeding. either he would take her to his sister, who lived very near (they could see the church tower of the village behind that hill), and he would go alone to the house and make every thing known, or she should go immediately to his parents and offer herself as a servant.”
amrie showed her decision and good sense as they analyzed these proceedings, and the objections to them. if she went first to the sister, she would have to win over a person who could, after all, not decide for them, and who, differing from them, might imbitter their future intercourse. it would also leave a report in the neighborhood, that she had not dared to venture into his house. the second plan was better, but it went against her whole soul, to enter his father’s house with a lie on her tongue. it was true, that his mother, many years before, had promised to take her into service, but[244] she could not now be in service, and it would be as a thief, that she would thus steal into her favor. beside, in such a false position, under a mask, as it were, she could do nothing well. if she were placing a chair for his father, she should certainly throw it down, thinking she was deceiving him. and even if this did not happen, how must she appear to the other servants, when later they learnt that the mistress had smuggled herself into the house as a servant; and worse than all, she would not be able to speak a single word with him.
she concluded with these words,—“i have said all this, because you wished to know my opinion. when we consider any thing together, i must speak my mind openly and truly, but at the same time, whatever you wish, if you say so firmly, i shall do it, whether i agree with you in opinion or not. i shall follow you without contradiction whenever i know your wishes.”
“yes, yes, you are right,” said john. “neither of those roads was the true one. but we are now so near that we must decide upon something. do you see that opening in the forest upon the mountain, where there is a little hut, and the cows as small as beetles? that is our early spring dairy. there i will place our dami.”
amrie exclaimed, astonished, “ah! where will not men venture? but that must be good grassland.”
[245]“yes; but if my father should give the farm to me, i shall introduce more stall-feeding. it is more profitable. but old people must remain by old customs. ah! what am i tattling about, when we are so near. ah! had we only thought sooner.”
“keep only calm. we must calmly consider it,” said amrie. “i have a trace of what to do, but it is not yet wholly clear.”
“how? what is it?”
“no, you must consider also; perhaps you will hit upon something. it belongs to you to settle it. we are both in such embarrassment now, that we will pause, and perhaps we shall both think of something.”
“something already occurs to me,” said john. “there, in the next house but one, lives a pastor i am well acquainted with; he will advise us for the best. hold! this is better. i will remain in the valley, by the mill, and you shall go alone up to the farm to my parents, and tell them all, exactly, roundly, and fully, as it has happened. you will immediately gain my mother, and you are so sensible and discreet, that it will not be long before you will wind my father round your finger. this is the best plan. we shall not have to wait, nor to ask a stranger to come to our help. do you agree to this, or will it be too much for you?”
“this is exactly my thought. now we have nothing more to consider. it is settled as though[246] it were written down and carried out. and now, quick work proves the master. oh, you do not know what a dear, good, sensible, precious fellow you are!”
“no, you are the sensible one. but it is all settled, and we are both but one brave fellow together. that will we remain. here, give me your hand. there! so! this meadow is our first field. thank god, little wife, now you are at home. and, huzza! there is our stork; he flies home. stork! stork! say ‘thank god here is the new mistress!’ later i will tell you more. now, amrie, do not be too long up there, and immediately send some one to the mill. if the stable-boy is at home, send him; he can spring like a hare. now, do you see the house with the stork’s nest on the roof, and the two barns on the hill, at the left from the wood? there is a linden before it. do you see it?”
“yes.”
“that is our house. now step down. you cannot miss it now.”
john alighted and helped amrie from the wagon. she held the necklace, which she had put in her pocket, like a rosary, between her folded hands, and prayed softly. john also took off his hat, and his lips moved.
neither spake another word. amrie went on before, while john stood a long time leaning against his horse, and looking after her. she[247] turned and tried to drive the dog back, who had followed her. he would not go back, but ran aside into a field, and followed her again. john whistled, and then first the animal ran back to him.
john went to the mill and waited there. they told him that his father had been there about an hour before, to wait for him, and had again returned home. john rejoiced that amrie would meet both parents at home. the people at the mill could not tell what troubled john, that he should wait there and not say a word. he went into the house—then out again. he went part of the way to the farm—then turned back again; was full of anxiety, counting the steps amrie had to take. now she was at this field, now at that. now she had reached the beech-hedge—now she was speaking with his parents. thus he thought and trembled.
