Landolin

When, on the morning after her husband's arrest she said this for the first time, and was about handing Thoma the keys, Peter called out:

"Mother, give me the keys; I am the son of the house, and I must take the reins now."

If the stove had spoken they could not have been more astonished. Peter, whom they had all looked upon as a dull, idle fellow, who did only what he was told, and never undertook anything of himself-Peter of a sudden gave notice of what he was and what he wanted, and even his voice, generally heavy and drawling, became somewhat commanding and energetic. In reality a transformation had begun in Peter. He ceased to be taciturn and became almost talkative. His natural effort to aid his father had called forth a latent energy, which no one, least of all himself, had ever suspected, and which once aroused, continually grew in strength. Other awakenings assisted in changing his trouble into a joyous sense of courage; yes, almost of presumption. It was not only at home, but in the whole neighborhood that people saw with astonishment how his father's absence had changed him. The head-servant, Tobias, smiled as he went about his work at the thought that he had had a hand in helping Peter into the saddle. And, indeed, Peter was, literally, much on horseback, riding everywhere on the bay mare, to tell the people who were at the house congratulating Thoma at the time of the accident, what they had seen. Some of them thought they knew all about it; and some, on the other hand, declared they had seen nothing; for they did not want the trouble of testifying in court.

Wherever Peter went the people said, "No one knew that you were such a smart fellow. Thoma used to be the only one talked about, just as though there were no such person as you." Peter smiled craftily when he heard this; he put on a grieved, troubled look, and shook his head, but was nevertheless pleased to hear people add, "Your father rather put you down."

Peter was not unassuming; quite the reverse, for he looked upon all men as his debtors. They had allowed him to grow up in simplicity and honesty for three and twenty years without revealing to him how sweet knavery tastes. But now, he was finding out for himself.

"Look! Look! There comes Peter of Reutershöfen!" was heard up and down the mountain side.

"What Peter?"

"Landolin's Peter."

"Yes, people did not know what kind of a fellow he was; they thought he couldn't count three; and now he turns out to be one of the sharpest fellows possible."

It was true; he had not been exactly a blockhead; but dull and unsympathetic. And what had he now become?

It may, perhaps, seem unnatural, but nevertheless it was a thoroughly logical development; he had become an accomplished hypocrite.

Once, at a fair, when Peter had taken an electric shock, a strange something ran through his frame. He had very much the same feeling the first time that Tobias said to him, "We must act as though we had seen everything so, and seem thoroughly honest about it, and then we shall be able to make other people think so."

Peter discovered that hypocrisy was sweet to the taste; and that it was no new thing for the world to feast on it.

Wherever he went people condoled with him over his misfortune, even when he was quite sure they were glad of it.

However, he paid them in the same coin by pretending to be excessively amiable. This helped to make him energetic; for the secret pleasure and delight of making a laughing stock of others, animated him anew every morning. He and Tobias made themselves merry over the trick they were playing on the people, and on having succeeded in persuading a few simple-minded persons, as well as some rascals, to testify as they wished. Tobias gave his pupil this advice:

"Now, you see, sharp people get along best in this world. They are never cheated nor plagued. If you want anything of them, and knock at their door, they pretend not to be at home. 'There is no one at home; and I'm asleep,' as the old peasant woman called out to the beggar that knocked at her door on a Sunday afternoon."

Only once was Peter worsted. He went to see Anton, and told him he thought he had been very wise in breaking off with Thoma so promptly; for now, as he was no longer related to them, he could be a witness for his father.

Peter was not a little astonished to hear Anton answer that it was Thoma who had broken off the match, and that it was hardly possible for them to make it up again.

What? Will Anton refuse to tell him the truth? Is he so sly as to try to keep up a false show before his brother even?

Anton's bright face darkened when he heard Peter's words. He saw clearly through his scheme, and astonished him by replying that he would tell no one how he would testify; that he had taken counsel with his conscience, and would do as he thought right.

Notwithstanding this, Peter, with honest mien, confided to many persons, under strict injunction of secrecy, the testimony that Anton would give; and in this way persuaded some of them, for they thought: "Whatever Anton Armbruster says is certainly true."

It was with dismay that Thoma heard-for Peter made no secret of his preparations-what corruption he was spreading over the whole neighborhood; but she could do nothing to prevent it, and had to keep silent when her mother praised the good, kind people.

So the time drew near for Landolin to appear before the court for which he had been selected as juryman.

CHAPTER XXIV

The days, the weeks, came and went; the crops in the field grew steadily; and the work went on in its usual good order, under the direction of Tobias and Peter. They had hired a new servant in place of Fidelis, who had left their service of his own accord, and had been engaged by Titus.

The pine trees had put on their yearly growth; rye and early barley were ready for harvest; and the hay was already cut and put away. Thoma was the most active in all this work; but she spoke with no one, and looked up astonished when the men and maid-servants sang as they went about their tasks. Her face said plainly: "They can sing, they have no father in prison."

It was a bright summer morning. The farmer's wife was up before day, for she wanted to see Tobias and Peter before they drove to the city.

After the servants who remained at home had eaten their breakfast, and the dishes had been cleared away, she still sat at the table, in the so-called "Herrgott's Corner." Her hands were folded on the table before her. She gazed at them wearily and sadly.

On a bench, beside the large stove in which there was no fire to-day, sat Thoma at her spinning. Nothing could be heard but the low whirring of the wheel, and the ticking of the clock on the wall.

"Thoma," at length began her mother, "you're right in not going to the field to-day. My feet feel as though they had given way. Say, is to-day Wednesday or Thursday? I don't know any more-"

"To-day is Thursday, the tenth of July, mother."

"And he is in court, on trial for his life. Look and see what saint's day this is."

"The calendar is hanging right behind you."

The farmer's wife seemed not to care to turn or look around. She rubbed her hands hastily over her head, as though to keep her hair from rising on end, and said, as if speaking her thoughts aloud:

"So many people! I see them all, one after another, just as they were when I was a little child, and they beheaded Laurian, on the city-green."

"Mother! Don't talk so. We must control our feelings, whichever way things turn out."

"What! Can it turn out any other way?"

"Who knows? That is what the trial is for."

"Surely there must be compassionate and just men there, who will have pity. There are many who rejoice in our misfortune, but there are more who mean well by us. Your Anton will testify for your father, and will pledge his medal of honor for him."

"More than that," added Thoma; but she did not explain what she meant.

Will Anton persist in saying that he saw what her father told him he did? Does he really believe that he saw it in that way? or will he ruin his own life in order to save another's? She compressed her lips tightly. She thought she must scream out for pain.

But her mother seemed to find it necessary to express her thoughts; and again she murmured, half aloud:

"What are the servants talking about, to-day? I am ashamed to go among them, and I dare not say a word, for fear they will answer me with insult and abuse. I hear that people from all over the valley have gone to the city to-day, to see Landolin sitting on the prisoner's seat. Yes, there he sits, and has to let the gentlemen of the court say everything they can think of right in his face. And everybody rejoices in it, and yet they themselves are-God forgive me! Yes, so it is, if anything is wrong with oneself, one tries to find something wrong with one's neighbor. There stands your arm-chair. Who knows if you will ever sit in it again, and rest your strong arms and good hands! When will the door open again and you come in? Hush! Listen Thoma! Don't you hear something? There is some one at the door! I hear some one breathing. It might be Cushion-Kate, or is it-Open the door!"

Even Thoma could not shake off her fear; but summoning her courage, she opened the door, and, with a sigh of relief, cried, "It is Racker."

"Come here," said her mother to the dog, coaxingly. "Do you know what is the matter with your master to-day? Will he ever see you, and lay his hand on your head again? Yes, yes; look at me pitifully! If men were as pitiful as you-"

"You're right, mother," said Thoma at length. "See, mother, everybody on his way to the field to-day, fills his pitcher at our well, as if there was water nowhere else. They look toward our house as though they took pleasure in our misfortune. I wish I could poison the well, so they would all die! I wish I could poison the whole world!"

The mother longed to soothe her daughter, but dared not try. She was thankful that Thoma at least spoke, instead of staring silently before her. And now that Thoma had once broken her silence, she continued:

"Mother, I want to go to the city."

"You, too, will leave me?"

Thoma explained that she would soon return. She only wished to telegraph to Peter, to report to her the verdict as soon as it should be rendered, and she would leave word at the telegraph office for the messenger, the "Galloping Cooper's" brother, to wait all night for the message.

Her mother took up her prayer-book, and said: "Well, you may go; but don't hurry too much."

"Come along," Thoma called to the dog, and, with him, hastened out of doors.

CHAPTER XXV

At the edge of the forest stands a pine tree, with its top bent down. Some say that it was struck by lightning; others say a raven has lighted there so often that his weight and the clutching of his claws have broken it. But the strong-rooted pine grows on.

Is Landolin's house such a tree; struck by lightning, and bowed down by dark sorrow? And will it flourish again?

Thoma stood in the road, and looked around, as though for the first time she saw that the heavens were blue, and the trees and fields were green. She had to exert herself to remember for what and where she was going.

"Oh, yes," sighed she, and started away.

A narrow foot-path led over the hill, down into the valley, to the city. To be sure she must pass Cushion-Kate's house; but why shouldn't she? Nevertheless, Thoma, who before had been so strong and brave, could not overcome a certain terror; as though, like the children in the fairy-tale, she must pass a frightful dragon, lying in wait for her at the mouth of his rocky cave.

To be sure Thoma is much stronger than the poor old woman, but, for all that, it is hard enough to be obliged to conquer the crouching foe. "Or, may it not be possible to help the poor woman, who must suffer even more than we do? In the midst of her bitter trouble, may we not save her the necessity of working for her daily bread?"

Just as I thought! There is Cushion-Kate sitting at the stone door-sill; both hands pressed to her temples, and her head bent down, so that the red kerchief almost touches her knee.

Did the poor creature know that this was the day of the trial? She seemed to be asleep, and Thoma, holding her breath, walked noiselessly along. But when she had come nearly opposite to her, the old woman suddenly raised her head. Her eyes glittered, and she called out:

"You! you! To-day is the day of payment."

"May I not say a kind word to you?"

"Kind? To me? You? Go away or-"

She pulled out a pocket-knife, opened it, and cried: "I too, can murder! You are his child; and he was mine. Go!"

As Thoma turned tremblingly away, the open knife, which the old woman had thrown at her, fell at her side. She hurried down the hill; and, until she reached the forest, she could hear loud moans and screams behind her.

Cushion-Kate had been in the beginning a gay-hearted little woman enough. A patch-work tailor's daughter, a patch-work tailor's wife, one could almost say that her life was a patch-work of little gay-colored scraps like her cushions. She was one of those placid, grateful people who are thankful for the smallest gift of Providence, and who never wonder why they too cannot live in abundance, like the rich farmers. After she had drunk her chicory coffee, she went about her work, singing like a thrush. And who knows but she put the same ease with which she carried the burden of life into her cushions; for it was acknowledged that they were the softest in all the country side. She seemed to have entirely forgotten her sad birth. Now, a heavy affliction had come upon her. Her last and only treasure was taken away; and suddenly fear, bitterness and hate, and all the spirits of evil took possession of her. Suddenly, as though she had awakened from a sleep in a paradise of innocence, she perceived how miserable her life was; and she hated every one who lived in prosperity, and had children to rejoice in. Above all others, she hated the murderer of her child, and his family. Her only thought and wish were that he and they should suffer and be brought to ruin.

The poor old woman carried a heavy burden of sorrow and hate. Her life had been darkened, and she only wished to stay until she had avenged herself on Landolin. This was why she had been so sullen and morose since her son's death.

Hate, anger and misery grew within her, and transformed her happy, kind heart into a sad and wicked one.

CHAPTER XXVI

In the summer garden of the Sword Inn, the linden trees were in full bloom. The bees came, sipped, and flew away without asking for the reckoning. But to make up for this, the finches sang without pay; and the swallows circled round, as though dancing a figure in the air, and sometimes shot after a honey-laden bee.

Everything rejoiced in its own way. It was a morning so full of freshness, so full of enjoyment and exuberant life, one could hardly believe that misery still existed in the world.

A horseman trotted up to the garden fence, stopped, dismounted, and gave his horse to the servant, telling him to take it home and say to his wife that if any one asked for him she might send him here; that he would, however, soon be at home.

"Good morning, doctor," called the hostess, from the veranda. "You have come just at the right time. We have this moment tapped a keg of beer."

The physician had already heard that refreshing, enticing sound, that deep thud when the spigot is driven into the keg, and that clear sound when the bung is drawn.

The hostess brought him the first glass. He held it up to let the sun shine through the clear amber liquid, and then drank it with evident enjoyment.

"I had to go out before day this morning, all the way to Hochenbraud," said the doctor, as he drained the glass; then said, "Give me another, for my twins." As he drank the second glass, he told the hostess that he had that morning assisted at the advent of a pair of twins into the world; two fine, healthy boys.

"It is curious that something very extraordinary is always happening to Walderjörgli. His first great grandchildren are twins. It is a blessing that this strong, upright race should go on growing. They are honest-hearted men of the old primitive German type."

"They are shrewd, too," interposed the hostess. The physician went on to say that the primitive Germans must have been crafty rascals, for savages are always cunning.

"But where is our host?"

"Of course he has gone to the trial. There is an actual pilgrimage to-day. As early as half-past three this morning we had sold a whole keg of beer. The witnesses went on the express-train. There were men and women from Berstingen, from Bieringen, from Zusmarsleiten, from everywhere, who had nothing to do with the trial, but went from curiosity. They wanted to see Landolin brought before the court. The station-master says that when a man is on trial for his life the people throng to see his distress. He thinks that people will spare neither pains nor money to gratify their desire to see the misfortunes of others. But the district-forester says that the people go more because they long for something new to break in upon the monotony of every-day life."

The cautious hostess gave this as a report, and not as an opinion of her own.

As soon as the physician said: "Both are true," she cried:

"I am glad to hear you say so. It is pleasant when one gives medicine to have the doctor come and say: 'that was right. I should have prescribed that myself.' But I should like to ask you-"

"What is it?"

"Do you think it possible for Landolin to be acquitted?"

"With God and a jury all things are possible."

"Yes; but then, who killed Vetturi? For he is dead!"

"That question is not on the list."

The hostess went on to tell how Landolin's head-servant, Tobias, had been talking that morning with every one, and cunningly instructing them what to say. How he had said, with a laugh, that the life of such a person as Vetturi was not of enough value to have a man like the ex-bailiff imprisoned an hour for it. Tobias wanted to pay for what they all drank; but-and as she told the story, the hostess' face became a flaming red-she had declared that each person must order her to take pay from Tobias for him; then it would be known what was to be thought of him and what might follow later. Some of them seemed to be frightened at this hint.

The doctor laughed and replied that the rich farmer thought money would do everything; and his son Peter, instigated by his father of course, had offered to sell him their fine horse at a third of its value. They wanted him to testify that Vetturi, who had suffered from severe illness ever since his childhood, was weak and easily injured; so that a fall on level ground might have killed him.

"I am sorry for Thoma," began the hostess. "She was such a stately, fresh-hearted girl; and how well she and the miller, Anton, were suited to one another. He, too, was here this morning. He is one of the witnesses, but he staid in the garden, and kept looking at the medal of honor on his breast. Do you think the trial will be finished in one day?"

The physician could give no opinion, and the hostess continued:

"Our dear good Madame Pfann was going to Landolin's house to spend this sad day with his wife and Thoma. I advised her not to go now. They will need her soon enough.

"I don't believe there is another pure soul like hers in the world. Why, she finds something pure hidden even in a man like Landolin. Our Madame Pfann is a woman such as they had in the time of the Apostles."

"Bravo!" cried the doctor, "I have seen a rare wonder: one woman unreservedly praising another."

"Yes; who can know the judge's wife and not praise her? But she seeks neither praise nor thanks from anybody."

"She needs none. He to whom nature has given the blessing of such a good heart is the possessor of all human good."

The telegraph messenger came into the garden, and handed the physician a dispatch.

"I've got it now," cried the physician, when he had read it. "When does the next express train leave?"

"In seven minutes."

The physician explained to her that the defendant had called for his oral opinion. He left word for his wife that he was called away, and hastened to the station, where he met Thoma, just coming in.

"Are you going too?" asked he.

"No; I just want to send word to my brother to telegraph me the decision as soon as it is announced."

"I will attend to that for you."

The train sped away. Thoma asked the telegraph messenger, who was a brother of the "Galloping Cooper," to wait all night and bring her the dispatch as soon as received.

Thoma walked homeward. From the hill she could see the train in the distance. It sped by hamlets and villages, through newly-mown meadows, past fields where potatoes were being gathered in little heaps. The passengers talked together about the flood which had done such great damage in Switzerland; of the political questions of the day; of the conflict with Rome. The physician heard it all as in a dream. It troubled him that he had after all to testify in Landolin's case. How could the defence hope for any advantage from his testimony?

The train stopped at the county-town. One of the court officers was waiting for him with a carriage, and took him to the court-house. The air within was damp and sultry.

CHAPTER XXVII

Long before day the bell from Landolin's prison cell rang violently. The keeper heard it, but did not hurry in the least.

"You can wait," he said to himself, and dressed leisurely. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, of dignified and imposing appearance. He had been appointed to his excellent position as a reward for bravery in the war, and felt that he carried in his own person the whole dignity of the court. He was gruff, but could, when he chose, be polite and condescending; and he had a reason for being polite to Landolin. Softening his powerful voice as much as he could, he asked what Landolin wanted so early. It was scarcely day. Landolin gave him a bewildered look; then he said,

"I heard the early train whistle. The people from my village have come in it. Go to the Ritter inn and bring my head-servant, Tobias, here. It shall not be to your disadvantage."

"I'm sorry I can't do that. You were bailiff yourself, and you know what the law is."

"Then call my lawyer."

"It's too early."

"It is not too early. I have a right to see my lawyer at any time."

"All right, I'll bring him; but I advise you to compose yourself to-day. If you get so excited, you will be a witness against yourself."

Landolin looked at the keeper as though he wanted to knock him down, but he controlled himself. His face bore the marks of the battle which he, who was formerly so self-willed, had been fighting for weeks, and especially during the past night. Yesterday he had shaved off his full beard, which had grown in the prison; and it was plain that he had grown old very rapidly. The elasticity of his flesh, and the brown, healthy color were gone; and his features were faded and flaccid.

Swallows twittered as they flew hither and thither about the grated window. Landolin whistled a gay tune; and he continued whistling when the key turned in the door, and his lawyer entered.

"So gay already?" said the lawyer; "I hardly knew you. Why! What made you cut off your beard?"

"Why? So the jurymen can recognize me."

"Very good. Now what do you want?"

The lawyer had not uttered a syllable about the early hour. His relation to the accused was that of a physician to his patient. Landolin, however, felt that he must make some excuse for sending for him; and he asked to see the list of jurymen, so that he might determine whom to object to, and whom to accept. First on the list, which was in alphabetical order, was the name of the miller, Armbruster, who had been summoned in Landolin's place.

The lawyer said that he had asked to be excused.

"Hoho!" cried Landolin. "He is just the one I'll keep. Let him find me guilty if he dares! We are not related, and our children are no longer betrothed."

The next on the list was the lumberman, Dietler.

"He wants to be released too," said the lawyer.