Joseph in the Snow, and The Clockmaker. In Three Volumes. Vol. I.

"Which way will my father come to-day?" asked Joseph.

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do know, and you must tell me," said little Joseph, beginning to whimper; and his mother, drawing him closer to her, said, "Hush, hush! no one must overhear us. If you are quite good and quiet, I will tell you presently."

The boy checked his sobs, and his mother began to tell him what pretty presents he was to get at Christmas, and asked him if there was anything he particularly wished for. The boy cared for nothing but a horse: people had told him that his father had fourteen horses in his stable. All attempts to distract his attention were vain; his thoughts were entirely concentrated on his father; and he repeated, "Tell me, which way will he come to day?"

The mother said in a subdued tone, "You must not tell a living creature one syllable about your father coming here to-day. Give me your hand on it; not one word to any human being."

The boy gave his mother his hand, and stared at her, his large eyes still swimming in tears. Martina said no more, for she thought she had pacified the child. But presently, with the most obstinate pertinacity, he began again, "Which way will he come? tell me!"

"There are several roads, but I think he will come through the valley and the wood. But now not another word; you are not to plague me any more. Go and fetch some fir chips from the workshop."

The boy went out to fetch the wood, and the mother thought, with quiet satisfaction, "He will one day be a true man: when he wants a thing he will never rest till he gets it."

She then went with the boy into the sitting-room, but Leegart said, "Send away Joseph, for we can't talk before the child."

"Joseph, go to Häspele, and look at the new boots he is making for you," said the mother.

Joseph did not want to go, but his mother persisted in sending him out of the house. The boy stood outside, looking very indignant, and muttering, "When my father comes I will tell him all about it. I am not to stay anywhere; neither with my grandfather nor at home." Nevertheless he did go to see Häspele, and was as merry and good humoured as possible, for Häspele loved the boy, and when he was tired of playing with his toys, he could always amuse him by talking to him.

For a year past he had repeatedly promised to give Joseph a dog, and the boy was now very speculative as to what the animal was to be like, and what tricks it was to be taught. Häspele had one capital pretext for delay, which was that he would have to search some time before he could find a dog exactly answering Joseph's description; for it was sometimes large, and sometimes small; at one time it had four white paws, at another all brown; at one moment it was to be a wolf dog, and the next a Spitz.

In the meanwhile Leegart was talking to Martina, and could not comprehend why Martina was not more eager to ascertain whether her deadly foe had not at length quitted the world. She urged her to go to the Parsonage to inquire what state the Röttmännin was in.

"You know very well," said Martina, "that formerly our Pastor was always glad to see me in his house, but not now. I can't go there without some pretext when he is at home."

"Very well; in that case, go to my house; and on the chest of drawers with the mirror above it you will find a china soup tureen, and in it three nightcaps, which I have just made for the Pastor's wife. Take them to her from me, and then you will hear how matters stand."

Martina did as she told her.

CHAPTER VIII.

WARM AND SNUG IN THE PARSONAGE

Can there be such a thing as a holy feast for a woman like the Röttmännin? Can there exist a human being doomed one day to leave this world, without ever having felt the joyful sensation of being happy, or of having contributed to the happiness of others? That there are such persons, cannot fail to cast a dark shadow on the earth, and must prevent anyone feeling unalloyed gladness of heart.

These were the reflections floating in the mind of the Pastorin, as she sat at the window. Soon, however, she chased away all such shadows, and her soul became as bright as the morning of this joyous and holy festival, which is a ray emanating from eternity.

She arose and went through the house, like a gentle hushed spirit. The approaching feast day, and also the thought that her brother was with her, shed such lustre and gladness on her whole being, that everything seemed to smile on her; and while she prepared a good breakfast for her brother, who was sure to return very hungry from shooting, she looked at the ham, the butter, and eggs, with considerable complacency, as if grateful to them for possessing the excellent property of nourishing and strengthening man.

These articles of food could not speak, or make any observations in return; but the maid being pretty well aware that her mistress liked to talk of her brother, said, "What a handsome, grand gentleman your brother is, ma'am. When he arrived yesterday evening I really thought he was the Prince who drove through here last winter, on his way to shoot;" and the maid gave her own face a good rub with her apron, to make it look as well as possible. "I was so glad we happened to have killed a goose," added she, giving an affectionate look at the slaughtered victim, hanging outside the kitchen window.

Brother Edward returned home about ten o'clock. The Pastorin warned him that her husband was still asleep, and he placed his gun as gently in the corner as if it had been made of cotton. Her brother's good appetite pleased the Pastorin, who seated herself with her embroidery beside Edward, and told him the Pastor's adventures. He, in return, said he had shot nothing, for he felt quite sure he had got on the track of the wolf; but he lost all traces of the animal in a ravine, as he was afraid of venturing to descend into it alone. He had gone as far as the forest mill, and described with much enthusiasm the grand and striking aspect of the landscape, the waterfalls all frozen, and the rocks glittering like finely cut crystal. The more awe inspiring and imposing the young man delineated the scene without, the more snug and comfortable did the room appear within. And the brother and sister talked to each other with the same quiet ease with which the heat diffused itself through the room: the pendulum of the clock and the crackling of the wood in the stove were more audible than their voices. Gentle flakes of snow were falling slowly and quietly outside, fluttering in the air as if in play, making the room within seem even more comfortable than usual.

"I have still an adventure to relate to you," recommenced Edward.

"Won't you wait till my husband is awake, so that you may not have to tell it twice over?"

"No; I wish you alone to hear it, and you must promise me secresy. I was standing behind a bush, not far from the forest mill, on the watch, for I thought the wolf would be sure to appear again, when I saw two girls coming along the path. They stood still not far from my hiding-place, and one girl said, 'I will say good bye to you here; thank you for your kindness, my mother in Heaven will reward you for it. But it is all over; I cannot help myself. Oh! why are those days gone by, when a wicked woman could transform you into a raven? I wish I were that raven in the sky above our heads; then I could fly far away, then my misery would be over. See! the snow is melting where my tears fall on it; but nothing can melt a hard heart, and my father is entirely changed.' Her tears prevented her saying more, and her companion left her. The weeping girl turned back towards the mill; I could not resist advancing to meet her, but I almost regretted it when I saw such sorrow overclouding the young, fresh, blooming face. I would gladly have tried to console her, but I really did not know what to say; so I simply wished her good day. She looked at me, startled, and stood still for a moment in surprise, and then went on her way."

"That must have been the Forest Miller's Tony," said the Pastorin; "a good-hearted girl, as ever lived. She is to be betrothed to Adam, I hear."

"That would be too shameful!" exclaimed Edward, indignantly.

"I quite agree with you. Tony is the Forest Miller's only child. Her mother was an excellent woman: so long as she lived, the forest mill was the most highly respected house in the whole community, and the resort and refuge of all the poor. Little Tony went daily for four years to school, three or four miles off, and in winter she came on a donkey. A child like that, going daily alone for years through a valley, encircled by rocks and by the forest, cannot fail to become thoughtful and observant, if naturally of a quick and lively disposition; for there is much to see and hear of animal life in the forest, unknown to the world. Little Tony was a very quick child, and she was often to be heard telling her thoughts aloud, and singing songs in the forest. She has a most lovely voice. Two years ago her mother died, and the guardian appointed by her father is the innkeeper at Wenger, whose sister shortly after married the Forest Miller. From that hour the girl had never another happy moment; and her guardian being unluckily the brother of her stepmother, it comes to pass that Tony will be forced to marry Adam Röttmann."

Suddenly the Pastorin interrupted herself, saying, "I must surely have left the house door open, for I hear some one on the stairs."

"Hush! be quiet!" said she softly, opening the door. "Oh! it is you, Martina; come in, but tread softly, for the Herr Pastor is asleep. What message have you for me?"

"Leegart sent me here, to bring you these nightcaps."

"Why did she not come herself?"

"She is in our house, busy making a new jacket for my Joseph."

"You dress Joseph too smartly; you will spoil him," said the Pastorin.

"Leegart takes no payment from me," said Martina timidly, and, turning away suddenly, the red shawl in which she had wrapped her head fell back. The young man gazed earnestly at her pretty oval face, and large dark brown eyes. Martina felt that he was looking at her, and casting down her eyes blushed deeply, groping for the handle of the door in going out, as if she had been in the dark.

The Pastorin, however, followed her into the passage, and said, "You would like to know about the Röttmännin? The state of her health is as bad as that of her heart. She sent for the Herr Pastor last night, but she is not dangerously ill; far from it."

"God is my witness that I do not wish for her death," said Martina earnestly, laying both hands on her heart.

"I believe you. My husband had a severe struggle with her, but he persists in his determination never to marry Adam to any one but yourself. But I will tell you all about it another time," said the Pastorin, turning to re-enter the room.

But Martina said uneasily, "Oh! dear Madam, I cannot make out what is the matter with my Joseph for some days past; he speaks and thinks of nothing but his father. He insists on my talking of him till he goes to sleep, and in the morning his first words are always about his father. He has refused positively to go back to school any more, for they call him The Foal there, because his father's nickname in the village is The Horse."

The Pastorin could not help smiling, but she said, "I cannot stay with you at present: that was my youngest brother who has come to visit me. Pray be very strict with Joseph: the whole village spoils that child. Come to see me again during the holidays, and shut the outer door very gently."

Martina went homewards with slow and heavy steps, singing in a melancholy tone the lines that seemed to haunt her memory:

"Faithful love my bosom fills, —Can true love ever fade?Oh! what a smile that heart must wearThat never was betrayed."

In the mean time the Pastorin returned into the sitting-room, when her brother Edward proved that he had a quick eye, not only for fine scenery, but also for pretty people, by expressing his sincere regret, that so lovely a creature should be doomed to pass her days in poverty and sorrow.

"But though she looks ill even now," said the Pastorin, "if you had seen her a year after her disgrace, she was so changed that it was scarcely possible to recognise her, she looked so deadly pale, and just like a dying person. It is said that a speech of Leegart's made her strive to bear her calamity with more courage. 'Don't go on grieving in that way,' said she, 'or people will say that Adam is quite right to forsake such a faded, emaciated creature.' This advice, and love for her boy, inspired Martina with new life."

While the Pastorin was talking to her brother, and listening to him, she was also listening to sounds in the adjacent room, for she suspected that the Pastor was now dressing; and, while doing so, he was humming the air that she had sung with Edward the evening before; so she quickly sat down at the piano, and sung once more, with her brother, Mozart's melody, "Joys and sorrows let us share."

The Pastor entered the room, smiling kindly. He must, however, have heard a good deal, even in his sleep, for in a few moments he said, "Lina, Martina has just been here, I do beg that my orders may be attended to, that she is not to be in the habit of coming here."

"You are generally so indulgent," ventured Edward to remark.

"Perhaps so; but that is quite compatible with sternness, when it is requisite. Those who have sinned may reform and repent, but the privilege of being at home in the Parsonage is one they ought no longer to enjoy. It would be destructive to all morality if sin were allowed, from false ideas of humanity, to remain unpunished."

The usually benevolent features of the Pastor assumed a stern, uncompromising air while uttering these words. But he quickly added, "Edward, give me one of your cigars."

The three once more sat pleasantly together.

CHAPTER IX.

BETROTHAL AND PLIGHT

Mozart's harmonies were entirely ignored at the Röttmann's residence; indeed, for seven years past, ever since Martina had been in their service, no songs had ever been heard in that house. In all other respects, however, the good living went on as before: there was an everlasting roasting, boiling, and stewing; and the moment you approached the house such a rich greasy odour was perceptible that all who came from Röttmanshof seemed impregnated with lard and suet. It was said that the cause of this greasy smell, was the old lady pouring whole cansfull of spoiled lard on the road every year. She preferred its being thrown away to giving it to any poor person. There was very little stir of labour about the place, for a wood merchant has the advantage of his possessions growing while he is sleeping, and without any exertion on his part.

The house looked very singular in the midst of the snowy landscape. In order to protect it from the weather, it was covered with shingles on every side, painted bright red. To live in such a dwelling was like living in a furnace.

There was a great uproar this morning at Röttmannshof, and nothing is more repulsive than when a morning commences by incessant noise. What kind of people must they be who on rising from sleep, in the early freshness of morning, break out into angry discord and noisy strife, and persevere in them, as if there was no such thing on earth as sleep or quiet self-forgetfulness for man, enabling him to begin life afresh each morning?

If the old Röttmännin, even formerly, when she could still sleep, was in the habit of rising at early dawn, as if preparing each day a war of extermination, how much more unendurable now were her impatience and restlessness, when she could no longer sleep at all! From her sick bed she regulated everything with twofold severity, and it seemed quite inconceivable how she could continue to live on amid this perpetual irritation, and restless state of exasperation.

"I am quite well; I am resolved to go with you myself," said she. "I don't care if I die by the way, so that I only complete this affair. Go away, men; I am going to rise and dress properly. Now, this very morning, the matter shall be finally settled with the Forest Miller's Tony. What do you mean by standing so stupidly there, Adam? You ought to be thankful that I manage matters for you – I mean your father and I together; for in all your life you could do nothing for yourself, and you will remain a poor creature to the end of your days. If no one will undertake this Schilder-David and his family, I will show them their proper place."

She insisted on her husband and son dressing in their Sunday clothes, and they looked very imposing in their long coats without collars, and high, boots drawn up above the knees. These high boots are the uncontested right of the upper class of farmers: the peasants and day labourers, even to this day, wear shoes and short leather breeches, or long ones of coarse canvass. The Röttmännin, who had not left the house for a whole year, was all at once as active as a young girl. The sledge was brought to the door, feather beds were placed in it, and the parents drove with their son to the Forest Mill. A messenger preceded them to announce their arrival. The amazement was unbounded at the Forest Mill at the appearance of the Röttmännin herself. The miller's wife was especially gracious, and the daughter could not avoid being also polite, though her eyes were red from crying; in other respects she looked neat and pretty, and any man who sought her hand from affection, might well be proud of such a bride. Adam followed his parents mechanically into the room, as if without any will of his own; and at the same moment, when the flakes of snow were gently falling in the valley before the Pastor's house, pledges were finally exchanged, and Adam was betrothed to Tony.

It scarcely seemed as if a living hand were stretched out to receive a living one, when Adam clasped that of his bride, but he endeavoured to make the best of it, and swallowed long draughts of the good red wine that the Forest Miller placed on the table. They sat together feasting till the evening. Speidel Röttmann had the power of incessantly drinking, and as incessantly eating; and he continued throwing large morsels of meat, right and left, into the jaws of his huge mastiffs; and the snapping, and growling, and gobbling was wonderful to hear, every single bone being crunched up. To be able to drink wine, and more wine, and wine without end, is an advantage that men possess over animals. While Speidel Röttmann was placing glass after glass to his lips, he kept stroking the head of one of his great dogs, as if to say, drinking is my privilege, and not yours. They insisted on Adam remaining in the kitchen with his bride, who was preparing some hot mulled wine; and the two fathers drank merrily together, while their wives gossiped in a low tone.

When the fathers agreed that the affair with Martina would now be easily broken off, the Forest Miller laughed, and said, "Young people are become very prudish now-a-days."

"They have no sense whatever," rejoined Speidel Röttmann. "It is nearly seven years now that Adam has been plaguing both himself and us, on account of that stupid affair of his. In our youth, much we should have cared for any such matter." And the two old men clinked their glasses together.

The mulled wine came, and they drank each other's health, and emptied the tall glasses to the dregs, and refilled them, and laughed, and narrated all their youthful pranks and exploits; and the burden of their song was always, that the youth of the present day were good for nothing, and totally devoid of all life and spirit.

Adam was standing beside his betrothed bride in the kitchen. For a long time he did not speak, and at last he said, "I say, why did you agree to have me? don't you know how I am situated?"

Tony answered smiling, "I suppose since the world began, no one ever asked his betrothed such a question. But do you know, Adam, I am rather glad you have done so, for it is honest on your part, and a good beginning, if it be the will of God that we should live together, and it appears we must. You see, Adam, there is no hope of your getting Martina, and I am miserable, far more miserable than you can have the least idea of. So I thought to myself, we are both miserable, so perhaps we may lighten each other's burdens; and I am quite resolved to leave my stepmother, for I am always in her way; and you can't think what a person feels on seeing a stranger come to your own house and home, abusing everything she sees, no matter how good and handsome it may be. It vexes me to death to see her extravagance in the house, and my father gets no good from it; and even the cup that belonged to my mother, and was kept sacred, she actually gave to the farm servant, and she only did so because she knew that it would annoy me. I shall become cross and spiteful myself if I remain with her. My tongue is full of gall, and words come to my lips, and thoughts into my head, that are downright wicked. I often wish I were lying six feet under ground, and I would have done so long ago, had it not been for the good, kind Pastorin."

"I pity you," said Adam; "but as for me, though I still have my own mother, she is more bitter towards me than any stepmother. I do not like to say it, but I must. My Martina alone induced me to submit to such usage, and not to run away from it into the wide world. And now I am become an illtempered fellow; formerly I was only gruff and thoughtless. I would far rather that you were harsh, and bitter, and irritable, so that I could feel no compassion for you; in that case I would have behaved in such a way that you would have been forced to give me up. But now I don't know what to do; I pity you – yes, I pity you from the bottom of my heart; but don't forget how I am situated myself."

It was far from an agreeable conversation that the two held together, and no fond or kindly words passed between them, as the bride was preparing the mulled wine. She carried the jug into the next room, having previously poured out a glass for Adam. When she returned he drank her health, and when she gave him some more, and, taking some herself, made her glass ring against his, he said, "Upon my word, you are much prettier than I thought. After all, I ought not to complain at being forced to marry you: if it were not for one thing – one thing alone – I should be quite happy. If I had only seen you seven years ago, as I see you now, I might have been the most fortunate fellow in the world. But what am I saying? I feel a stab, as if a knife had pierced my heart. Have patience with me; I can say no more."

Adam sat down, and covered his eyes with his hands, and then muttered, "This is my idea, do you see? I wish to tell you something; but not a word of it to your parents or mine. Give me your hand, as a token that you will keep my secret."

The bride gave her hand to Adam, who clasped it warmly, and continued, "I had sent a message to my Martina, that on this very day I would come to see her. For nearly two years past I have been obliged to go to church in another village, for spies were always watching me, and for a whole year I have never been able to speak to my Martina and – my Joseph; so now I must keep my promise; and yet I would like to give you a parting kiss; but – I won't, I wont! no! it would be wrong until I am once more a free man."

"You are honest, and can speak to the purpose," said the bride, smiling; "and yet people say you are so sulky."

"Very few know anything about me. No one really understands me except my Martina. She sees me as I really am, and yet I said very little to her, or she to me, and yet we knew each other thoroughly: she was quick, and she saw that though I was one of the richest men in the country, yet I was the poorest in reality. But she shall tell you about it, for she can talk far better than I can. You don't know how clever she is, and so good hearted, and so cheerful, and so loveable, and – and" —

Adam suddenly checked himself. To whom was he saying all this? to his betrothed bride! and she was looking at him, as if trying to remind him where they where and what they were. Nothing was heard but the clinking of the old men's glasses in the next room, and the whispering of the two mothers. At last Adam said, "So I have your promise that you won't say a word to any one. And now I must leave you to go to my Martina – to Martina – and – to my – boy, in the village. I shall be back by the time the Christmas tree is lighted up, and then it will either be – or – . God bless you!"