The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 07

After the Justice had received his guest's affirmative answer, he came out with his proposition, which was, namely, that the Hunter should every day lie out in the fields a few hours and keep off the wild animals, which were causing a great deal of injury to his corn fields, especially those lying on the slope at the foot of the hills.

"Yonder in the mountains," said the old peasant, "the noblemen have their great hunting-ranges. The creatures have already in past years eaten up and trampled down enough of my crops, but this is the first year that it has become serious. The reason is, that the young count over there is an ardent hunter and has enlarged his stock of game, so that his stags and roes come out of the forest like sheep and completely ruin the product of my toil and sweat. I myself do not understand the business, and I don't like to turn it over to my men because it gives them an easy chance, under the pretext of lying in wait, to become disorderly. Consequently the beasts have now and then worked enough havoc to make a man's heart ache. Your coming now is, therefore, very opportune, and if for these two weeks before harvest you will keep the creatures out of my corn for me, we'll call that payment for your room and board."

"What? I a poacher? I a game thief?" cried the man, and he laughed so loudly and heartily that the Justice could not help joining in. Still laughing, the latter ran his hand over the fine cloth of which his guest's clothing was made.

"That is just why I want you to do it," he said, "because with you there will be no particular danger even if you are caught. You will know how to get yourself out of it better than one of these poor farm laborers. Flies get caught in a cobweb, but wasps flit straight through them. But what kind of a crime is it anyway to protect your own property against monsters that eat it up and ruin it?" he cried, the laugh on his face suddenly changing into an expression of the most fervent anger. The veins in his brow swelled up, the blood in his cheeks turned deep crimson, and the whites of his eyes became bloodshot; one might have taken fright at the sight of the old man.

"You are right, father, there is nothing more unreasonable than the so-called hunting privileges," said the Hunter, in order to pacify him. "For that reason I will take upon myself the sin of violating the game laws of the local nobility in the interest of your estate, although by so doing I shall really be—"

He was going to add something more, but suddenly broke off and passed over to other indifferent matters.

But any one who thinks that the conversation between this Westphalian justice and the Suabian hunter ran as smoothly as my pen has written it down, is mistaken. On the contrary, it was frequently necessary for them to repeat several times before a barely sufficient understanding came about between them. Now and then they were even compelled to resort to making signs with their fingers. For in all his life the Justice had never heard ch pronounced after s; furthermore he brought all his sounds up out of his gullet, or, if you will, out of his throat. In the Hunter, on the other hand, the divine gift which distinguishes us from beasts was located between his front teeth and his lips, whence the sounds broke forth in a wonderful sonorous gravity and fulness and a buzzing sibilancy. But through these strange husks the young man and the old one soon learned to like each other. Inasmuch as both were men of full-weight, sterling stuff they could not fail to understand each other's inmost nature.

CHAPTER VI

THE HUNTER WRITES TO HIS FRIEND

Now I may write about things that are pleasant. I cannot possibly tell you how happy I am here in the solitude of this hill-girt Westphalian plain, where I have been quartered for a week among people and cattle. Among people and cattle is indeed literally the case, for the cows do actually stand right in the house on both sides of the large entrance-hall. There is, however, absolutely nothing unpleasant or unclean about this; on the contrary it rather helps to increase the impression of patriarchal house-management. In front of my window stand rustling oak-trees, and beyond them I look out on long, long meadows and waving cornfields, between which I see here and there a grove of oaks and a lone farmstead. For here it is as it was in the time of Tacitus: "Colunt discreti ac diversi, ut fons, ut campus, ut nemus placuit." Consequently even a single farm like this is a small State in itself, complete and rounded off, and the lord of it is just as much a king in his small domain as a real king on a throne.

My host is a splendid old fellow. He is called Justice, although he certainly has another name too; for that name, you see, has reference only to the ownership of his property. I hear, however, that this is the custom around here everywhere. For the most part only the estate has a name—the name of the owner sinks in that of the property; hence the earth-born, tough and enduring character of the people here. My Justice is a man of some sixty-odd years perhaps, but he carries a strong, large, rugged body, as yet unbent by age. In his reddish-yellow face is deposited the solar heat of the fifty harvests he has gathered in, his large nose stands out on his face like a tower, and his white, bristly eyebrows hang out over his glistening, blue eyes like a straw roof. He reminds me of a patriarch, who erects a monument of unhewn stones to the god of his ancestors and pours libations and oil upon it, rears his colts, cuts his corn, and at the same time judges and rules his people with unlimited authority. I have never come across a more compact mixture of venerability and cunning, reason and obstinacy; he is a genuine, old-time, free peasant in the full sense of the word. I believe that this is the only place where people of this kind are still to be found, here where precisely this living apart and this stubbornness peculiar to the ancient Saxons, combined with the absence of large cities, has perpetuated the original character of Germania. All governments and powers have merely skimmed over the surface here; they have perhaps been able to break off the tops of the various growths, but not to destroy their roots, from which fresh shoots have ever sprouted up again, even though they may no longer close together into leafy crowns.

The region is not at all what one would call beautiful, for it consists solely of billowy risings and fallings of the ground, and only in the distance does one see the mountains; furthermore, the latter look more like a dark hill-slope than a beautifully outlined mountain-range. But just this absence of pretension, the fact that the mountains do not seem to place themselves in dress parade directly in front of one's eyes and say: "How do you like me?" but rather, like a dutiful stewardess, to serve the tilth of human hands even down to the smallest detail—after all makes me like them very much, and I have enjoyed many a pleasant hour in my solitary rambles. Perhaps the fact has something to do with it that my heart can once more swing out its pendulum undisturbed, without having wise people tinkering and twisting at the clock-works.

I have even become poetic—what do you say to that, old Ernst? I have jotted down something to which a divinely beautiful Sunday that I spent some time ago in the wooded glens of the Spessart inspired me. I think you will like it. It is called: "The Marvels of the Spessart."

What I like best is to sit up on the hill in a quiet spot between the Justice's cornfields, which terminate there. In front of me there is a large depression in the ground, grown over with weeds and blackberry bushes, around which, in a circle, lie a lot of large stones. Over the largest of these, directly opposite the field, the branches of three old lindens spread out. Behind me rustles the forest. The spot is infinitely lonesome, secluded and secret, especially now that the corn is grown up, as tall as a man, behind it. I spend a great deal of time up there—not always, to be sure, in sentimental contemplation of nature; it is my usual evening watchpost, from which I shoot the stags and roes out of the Justice's corn.

They call the place the "Freemen's Tribunal." Presumably, in days of yore, the Fehme used to hatch out its sentences there in the darkness of the night. When I praised the place to my Justice, an expression of friendliness passed over his face. He made no reply, but after a time conducted me, without any inducement on my part, to a room on the upper floor of the house. There he opened an iron-bound trunk, showed me an old, rusty sword which was lying in it, and said with great solemnity: "That is a great curiosity; it is the sword of Charles the Great, preserved for a thousand and more years in the Oberhof, and still in full strength and power." Without adding any further explanations, he clapped the cover down again. I wouldn't for anything have shaken his belief in this sacred relic, although a fleeting glance convinced me that the broad-sword could scarcely be more than a few hundred years old. But he showed me too a formal attestation concerning the genuineness of the weapon, made out for him by an obliging provincial scholar.

Well, then, I shall stay here among the peasants until old Jochem sends me news of Schrimbs or Peppel. To be sure, in the course of my eighty-mile journey I have cooled down a little, for it makes considerable difference when two weeks intervene between a project and its execution. Furthermore the question now is: What sort of revenge shall I take on him? But all that will take care of itself later on.

Mentor, you shall soon hear more, I hope, from your Not-Telemachus.

CHAPTER VII

HOW THE HUNTER LIVES AT THE OBERHOF

Several days passed at the Oberhof in the usual quiet, monotonous way. Still no word came from old Jochem, regarding either himself or the escaped adventurer; and a mild anxiety gradually began, after a while, to steal over his young master. For nowadays time is so regulated and so enmeshes us that nobody, no matter how free and independent he may be, can long endure an existence which does not offer him some occupation or social relation to fall back on.

As much as he could, to be sure, the Hunter associated with the Justice, and the man's originality continued to attract him just as strongly as it had done on the first day of their acquaintance. But the old man was occupied the greater part of the time with matters pertaining to his household, and then he had, too, a great many things to discuss with outsiders, since every day people dropped in at the farm to solicit his help or advice. On these occasions the Hunter noticed that the Justice, in the truest sense of the word, never did anything gratis. For neighbors, relatives, and friends he was ready to do anything, but they had always to do something for him in return, even were it only an errand in a neighboring peasant community, or some other small service of this kind.

Every day something was fired at, but regularly missed; so that the old man, who invariably hit his mark, no matter what he aimed at, began to look with astonishment upon these futile efforts. It was a fortunate thing for our Hunter that the nearest estate-owner happened at that time to be away on a trip with his family and servants, otherwise the professional gunners up on the "Open Tribunal" would probably have caught him sooner or later.

At noon on the following day the Hunter heard a noise under his window; he looked out and saw that a number of men were standing in front of the house. Just then the Justice, dressed in his Sunday clothes, stepped out of the door, and at the same time a two-horse wagon drew up opposite by the oak grove. In the wagon was a man in black robes, apparently a clergyman; he was sitting among several baskets, in some of which fowls seemed to be fluttering. A little behind him sat a woman in bourgeois dress, who was holding another basket rigidly in her lap. In front by the horses stood a peasant with the whip, his arm resting on the neck of one of the animals. Beside him was a maid, also holding a basket, covered with a snow-white napkin, under her arm. A man in a wide brown overcoat, whose thoughtful gait and solemn face made it at once unmistakably evident that he was a sexton, walked with dignity from the wagon to the house, placed himself in front of the Justice, lifted his hat, and recited the following verses:

  Before your gate you now may see  The Sexton and the Dominie,  The Sexton's wife, the house-maid too,  Who've come to get what is their due,  By custom old from this domain,  The hens, the eggs, the cheeses twain;  So tell us then without delay  If you are all prepared to pay.

While listening to this little recitation the Justice had respectfully removed his hat. Afterwards he approached the wagon, bowed to the clergyman, reverently helped him to alight, and then stood off at one side with him and held a conversation, which the Hunter could not overhear, about various matters. In the meantime the woman with the basket had also stepped down and taken a position beside the Sexton, the peasant and the maid, and behind the two chief persons, as if for a procession.

The Hunter, in order to ascertain the significance of this scene, went downstairs and observed that the entrance-hall was sprinkled with white sand, and the best room, adjacent to it, decorated with green branches. Inside, also dressed up in her Sunday best, sat the daughter; she was spinning as if she meant to turn out an entire skein of yarn that very day. She looked very red and did not glance up from her work. He entered the room and was just about to obtain his information from her, when the procession of strangers, including the Justice, crossed the threshold of the entrance-hall. At the head marched the clergyman, behind him the Sexton, then the peasant, then the maid, then the Sexton's wife, and finally the Justice, each one marching alone. The clergyman approached the daughter, who had not yet glanced up from her spinning-wheel, addressed her with a friendly greeting, and said:

"Quite right, Miss! When the bride-to-be makes her wheel go so industriously beforehand, her sweetheart may hope and expect to have full chests and boxes afterwards. When is the wedding to be?"

"A week from Thursday, your reverence, if it is permissible," replied the bride, turning, if possible, even redder than before. She humbly kissed the clergyman's hand—the latter was still a youngish man—took his hat and cane from him, and handed him, by way of welcome, a refreshing drink. The others, after they had formed a circle around the bride, and had likewise remembered her with a handshake and an expression of good will, also partook of the refreshing beverage; thereupon they left the room and went into the entrance-hall. The clergyman, however, continued to discuss the affairs of the community with the Justice, who, with his hat in his hand all the time, stood before him in reverential posture.

The young Hunter, who, unnoticed by the others, had been watching the scene from a corner of the room, would have liked to greet the clergyman before now, but he felt that it would be rude to break in upon the conversation between the strangers and the inmates of the house, a conversation which, in spite of the rusticity of the scene, had yet an air of diplomatic ceremony. For in the clergyman he recognized, with joyful astonishment, a former academic acquaintance.

The Justice now left the room for a moment, and the Hunter went over to the Pastor and greeted him by name. The clergyman started and passed his hand across his eyes, but he, likewise, at once recognized the other and was no less happy to see him.

"But," he added to the first words of greeting, "this is no place nor time for a talk. Come along with me afterwards when I drive away from the farm—then we can have a chat together. I am a public character here and stand under the constraint of a most imperious ceremonial. We cannot take any notice of each other, and you too, in a passive sort of way, must conform to the ritual. Above all things don't laugh at anything that you see—that would offend the good people extremely. These old established customs, strange as they may seem, always have, nevertheless, their venerable side."

"Have no fear," replied the Hunter. "But I should like to know—"

"Everything afterwards!" whispered the clergyman, glancing toward the door, which the Justice was just then re-entering. He retreated from the Hunter just as from a stranger.

The Justice and his daughter themselves brought in the food and laid it on the table, which had been set in this room. There were chicken soup, a dish of French beans and a long sausage, roast pork and plums, butter, bread, and cheese, and, in addition, a bottle of wine. All this was put on the table at the same time. The peasant too had left the horses and come into the room. When everything was steaming on the table, which had been laid for only two persons, the Justice politely invited the clergyman to seat himself, and the latter, after saying grace, sat down, as did likewise, a short distance away from him, the peasant.

"Do I not eat here too?" inquired the Hunter.

"Nay, God forbid!" answered the Justice, and the bride looked at him from one side in amazement. "Only the Diaconus and the Colonus eat here—you sit at the table with the Sexton outside."

The Hunter went into another room, opposite, after observing to his surprise that the Justice and his daughter themselves attended to the serving of this first and most aristocratic table. In the other room he found the Sexton, his wife, and the maid, all standing around a table which had been laid there, and impatiently awaiting, as it seemed, the arrival of their fourth companion. The same eatables were steaming on this table, except that the butter and cheese were missing and beer took the place of the wine. The Sexton stepped with dignity to the head seat and, keeping his eyes on the dishes, recited aloud the following verses:

  The birds that fly, the beasts that crawl,  For man's behoof God made them all;  Chicken soup, beans, pork, plums and veal,  Are gifts divine—Lord bless the meal!

Thereupon the company sat down, with the Sexton at the head of the table. The latter did not for a moment forget his solemn dignity, nor his wife her basket, which she put down close beside her. The Pastor's maid, on the other hand, had unassumingly set hers aside. During the meal, which was piled up on the dishes in veritable mountains, not a word was spoken. The Sexton gravely devoured portions that might be called enormous, while his wife was not a great way behind him. Here again it was the maid who showed herself to be most modest. As for the Hunter, he confined his attention almost entirely to looking on; for the day's ceremonies were not to his liking.

After the meal was over the Sexton, smirking solemnly, said to the two maids who had waited on the table:

"Now, if it please God, we will receive our legitimate dues and the good-will accompanying them."

The maids, who had already cleared off the table, then went out. The Sexton sat down on a chair in the middle of the room, while the two women, his wife and the maid, took seats on either side of him, putting the newly-opened baskets down in front of them. After the expectation which the faces of the three expressed had lasted for several minutes, the two maids re-entered, accompanied by their master, the Justice. The first was holding aloft a roomy basket of wickerwork, in which some hens were anxiously clucking and flapping their wings. She put it down in front of the Sexton, who glanced into it and counted:

"One, two, three, four, five, six—it is all right."

Thereupon the second maid counted out from a large piece of cloth into a basket in front of the Pastor's maid, three score eggs and six round cheeses, not without the Sexton's carefully counting them all over after her. After this was done, the Sexton said:

"So then the Pastor is provided for, and now comes the Sexton."

Thereupon thirteen eggs and a single cheese were put into the basket in front of his wife, who tested the freshness of each egg by shaking and smelling it, and rejected two. After this proceeding the Sexton stood up and said to the Justice:

"How is it, Justice, about the second cheese which the Sexton still has the right to expect from the farm?"

"You yourself know, Sexton, that the right to the second cheese has never been recognized by the Oberhof," replied the Justice. "This alleged second cheese was due from the Baumann estate, which more than a hundred years ago was united under one hand with the Oberhof. Later on, the two were again divided, and the Oberhof is obligated for only one cheese."

The Sexton's ruddy brown face took on the deepest wrinkles that it was capable of producing, and divided itself into several pensive sections of a square, roundish or angular shape. He said:

"Where is the Baumann estate? It was split up and went to pieces in the times of disturbance. Is the Sexton's office to be the loser on that account? It should not be so! Nevertheless, expressly reserving each and every right in the matter of the second cheese due from the Oberhof, and contested now for a hundred years, I hereby receive and accept one cheese. In accordance with which the legitimate dues of the Oberhof to both Pastor and Sexton are paid, and now comes the good-will."

The latter consisted of freshly-baked rolls, six of which were laid in the Pastor's basket and two in the Sexton's. With that the entire ceremony was concluded. The Sexton came closer to the Justice, and recited the following third effusion:

  I find the six hens all correct,  The cheeses too without defect;  The eggs delivered are freshly laid,  And all the dues were promptly paid.  And so the Lord preserve your farm  From famine, fire, and other harm!  He is beloved of God and man  Who pays his debts as best he can.

After that the Justice made a deep bow as a sign of thanks. The Sexton's wife and the maid carried the baskets out and packed them in the wagon. At the same time the Hunter saw a maid carrying some dishes and plates out of the room in which the clergyman had eaten, into the entrance-hall, where she washed them before the eyes of the latter, who had stepped up to the threshold of the room. After she had finished this washing she approached the clergyman, who drew a small coin out of a piece of paper and gave it to her.

In the meanwhile the Sexton was drinking his coffee with relish, and when a cup was brought for the Hunter too, he sat down with it beside the Sexton.

"I am a stranger here," said the young man, "and do not entirely understand the customs which I have been witnessing today. Will you, sir, be good enough to explain them to me? Is it obligatory for the peasants to supply the Pastor with these products of nature?"

"It is obligatory as far as the hens, eggs and cheeses are concerned, but not the rolls. They represent merely goodwill, but have always been paid without objection," replied the Sexton with great seriousness. "Three peasant communities are affiliated with the diaconate or head pastorate in the city, and part of the Pastor's and Sexton's income is derived from these dues, which are collected every year from the various farms. In order to do this collecting, as has been done every year since time immemorial, we make annually two trips or rounds, namely, this short summer trip, and then a long winter trip, shortly after Advent. On the summer trip the hens, eggs and cheeses come due, one farm paying so much, another so much. The first item, namely, the hens, is payable, however, only pro Diaconatu, the Sexton having to content himself with eggs and cheese only. In the winter, corn, barley, oats and rye fall due; we come then with two carts, because one would not hold all the sacks. Thus twice a year we go the rounds of the three communities."

"And where do you go from here?" asked the Hunter.

"Straight home," answered the Sexton. "This community is the last of the three, and this Oberhof is the last farm in this community where the customary dues are collected."

The Sexton was then called away, for the horses were hitched to the cart, and the clergyman, with cordial handshakes and good wishes, was taking leave of the Justice and his daughter, who were now standing before him with the same air of friendly reverence that they had shown for him during all the other proceedings of the day.