The Lost Manuscript Part 10

After this masterpiece the children's party broke up, and they were unwillingly taken by Ilse to the house, but the men continued in conversation a little longer; they had laughed and sung together, and became confidential. The Proprietor spoke of his early days, how he had tried his luck here and there, and at last had established himself firmly in this place. The struggle of daily life had been weary and toilsome; he gladly called it to mind at this hour, and spoke of it with the good sense of an energetic man.

Thus pa.s.sed the second day on the estate--beneath sun and stars, amongst the sheaves and the herds.

The following morning the Professor was awaked by the loud noise of the feathered farmyard denizens; the c.o.c.k flew upon a stone beneath the window of the visitor's room, and sounded his morning clarion imperiously; the hens and young chickens stood in a circle round him, and endeavored to practice the same art; in between the sparrows chirruped loud, then the doves flew up and cooed their song, at last there came an army of ducks who began quacking a second chorus. The Professor found it necessary to rise, and the Doctor called out querulously from his bed: "That comes from yesterday's singing; now we hear the effect it had on all the a.s.sociated farmyard musicians." But in this he was in error, the little flock of the farmyard sang only from official zeal to announce that a stormy day might be expected.

When the Professor went into the open air, the morning light still glowed like fire in the heavens, and the first rays of light s.h.i.+mmered over the fields in broken and trembling waves. The ground was dry, no dewdrops hung on leaf or turf. The air also was sultry, and the heads of the flowers drooped languidly on their stalks. Had a second sun appeared in the night? But the clear piping of the yellow thrush sounded from the top of an old cherry tree incessantly. The old gardener, Jacob, looked at the tree, shaking his head: "I thought that the rogue had gone away, he has made too much havoc among the cherries, and now he is giving us information before he leaves; something is brewing to-day."

Ilse, as she came from the dairy, said: "The cows are unquiet, they low and push against one another."

The sun rose red out of heavy vapor--the laborers in the field felt a weariness in their limbs, and continually stopped in their work to dry their faces. The shepherd was to-day discontented with his flock; the wethers were bent upon gamboling instead of eating, they bucked one another, and the young ones frisked and danced about as if they were set on wires. Disorder and willfulness could not be restrained. The dog circled round the excited animals incessantly; but his tail hung between his legs, and when he tugged at a sheep, the animal long felt the ungentle bite.

The sun rose higher in the cloudless heavens--the day became hotter--a light vapor rose from the earth which made the distance indistinct; the sparrows flew restlessly about the tops of the trees, the swallows skimmed along the ground and circled round the men. The friends went to their room; here also they felt the exhausting sultriness; the Doctor, who was sketching a plan of the house, laid down his pencil. The Professor was reading about agriculture and the rearing of cattle, but he often looked up from his book to the sky, opened the window and closed it again. The dinner was quieter than usual, the host looked serious, and his staff hardly allowed themselves time to empty their plates.

"We shall have trouble to-day," said the master of the house to his daughter, on rising. "I will ride to the outskirts; if I am not back before the storm, look after the house and farm."

Again men and horses went to the field, but to-day they went unwillingly. The heat became unbearable, the afternoon sun fell scorchingly on their heads; rock and walls glowed with heat; a white cloud curtained the heavens, which visibly thickened and ma.s.sed itself together. The ploughboys eagerly took the horses to the stables, the laborers hastened to unload the sheaves, and drove the wagons at a quicker pace in order to shelter one more load under a roof before the storm arose.

The friends stood before the farm-gate and looked at the heavy clouds which were gathering upon the horizon. The yellow light of the sun struggled for a short time against the dark shadows; finally the last glare of light disappeared, and the earth lay darkened and mournful.

Ilse approached them: "The time is come; about four o'clock the storm will rise. It seldom comes over the level land from the east, but when it does it is always severe with us, for people say it is because it cannot break over the hilltops which you see from the garden; then it hangs long over our fields, and they say the thunder here is more violent than elsewhere."

The first burst of the wind howled over the house. "I must go through the farmyard to see that all is right," exclaimed Ilse, as she wrapped a handkerchief quickly round her head and hurried on, accompanied by the men, through the storm to the farm-building in which the fire-engine stood; she looked to see whether the door was open and whether there was water in the barrels; then she hastened forward to the stables while the straw whirled round her; she warned the servants once more with a cheerful call, rapidly spoke a few words to the officials and returned to the house. She looked into the kitchen and opened the door of the children's room to see whether all of her brothers and sisters were with the tutor. Lastly, she let in the dog, who was barking piteously at the gate of the farmyard, and then returned to the friends, who, from the window of the sitting-room, were watching the fury of the elements. "The house is secured, as far as it is possible for human beings; but we place our trust in a stronger Protector," said Ilse.

The storm slowly approached, one dark ma.s.s rolling on after another, and under them, like a monstrous curtain, a pale veil of mist rose higher and higher; the thunder rolled at shorter intervals, and grew more wildly ominous; the storm howled round the house; thick clouds of dust chased angrily about the walls; leaves and blades of straw flew about in wild dance.

"The lion is roaring," said Ilse, folding her hands. She bent her head for some moments, then looked silently out of the window. "Father is at the outlying farm under shelter," she began again, antic.i.p.ating a question of the Professor.

It was, indeed, a violent storm that raged about the old house. Those who listened for the first time in this place, on the open height, alongside the ridge of hills, from which the rolling, tumultuous crash of the thunder resounded, felt that they had never experienced such power in nature before. While the thunder roared, the room suddenly became dark as night, and ever and anon the dismal twilight was pierced by the flash of fiery serpents that swept over the farm.

There was noise in the children's room; the crying of the little ones could be heard. Ilse went to the door and opened it. "Come to me," she called out. The children ran in terrified, and pressed round their sister; the youngest clung to her dress. Ilse took the little child and placed it under the charge of the Professor, who was standing by her side. "Be quiet, and say your prayer softly," she said; "this is no time for weeping and complaining."

Suddenly came a light so blinding that it caused them to close their eyes--and a sharp concussion, ending in a discordant crash. When the Professor opened his eyes, by the light of another flash he saw Ilse standing by his side, her head turned toward him with a radiant look.

He exclaimed, anxiously: "That has struck."

"Not in the farmyard," replied the maiden, unmoved.

Again a clap, and again a flash, and a clap, wilder, shorter, sharper.

"It is just above us," said Ilse, calmly, pressing the head of her little brother to her as if to protect him.

The Professor could not turn his eyes from the group in the middle of the room. The n.o.ble figure of the woman before him, erect, motionless, surrounded by the frightened brothers and sisters, the countenance raised, and a proud smile playing about the mouth. And she, in a moment of uncontrollable feeling, had confided to his care one of the lives that were so dear to her; he stood in the hour of danger near her as one of hers. He firmly held the child, which clasped him in terror.

They were short moments, these; but between flash and thunder-clap the spark that glowed in him had blazed out into a bright flame. She who stood near him in the lightning, suffused with the blinding light, she it was who had become necessary to his life.

Still longer did the thunder roar; the heavy rain beat against the window; it clattered and dashed round the house; the windows trembled under the raging outburst of the storm.

"It is over," said Ilse, gently. The children separated and ran to the window. "Up-stairs, Hans!" cried the sister, and hastened with her brother out of the room to see whether the water had made its way in anywhere. The Professor looked thoughtfully toward the door through which she had disappeared; but the Doctor, who meanwhile had been seated quietly on a chair, with his hands on his knees, shaking his head, began: "These freaks of nature are against us. Since lightning conductors have come into discredit, one has not the poor comfort of thinking that the old ma.n.u.script has even their protection against the attacks of the weather. This is a bad habitation for our poor old ma.n.u.script, and it is verily a Christian duty to rescue the book as quickly as possible from such a dangerous thunder-trap. Shall we be able in the future, with any tranquillity of mind, to look upon a cloud in the heavens? It will remind us of the disasters that may befall this place."

"The house has held out hitherto," answered the Professor, laughing.

"Let us leave the ma.n.u.script meanwhile to the good Power in whom the people here so firmly trust. The sun's rays are already breaking through the mist."

Half an hour later it was all over; the dark clouds still hovered above the hills, and from the distance resounded the harmless thunder. Life began to stir again in the empty farmyard. First, the ducks came forth with joyous haste from their hiding-place, cleaned their feathers, examined the puddles of water, and quacked along the ruts made by the wheels; then came the c.o.c.k with his hens, cautiously treading, and picking the soaked seeds; the doves flew on to the projections of the window, wished each other good fortune with friendly nods and spread their feathers in the fresh sunlight. Nero bounded boldly out of the house, trotted through the farmyard, and barked in the air by way of challenge to frighten away the hostile clouds. The maids and laborers again stepped actively about the place, breathing the refres.h.i.+ng balsam of the moist air. The Inspector came and reported that the lightning had struck twice on the neighboring hill. The Proprietor, thoroughly wet through, rode rapidly in, anxious to see whether his house and farm-buildings were undamaged. He sprang gaily from his horse, and exclaimed: "The rain penetrated everything out there. But, G.o.d be praised, it has pa.s.sed over. We have not had such a storm here for years." The people listened also for awhile as the head ploughman related that he had seen a pillar of water, which hung like a great sack from heaven to earth, and that it had hailed violently on the other side of the border. Then they entered the stable with great equanimity, and enjoyed the hour of rest that the bad weather had brought them. While the Proprietor was talking to his staff, the Doctor prepared to descend, with the boys and the tutor, into the valley, there to see the overflowing brook.

But the Professor and Ilse remained in the orchard, and the former was astonished at the number of snails that now came out everywhere, trailing slowly over the path; and he took one after the other and placed them carefully out of the way, but the senseless creatures always returned again to the firm gravel, expecting that the foot-pa.s.sengers were to get out of their way. They both examined the fruit trees to see how they had borne the storm. They were much broken, and their branches bent down. Much unripe fruit lay scattered on the gra.s.s. The Professor cautiously shook the branches, bending under the weight of the rain, in order to free them from their burden; he fetched some poles to support an old apple tree which was in danger of breaking under the weight, and both laughed heartily when, in the course of his work, the water from the leaves ran in small streams down his hair and coat.

Ilse clasped her hands together, lamenting over the fall of so much fruit; but there was still much on the trees, and they might yet hope for a rich harvest. The Professor sympathized with her and advised her to dry the fallen fruit, and Ilse laughed again at this because most of it was unripe. The Professor confided to her that he as a boy had helped his dear mother when she used to arrange the fruit on the drying-board; for his parents had owned a large garden in the town in which his father was an official. Ilse listened with eager interest when he related further how he had lost his father as a boy, and how lovingly and wisely his mother had cared for him, how confidential his relations with her had been, and that her loss had been the greatest sorrow of his life. Then they walked up and down along the gravel walk, and in both of them an echo of the sorrow of past days intermingled with the cheerful mood of the present; just as in nature the movement of a violent storm leaves after it a gentle trembling, and the pure light of day sparkles on bower and blade like countless glittering precious stones.

Ilse opened a gate which led from the lower part of the orchard into the open country, and standing still, said, hesitatingly: "I propose a walk into the village to see how our Pastor has stood the storm; would you like to make the acquaintance of our dear friend?"

"I shall be delighted to do so," answered the Professor.

They walked along a damp footpath that wound its way through the length of the valley by the side of the churchyard. Near it lay a little village of closely-packed houses, in which dwelt most of the laborers of the estate. The first building below the church was the Pastor's house, with a wooden roof and small windows, differing little from the dwellings of the country people. Ilse opened the door, and an old maid-servant hastened toward her with a familiar greeting.

"Ah, Miss," she exclaimed, "we had bad weather to-day. I thought the day of judgment had surely come. Master stood constantly at the chamber window looking up to the manor and raising his hands in prayer for you.

He is at present in the garden."

The guests pa.s.sed out through the rear door into a small s.p.a.ce between the gables and barns of the neighboring farmyards. A few low fruit trees stood along the edges of the flower-beds. The old gentleman, in a dark dressing-gown, stood by an espalier, working industriously.

"My dear child," he cried, looking up, and a smile of pleasure lighted up the kind face under his white hair, "I knew that you would come to-day."

He bowed to the stranger, and, after a few words of greeting, turned again to Ilse.

"Only think what a misfortune--the storm has broken our peach tree, the espalier is torn up and the branches are shattered; the damage is irreparable."

He bent over the disabled tree, which he had just bound up with a bandage of tree-gum and matting.

"It is the only peach tree here," he said, lamentingly, to the Professor; "they have none on the whole estate, nor any in the town.

But I must not worry you with my little troubles," he continued, more cheerfully; "I pray you come with me into the house."

Ilse entered the side door of an extension, near the house proper. "How is Flavia?" she inquired of the maid, who stood at the threshold, antic.i.p.ating the visit.

"Doing very well," answered Susannah, "and the little one also."

"It is the dun cow and her young calf," explained the Pastor to the Professor, as Ilse returned into the narrow courtyard with the maid. "I do not like people to call animals by Christian names, so I have recourse to our Latin vocabulary."

Ilse returned. "It is time that the calf should be taken away; it is a wasteful feeder."

"That is what I said too," interposed Susannah, "but his Reverence the Pastor will not consent."

"You are right, my dear child," answered the Pastor; "following the demands of worldly wisdom it would be best to deliver the little calf to the butcher. But the calf sees the thing in quite another light; and it is a merry little creature."

"But when one asks it why, one receives no answer," said Ilse, "and therefore, it must be pleased with what we choose. Your Reverence must allow me to settle this with Susannah, behind your back; meanwhile you shall have milk from our house."

The Pastor conducted them into his room; it was very small, whitewashed, and scantily furnished. There was an old writing-table, a black painted book-shelf with a small number of old books, a sofa and some chairs covered with colored chintz. "This has been my Tusculum for forty years," said the Pastor, with satisfaction, to the Professor, who looked with surprise at the scanty furniture. "It would have been larger if the addition had been made; there were fine plans arranged, and my worthy neighbor took much pains about it, but since my wife was carried out there"--he looked toward the churchyard on the height--"I will not hear of it any more."

The Professor looked out of the window. Forty years in this narrow building, in the little valley between the churchyard, the huts, and the wood! He felt oppressed in spirit. "The community appears to be poor; there is but little s.p.a.ce for cultivation between the hills. But how is it pray, in winter?"

"Well, even then I am still able to get about," answered the clergyman; "I visit my old friends then, and am only troubled sometimes by the snow. Once we were quite snowed up, and had to be dug out." He laughed pleasantly at the recollection. "It is never lonely when one has lived many years in a place. One has known the grandfathers, trained the fathers, taught the children, and here and there a grandchild even, and one sees how men rise from the earth and sink down into it again like the leaves that fall from a tree. One observes that all is vanity and a short preparation for eternity. Dear child," he said to Ilse, who now entered, "pray be seated with us; I have not seen your dear face for three days, and I would not go up because I heard you had visitors. I have something here for you," taking a paper out of his desk; "it is poetry."

"You see the song of the Muses does not fail us," he continued, speaking to the Professor. "It is, to be sure, humble, and bucolic in style. But believe me, as one who knows his village, there are few new things under the sun; there is everything here in a small way that there is on a large scale in the rest of the world; the blacksmith is a zealous politician, and the justice would gladly be a Dionysius of Syracuse. We have also the rich man of Scripture, and truly many a Lazarus--to which number the poet whose verses I here hold belongs; and our plasterer is a musician in winter--he does not play badly on the zither. But they are all too ambitious and not in harmony. Sometimes it is difficult to preserve good fellows.h.i.+p among them."