The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries Volume Vii Part 16

And, as a matter of fact, he was not up there in his nook much of the time, but down with Lisbeth. He begged her forgiveness for his act so often that she grew impatient, and told him, with a frown of annoyance which became her very well, to just stop it. After five days the wound had completely healed, the bandage could be removed, and light reddish spots on her white shoulder were all that remained to show the place of the injury.

She remained at the Oberhof, for the Justice had previously invited her to the wedding. This event was postponed a few days because the dowry would not be ready at the time appointed. The Hunter remained too, although the Justice did not invite him. He invited himself to the wedding, however, by saying to the old man one day that the customs of the country seemed to him so remarkable that he wished to learn what they were on the occasion of a wedding.

Soon there were just two times in the day for the Hunter, an unhappy and a happy one. The unhappy time was when Lisbeth was helping the bride with her linen--and this she did every day. The Hunter then was absolutely at a loss what to do with his time. The happy time, on the other hand, began when Lisbeth rested from her work and took the fresh air. It was then certain that the two would come together, the Hunter and she. And were he ever so far away behind the bushes, it would always seem as if somebody were saying to him, "Lisbeth is now outdoors." Then he would fly to the place where he suspected she was, and behold! his suspicions had not deceived him, for even from a distance he would catch sight of her slender form and pretty face. Then she would always bend over sideways after a flower, as if she were not aware of his approach.

But beforehand, to be sure, she had looked in the direction from which he was coming.

And now they would walk together through field and meadow, for he would beg her so earnestly to do it that it seemed almost sinful to her to refuse him so small a request. The further away from the Oberhof they wandered in the waving fields and green meadows, the more free and happy would their spirits grow. When the red, setting sun lighted up everything about them, including their own youthful forms, it seemed to them as if anxiety and pain could never enter into their lives again.

On these walks the Hunter would do everything possible to please Lisbeth that he could guess from her eyes she wanted him to do. If she happened accidentally to look toward a cl.u.s.ter of wild field-flowers that were blooming on a high hedge at some distance from the road, before the wish to have them had even had time to enter her mind, he had swung himself up on the hedge. And in places where the road dropped off somewhat abruptly, or where a stone lay in their way, or where it was necessary for them to cross an insignificant bit of water, he would stretch out his arm to lead and support her, while she would laugh over this unnecessary readiness to help. Nevertheless she would accept his arm, and permit her own to rest in it for a while, even after the road had become level again. On these quiet, pleasant walks the young souls had a great deal to impart to each other. He told her all about the Suabian mountains, the great Neckar, the Alps, the Murg Valley, and the Hohenstaufen Mountain on which the ill.u.s.trious imperial family, whose deeds he related to her, originated. Then he would speak of the great city where he had studied, and of the many clever people whose acquaintance he had made there. Finally, he told her about his mother, how tenderly he had loved her, and how it was perhaps for that reason that he afterwards came to cherish and revere all women more, because each one of them made him think of his own deceased mother.

Lisbeth, on the other hand, had only the story of her own simple life to tell him. In it there were no big cities, no clever people, and, alas, no mother! And yet he thought he had never heard anything more beautiful. For every menial service which she had performed, she had rendered n.o.ble by love. Of the young lady and the Baron she had a thousand touching things to tell, in all the little haunts in and behind the castle garden she had had adventures to relate, and she had read in the books which she had secretly brought down from the garret all sorts of astounding things about strange peoples and countries and remarkable occurrences on land and water--and all this she had retained in her memory.

Thus their days at the Oberhof pa.s.sed, one after the other. The Justice, to be sure, looked upon it all with different eyes, but was, of course, obliged to let things which he could not prevent go on. But he often shook his head when he saw his young guests walking and talking with each other so much, and would say to himself: "It isn't right for a young n.o.bleman like that!"

CHAPTER XII

THE DISTURBANCE. WHAT HAPPENED IN A VILLAGE CHURCH

Finally the Hunter finished cutting the pen. He pushed a sheet of paper toward her and asked her to try it and see if it would write. She did so, but could not make it work very well; it had teeth, she said. He looked at what she had written; it was her own name, in the clearest and most regular lines. The fine letters delighted him.

Then the door opened and the bridesmaid entered with a dress and a request that Lisbeth be the third bridesmaid.

Outside the music, varied by the ringing of bells, was coming nearer and nearer, and now the bridal carriage, drawn by two strong horses, hove into sight at the farther end of the road leading through the oak grove.

The first bridesmaid stood demurely beside the bride, with her large and rather malodorous bouquet; the men stood by the chests and bundles in the entrance-hall, all ready to seize them for the last time; the Justice was looking about anxiously for the second and third bridesmaids, for if the latter were not on hand before the appearance of the bridegroom to take the place which the day a.s.signed to them, the entire ceremony, according to his notion, was done for. But finally, exactly at the right time, the two awaited girls came down the steps and took their stands on either side of the first, just as the carriage turned in toward the open s.p.a.ce in front of the house.

With an expression of unconcern on his face, like that of all the princ.i.p.al persons of this ceremony, the bridegroom alighted from the carriage. Some young people, his most intimate friends, followed him, adorned with ribbons and bouquets. He slowly approached the bride, who even now did not look up, but went on spinning and spinning. The first bridesmaid then fastened the large bouquet of sage to the breast of his wedding-jacket. The bridegroom accepted the bouquet without thanks, for thanks were not included in the traditional routine. He silently offered his hand to his father-in-law, then, just as silently, to his bride, who thereupon arose and placed herself with the bridesmaids, between the first and second and in front of the third.

In the meanwhile, the servants had carried the dowry to the wagon. The scene a.s.sumed a rather wild aspect, for the people with the baggage, in hurrying back and forth among the cooking-fires, kicked from its place many a burning f.a.got which crackled and showered sparks in the very path down which the bridal pair were to walk. After the loading of linen, the flax, and the various pieces of wearing apparel, the bride, with the three bridesmaids and the spinning wheel, which she carried herself, took a seat in the carriage. The bridegroom sat down apart from her in the back part of the vehicle, and the young fellows were obliged to follow on foot, as the dowry occupied so much room that there was none left for them. One of them made this the subject of traditional facetious remarks, which he addressed to the Justice, who replied to them with a smirk. He walked along behind the young men, and the Hunter placed himself at his side. Thus two men walked together, who on this day were cheris.h.i.+ng the most radically opposed feelings. For the Justice was thinking of nothing but the wedding, and the Hunter of anything but the wedding, although his thoughts were hovering about the bridal carriage.

Now let us allow the latter to drive slowly to the home of the bridegroom, where already the entire wedding-company is waiting for it--men, women, girls and youths from all the surrounding estates, in addition to friends from the city, the Captain and the Collector. There the carriage is unloaded. Meanwhile let us go on ahead to the church, which, shaded by walnut-trees and wild chestnuts, stands on a green hill in the centre of the entire community.

Inasmuch as it was the proper time, and as the people had already gathered in the church, the s.e.xton began to play the customary "Battle of Prague" on the organ. He knew but one prelude, and this was that forgotten battle-hymn which perhaps a few elderly people will recollect if I recall to their memories that the musical picture begins with the advance of Ziethen's Hussars. From this march the s.e.xton managed to swing over, with transitions which, to be sure, were not infrequently rather bold, into the ordinary church melodies.

While the hymn was being sung the Pastor entered the pulpit, and when he chanced to cast his eyes over the congregation, they met an unexpected sight. A gentleman from court, namely, was standing among the peasants, whose attention he was diverting because they were all constantly looking up from their hymnals and glancing at his star. The aristocratic gentleman wanted to share a hymn book with some one of the peasants, in order to join in the singing, but since each one of them, as soon as the gentleman drew near to him, respectfully stepped aside, he was unable to accomplish his purpose, and succeeded only in causing an almost general unrest. For when he sat down in one of the pews, every one of the peasants seated in it moved along to the extreme farther end, and when he moved along toward them they finally deserted the pew altogether.

This moving along and getting up was repeated in three or four pews, so that the aristocratic gentleman, who was attending this little country service with the best of intentions, was finally obliged to give up the idea of taking an active part in it. He had business in the region, and did not want to miss an opportunity of winning, by means of condescension, the hearts of these country people for the throne to which he felt himself so near. For that reason, as soon as he heard of the peasant wedding, the idea of attending it affably from beginning to end immediately occurred to him.

The sight of the gentleman did not make a pleasant impression on the Pastor, who knew him to be a member of one of the brilliant social circles in the capital. He knew what a peculiar custom would follow the sermon and feared the gentleman's ridicule. For that reason his thoughts lost some of their usual clearness, his feelings were somewhat concealed, and the more he talked the further he digressed from the subject. His distraction increased when he noticed that the gentleman was casting appreciative glances at him and occasionally nodding his head in approval; this last happened usually when the speaker was most dissatisfied with what he was saying. He consequently cut short certain parts of the nuptial address and hurried along to the formal ceremony.

The bridal pair were kneeling, and the fateful questions were being put to them. Then something happened which gave the aristocratic stranger a violent shock. For, looking to the right and left and before and behind him, he saw men and women, girls and youths drawing out thick clubs of twisted sack-cloth. Everybody was standing up and whispering and looking around, as it seemed to him, with wild and malicious glances. As it was impossible for him to guess the true meaning of these preparations, he completely lost his composure; and since the clubs seemed to indicate incontestably that somebody was to be the recipient of blows, he got the notion into his head that he himself was going to be the object of a general maltreatment. He remembered how fearsomely the people had moved away from him, and he thought to himself how rough the character of country people was, and how perhaps the peasants, not understanding his condescending motive, had resolved to get rid of the disagreeable intruder. All this went through his soul like a streak of lightning, and he was at a loss to know how he was going to protect his person and dignity from the horrible attack.

While he was helplessly wrestling for a decision, the Pastor concluded the ceremonies, and there immediately arose the wildest tumult. All the bearers of clubs, men and women, rushed forward yelling and screaming and flouris.h.i.+ng their weapons; the aristocratic gentleman, however, in three sidewise bounds over several pews, reached the pulpit. In a trice he had ascended it, and from this elevated position called out in a loud voice to the raging crowd below:

"I advise you not to attack me! I cherish the kindest and most condescending feelings toward you all, and any injury done to me will be resented by the King, as one done to himself."

The peasants, however, inspired by the object they had in view, did not listen to this speech, but ran on up to the altar. On the way this and that person received some unpremeditated blows before the intended object of them was reached. This was the bridegroom. Clapping his hands over his head, the latter with great exertion forced a pa.s.sage for himself through the crowd, who rained blows on his back, shoulders and wherever there was room. He ran, violently pus.h.i.+ng people aside, to the church door; but before he got there he had received certainly more than a hundred blows, and thus, well covered with black-and-blue marks, he left the church on his wedding-day. Everybody ran after him; the bride's father and bride followed, the s.e.xton closed the door immediately after the last one had pa.s.sed through it and betook himself to the vestry, which had a private exit. In a few seconds the entire church was empty.

All this time the aristocratic gentleman had remained in the pulpit, while the Pastor stood before the altar, bowing to him with a friendly smile. The gentleman, when he saw from his Ararat that the blows were not meant for him, grew calm and dropped his arms. When it was quiet, he asked the clergyman:

"For heaven's sake, Pastor, tell me what this furious scene meant; what had the poor man done to his a.s.sailants?"

"Nothing, your Excellency," replied the Pastor who, notwithstanding the dignity of the place, could hardly help laughing at the n.o.bleman in the pulpit. "This act of beating the bridegroom after the marriage ceremony is an old, old custom which the people refuse to give up. They say that it is intended to let the bridegroom feel how much blows hurt, so that in the future he will not abuse his rights as a husband toward his wife."

"Well, but that is certainly a most remarkable custom," mumbled his Excellency, descending from the pulpit.

The Pastor received him very courteously below and conducted his aristocratic acquaintance into the vestry, in order to let him outdoors from there. The latter, who was still somewhat frightened, said that he would have to think it over, whether or not he could take part in the further proceedings of the ceremony. The clergyman, on the way to the vestry, expressed profound regret that he had not been previously advised of his Excellency's design, because he then would have been in a position to inform him of the beating custom, and thus to avert so great a fright and shock.

After both had departed, peace and silence reigned once more in the church. It was a pretty little church, dainty and not too gay--a rich benefactor had done a great deal for it. The ceiling was painted blue with gold stars. The pulpit displayed some artistic carving and among the tablets on the floor, which covered the tombs of former pastors, there were even two or three of bronze. The pews were kept very tidy and clean, and to that end the Justice had exerted his strong influence. A beautiful cloth adorned the altar, above which rose a twisted column painted to resemble marble.

The light fell brightly into the little church, the trees outside were rustling, and now and then a gentle breeze coming in by a broken window-pane stirred the white scarf with which the angel above the baptismal font was decked, or the tinsel of the wreaths which, having been taken from the coffins of the maidens who had died, were used to decorate the surrounding pillars.

Bride and bridegroom were gone, the bridal procession was gone, but still the peaceful little church was not yet entirely deserted. Two young people had remained inside of it, without knowing of each other's presence; and this is how it happened. The Hunter, when the wedding-party entered the church, had separated from them and quietly gone up a flight of stairs to a gallery. There, unseen by the rest, he sat down on a stool all alone by himself, his back to the people and to the altar. He buried his face in his hands, but that he could not long endure to do; his cheek and brow were too hot. The hymn with its solemn tones cooled the heat like falling dew; he thanked G.o.d that finally, finally the supreme happiness had been granted to him:

In thy sadness, in thy laughter, Thou art thine own by law of love! * * *

A little child had crept up to him out of curiosity; he gently grasped his hand and caressed it. Then he started to give him money, did not do it, but pressed him against his breast and kissed his forehead. And when the boy, a bit frightened by his hot caress, moved toward the stairs, he slowly led him down lest he should fall. Then he returned to his seat and heard nothing of the sermon, nothing of the noise which followed it.

He was sunk in deep and blissful dreams which revealed to him his beautiful mother and his white castle on the green hillside and himself and somebody else in the castle.

Lisbeth, embarra.s.sed in her strange attire, had bashfully walked along behind the bride. Oh, she thought, just when the good man thinks I am always natural I must wear borrowed clothes. She longed to have back her own. She heard the peasants behind her talking about her in a whisper.

The aristocratic gentleman, who met the procession in front of the church, looked at her critically for a long time through his lorgnette.

All that she was obliged to endure, when she had just been so beautifully extolled in verse, when her heart was overflowing with joyful delight. Half dazed she entered the church, where she made up her mind to desert the procession on the way back, in order to avoid becoming again the object of conversation or facetious remarks, which now for a quarter of an hour had been far from her thoughts. She too heard but little of the sermon, earnestly as she strove to follow the discourse of her respected clerical friend. And when the rings were exchanged, the matter-of-course expression on the faces of the bridal pair aroused a peculiar emotion in her--a mixture of sadness, envy, and quiet resentment that so heavenly a moment should pa.s.s by two such stolid souls.

Then came the tumult, and she fled involuntarily behind the altar. When it grew quiet again, she drew a deep breath, adjusted her ap.r.o.n, gently stroked back a lock of hair that had fallen over on her brow, and took courage. She was anxious to see how she could make her way back to the Oberhof unnoticed and get rid of the disagreeable clothes. With short steps and eyes cast down she walked along a side pa.s.sage toward the door.

Having finally awakened from his dreams, the Hunter was descending the stairs. He too was anxious to quit the church, but where to go he did not know. His heart throbbed when he saw Lisbeth; she lifted her eyes and stood still, shy and artless. Then, without looking at each other, they went in silence to the door, and the Hunter laid his hand on the latch to open it.

"It is locked!" he cried in a tone of delight, as if the best luck in the world had befallen him. "We are locked in the church!"

"Locked in?" she said, filled with sweet horror.

"Why does that cause you dismay? Where can one possibly have better quarters than in a church?" he said soulfully. He gently put his arm around her waist, and with his other hand grasped her hand. Then he led her to a seat, gently forced her to sit down and himself sat down beside her. She dropped her eyes and toyed with the ribbons on the gay-colored bodice she was wearing.

"This is a horrible dress, isn't it?" she said scarce audibly after a long silence.

"Oh!" he cried, "I hadn't been looking at the dress!" He seized both of her hands, pressed them violently to his breast, and then lifted her from the pew. "I cannot bear to sit so still.--Let's take a look at the church!" he cried.

"Probably there is not much here worth seeing," she replied trembling.

But his strong arms had already surrounded, lifted, and borne her to the altar. There he let her down; she lay half-fainting against his breast.

"Lisbeth!" he stammered his voice choking with love. "My only love!

Forgive me! Will you be my wife?--my eternal, sweet wife?"

She did not answer. Her heart was throbbing against his. Her tears were flowing on his breast. Now he raised her head, and their lips met. For a long, long time they held them together.

Then he gently drew her down to her knees beside him, and both raised their hands in prayer before the altar. They could give voice to nothing save, "Father! Dear Father in Heaven!" And that they did not tire of repeating in voices trembling with bliss. They said it as confidingly as if the Father whom they meant were offering them His hand.

Finally the prayer died out and they both silently laid their faces on the altar-cloth.