Black Forest Village Stories Part 46

After the closing grace, one of the hands, who had been sitting near Buchmaier at the table, placed himself before him and said, pocketing the knife with which he had eaten, "'Guess I'll go out alone with the horses."

"Yes, I'm coming out d'rectly. Take a boy with you to hold the sorrel: he won't fall into the harness well."

"Oh, never you mind: I'll look out for all that," said the ploughman, walking away heavily. The teacher shook his head.

Agnes cleared the table, and hastened to the kitchen to exchange notes with the hired girls about the stranger.

"A good-looking chap enough," said Legata, the oldest, Agnes' special confidant. "He looked at you: I didn't know whether he wanted to give you a kiss or a slap. Wouldn't he do for you? He's a single man."

"I'd rather be single myself till a cow's worth a copper."

"You're right," said another girl: "why, he feeds himself with both hands. Did you mind how he held the knife in his right hand and his fork in his left? Who ever saw an honest man doing the like of that?"

Until a very short time ago not only the peasantry, but _all_ cla.s.ses, of Germany, ate with the fork alone, which they held in the right fist and handled like a shovel.

"Yes," said a third: "he never got outside of his father's dunghill before, I bet you. He cut the dumplings with his knife, instead of pulling them to pieces; so they got as tough as tallow. Served him right, for a tallow-head as he is. He gulped at 'em till I thought he'd choke."

While the girls were thus was.h.i.+ng the dishes and overhauling the guest, the conversation in the room had taken a turn not calculated to remove the unfavorable impressions already produced on the teacher's mind.

"By your talk," said Buchmaier, "I should judge you were raised in the lowlands."

"Not exactly: I am from the Tauber Valley."

"Oh, we're not so particular about that: we call it all lowlands the other side of Boeblingen. What's the name of your place?"

The teacher hesitated a little, laid his hands upon his breast, and finally answered, with a bend of the head, "Lauterbach."

Buchmaier burst into a shout of laughter, which the teacher received in solemn earnestness. At last the former said, "Don't take it amiss: why, Lauterbach,--every child knows of Lauterbach,--it's in the song, you know. What made you hem and haw about it? There's no shame in't, I'm sure. Now, couldn't you tell me--I always wanted to know--why did they just put Lauterbach into the song?"

"How should I know? I suppose there is no reason for it. These stupid songs are generally made by simpletons who take any town they happen to think of, if it fits the metre: I mean the verse."

"Oh, I don't think the song so stupid as all that, and it has a funny tune: I like to hear people sing it."

"You must permit me to differ with you."

"What about permitting? If I didn't permit it, you'd do it anyhow. Just tell me, straight out, why you don't like it."

"What idea, what common sense, is there in a song like this?--

'At Lauterbach my stocking slipp'd off: Without a stocking I can't go home; So I'm just going back to Lauterbach To buy another stocking to my one.'

That is sheer nonsense; and that you call funny? How can a song be funny when there isn't a single idea in it? Is nonsense fun?"

"Well, that may be as it will: it's funny, anyhow: it just suits you when you're----" Buchmaier, at a loss for words, snapped his fingers, and went on:--"I mean to say, when you're a little over the traces. We have a fellow here, his name's George: you must hear him sing it once: he thinks just as I do about it. Some joker once told me that it ought to be 'shoe' instead of 'stocking,' and that it was Lauterbach because there are so many old shoes lying about in the streets. But what have we to do with it now? Let's talk of something else. Have you got any friends here?"

"Not a single acquaintance."

"Well, you'll find 'em: the people hereabouts are a little rough sometimes; but it isn't that: it only looks so. They're a little fond of a joke, too, and sometimes it comes out of season; but they don't mean any harm by it; and you must only pay 'em back, and be quick on the trigger; and if you manage 'em right you can twist 'em round your little finger."

"I shall certainly treat them all with gentleness and kindness."

"Oh, I was going to say, don't forget to visit the councilmen and the committee-members; and go to see the old schoolmaster, who's been out of office these twenty-five years: he's a fine man, and 'll be glad to see you. He's one of the old sort, but as good as gold. I went to school with him myself, and I know mighty little,--that's a fact. The last schoolmaster made him mad because he didn't go to see him; and if you want to do him a particular favor, let him play the organ sometimes of a Sunday. Now I'll show you where you're to live: your things came yesterday."

With a discontented air, the teacher walked up the village at Buchmaier's side. The transcendent antic.i.p.ations with which he had come were writhing under the pitiless blast of rude reality. More than once he heard the persons they pa.s.sed stop and say to each other, "That's the new schoolmaster, I guess." At the Crown Tavern they encountered our old friend Mat, now a member of the committee of citizens.

Buchmaier introduced the new-comer. Some of the villagers overheard this, and now the news spread like wildfire. Mat turned and walked with them.

The instinctive affection of the children, of which the teacher had been dreaming, was so great that they scampered away the moment they saw him in the distance. Here and there only a very courageous boy would remain standing, and acknowledge his presence with a friendly nod, though without taking off his cap,--the latter for the simple reason that he wore none.

Near the schoolhouse they found a fine boy of six or seven years of age. "Come here, Johnnie," cried Mat: "see, Mr. Teacher, this is my boy. Keep a tight rein on him: he can learn well enough, only he don't always want to. Shake hands with the gentleman, Johnnie: he's your teacher now: you must mind him. What do you say to a stranger?"

"G.o.d greet you!" said the boy, stretching out his hand without hesitation.

The teacher's face beamed at this welcome from childish lips. He was in his paradise again the moment he divined a kindly inclination of a childish heart toward him. Stooping down to the boy's face, he kissed him.

"Will you be fond of me?" he asked.

The child looked at his father.

"Will you be fond of the gentleman?" asked Mat.

The boy nodded, but could not speak,--for the tears were coming into his eyes.

The three men went on their way, and the little fellow ran home in all haste, without looking behind him.

Buchmaier and Mat installed the teacher in his new dwelling.

"There's a woman wanted here," said Mat: "a schoolmaster ought to have a wife. This is the first time we ever had a single one; and we have smart girls here, I can tell you. You must look about a bit. The best way is to take one that belongs to the place: if you come into a strange place and marry a stranger you'll be a stranger always. Isn't it so, cousin?"

"Perhaps Mr. Teacher has picked one out already," replied Buchmaier; "and, let her come from where she will, she shall be welcome here."

"Yes: we'll ride out to meet her," said Mat, thinking, in his heart, "Buchmaier's a smarter boy than I am, after all." The teacher answered,--

"I am free and single, and have time to think about it for a while." To himself he said, "Before I get into the clutches of one of these peasant-camels, I'll run away with a baboon."

"Well, you must excuse me now," said Buchmaier. "I must go afield: I'm just trading for a horse, and must see how he behaves in harness. See you to-night, I hope. Goodbye, meanwhile. Going up street, Mat?"

"Yes. Good-bye, Mr. Teacher, and if the time is long take it double."

The teacher did not quite understand the last speech of Mat, which was a figure derived from a long thread or string. When the door closed upon the peasants he gave it another push, as if to a.s.sure himself that he was now alone. He was oppressed in spirit, though without knowing why. At length the story of the Lauterbacher recurred to him. He regarded it as a piece of coa.r.s.e vulgarity, sufficient to make him forget all the well-meant attentions otherwise rendered. Such is man.

Once irritated, he remembers only what has offended him, and forgets the greatest kindnesses accompanying it.

Rousing himself from his reverie, he proceeded to unpack his trunks.

The sight of the familiar objects tended in some degree to soothe his spirits; but his meditative mood would not be dispelled. "I am like a hermit in the wilderness," thought he. "What makes me happy has to the people round me no existence. This squire is nothing but a shrewd peasant a little proud of his coa.r.s.eness. There may be a spark of mind slumbering in their bodies; but it is smothered in ashes. Let me summon up all my strength to guard against being transformed into a peasant.

Every day of my life I will upheave my soul from its inmost fastenings, and not suffer a blur to settle upon it.

"I have seen teachers enter into office filled with the free aspirations of the time, and in a few years they had sunk into the slough of routine and become peasants like the peasants around them.

Even their exterior was careless and slouchy." Writing "Memento" upon a bit of paper, he stuck it into the looking-gla.s.s.