CHAPTER VII.
That night Frantz Mathéus could not close an eye; he ceaselessly tossed and turned with a noble enthusiasm in his feather-bed, and muttered exclamations of triumph. His heroic flight from Graufthal, the miraculous conversion of Coucou Peter, his hospitable reception by Mother Windling, kept running in his head; he felt no desire to sleep; on the contrary, never had his mind been more active, more lucid, more penetrating; but the excessive warmth of his bed made him perspire outrageously; so, towards morning, he dressed himself and quietly descended into the yard to breathe.
All was silent; the sun hardly lit the topmost leaves of the poplars; deep stillness reigned in the air; Mathéus, seated on the kerb of the cellar steps, contemplated in speechless absorption the aspect of this rustic dwelling and the repose of nature.
The large mossy roofs, the long beams crossed by man’s industry, the tall gables, the dull skylights; in the background, the garden-gate opening into the fields, where the darkness was already beginning to fade; the vague and undistinguishable forms of the trees—all plunged the Doctor into the most agreeable meditations.
Slowly the daylight descended from the roofs, and shadows grew larger in the yard below; then afar off—very far—Mathéus heard a lark sing; then a cock put his head out of the window of the fowl-house, made a step forward, and expanded his shining wings to the fresh morning air; a thrill of pleasure raised all his feathers; he inflated his chest and sent forth a shrill, piercing, prolonged cry, that reached to the surrounding woods. The chilly hens advanced timidly to the edge of the ladder, calling to one another, springing from step to step, preening themselves with their beaks, cackling and laughing in their manner; they spread themselves along the walls, hastily snapping up the worms drinking the morning dews. The pigeons very soon afterwards were flying in wide circles round the yard. At length the bright rays of the sun penetrated the stables; a sheep bleated softly; all the others answered it, and Mathéus opened a shutter to give the poor animals air. A delightful sight then expanded the good man’s heart; daylight streaming in amid the trembling shadows in long streaks of gold lit up the dark beams, the harness hanging against the wall, the cribs bristling with forage. Nothing in the way of peacefulness could surpass this picture: big oxen with half-closed eyelids, down-weighed heads, and knees bent under their chests, were still sleeping; but the handsome white heifer was already wide awake; she placed her bluish muzzle, glittering with moisture, on the back of the milch cow, and looked at Mathéus out of her great surprised eyes, as much as to say: “What does he want with us?—I’ve never seen him before.”
There was also the draught-horse, looking very tired and broken-spirited; but that did not prevent his every now and then taking a wisp of clover, which he ate because he had nothing else to do. The little black kid raised itself on to the rack to get at a handful of still fresh grass; but that which more than all struck the doctor was the magnificent Glaan bull, the pride and glory of Mother Windling.
He could not enough admire its broad crispy head, like the stump of an old oak, its short and shining horns, like iron wedges; its soft and supple dewlap, extending from the lower lip to the knees.
“O noble and sublime animal,” he said to himself in a tone of emotion, “you cannot imagine what profound and admirable thoughts the sight of you inspires me with! No, you have not yet attained the intellectual and moral development that can raise you to the height of a psychologico-anthropo-zoological sentiment; but your forms are not the less marvellous; they attest, by their harmonious completeness, the grandeur of nature; for whatever may be said on the subject by materialists—beings possessed neither of sound logic nor of reasoning powers—that has not all been made in a day, but has taken thousands of ages to bring to this degree of æsthetic perfection. Yes, the passage from the mineral to the vegetable form, from the vegetable to the animal form, is immeasurable, without speaking of intermediaries; for, from the thistle state to that of the oak, and from the oyster state to that of the bull, the distance is prodigious. Therefore, Frantz Mathéus, admire within yourself that interior force, called God, soul, life, or by any other name, and which ceaselessly works towards the perfection of types and the development of individuality in matter.”
He paused, plunged in mute ecstasy.
Now, while Mathéus was addressing these reflections aloud to himself, the boards of the vent-hole through which forage was thrown down to the cattle slid quietly in its groove, and the chubby-faced head of Coucou Peter was passed through the aperture. The fiddler’s surprise may easily be imagined when he discovered his illustrious master haranguing a bull.
“My eye!”—he said to himself, “I do believe he wants to convert him!”
At the same time a singular idea flashed on his mind.
“Ha! ha! ha! it would be a good joke,” he cried; “wait a bit, the bull’s going to answer you!”
He joined his hands before his mouth, and roared—
“Oh! oh! oh! great Doctor Mathéus—I am very—very unhappy!”
At these words the illustrious philosopher fell back in alarm.
“What is this?” he stammered, looking around him with staring eyes. “What—what do I hear?”
But he could see nothing; Coucou Peter’s head was hidden by a pile of straw in the rack, and this excellent disciple laughed till his sides were almost split. After awhile, he went on in bellowing tones—
“Oh! oh! oh! I am very unhappy! I was the great Nebuchadnezzar. I thought of nothing but drinking and eating, and so I lost my place on the Ladder of Beings! Oh! oh! oh! I’m very unhappy.”
But the Doctor, though at first dumfounded, recognised the fiddler’s voice.
“Coucou Peter,” he cried, “how dare you profane the most sublime philosophy? Do you imagine me so foolish as to give credence to vain illusions?”
Coucou Peter came out of the barn, laughing with all his might.
“Ha! ha! ha! what a joke! what a joke, Doctor Frantz! When I saw you talking to the bull, it came into my head to have a bit of fun.”
Mathéus himself could not help laughing, for he had, at first, been taken in.
“I knew well,” he said, “that souls cannot retrograde in the order of Nature; it is impossible—contrary to the system; therefore my surprise was great, and it was that which made me discover your trick. The human soul cannot exist in the body of an animal; it could not find sufficient room for the brain.”
The good man amused himself over his surprise a long time, and Coucou Peter did likewise, holding his sides.
They were still laughing, when Mother Windling, in a short woollen petticoat, striped with red, her arms bare to her elbows, still fresh-looking and full of grace, opened the yard-door and descended the steps. She had come to feed her poultry, her apron filled with peas, millet-seed, and all sorts of grain.
“Ah! good morning, Doctor,” she cried, on seeing Mathéus; “up so soon! Have you had a good night?”
“Very good, my dear madam—very good,” replied Mathéus.
“Shall I go and light the kitchen fire, Dame Catherina?” interrupted the fiddler.
“Yes, go, Coucou Peter; I shall be back presently. You shall see some beautiful hens, Doctor. They’re a real blessing. Chick! chick! chick! chick! Three of them lay every day, and such eggs! Chick-chick! chick-chick!—eggs as big as your fists. Chick-chick! chick-chick-chick!”
The fowls darted forward, the ducks waddled, the geese hurried with their wings spread, and all of them cackled, cried, and quacked. They came from all sides; top-knotted, feather-legged, large and small, blacks and whites, yellows and reds; all struggling, springing, flying delightfully.
“How charming to see!” murmured the illustrious philosopher. “Oh, Nature, Nature, fecund mother! rich-bosomed goddess! animation! breath divine! Thy riches and variety are boundless!”
Mother Windling sidled, bridled, and smiled, attributing to herself the best part of these eulogiums.
“Aren’t my hens plump and well kept?” she asked. “I give them the best of everything. Look at that great white one; she has laid every day these three weeks. And the grey one down there, with the yellow feathers about her eyes, she’s a real household treasure! Only imagine! I’ve seen her lay twice in a day, an egg in the morning and another in the evening, besides those she hides. Look at that little black cock, a perfect little demon! The day before yesterday he fought and beat the big one, on account of the little red hen there, a regular little shrew to set them by the ears! I’ll bet they’re going to set-to again. What did I say! You little villains, will you leave off? Did one ever see the like!”
But all her calling out was of no avail; the two rivals were engaged, beak to beak, with bristling neck-feathers, springing one above the other, pecking viciously, turning, leaping, and pursuing one another with incredible fury; fortunately a fresh handful of grain caused the two to suspend the battle.
“Strange!” murmured Mathéus, “that these gallinaceous animals, usually so timid, are sometimes animated by the most ferocious instincts! What cannot the furious and sanguinary passion of jealousy do!”
Mother Windling, looking at him out of the corner of her eye, thought: “Poor dear man, you are thinking of Tapihans! But you have nothing to fear. No, no! the fellow is too much of a coward ever to come to the house again.” At last, emptying her apron, and looking at Mathéus with a tender smile, she asked—
“Are you fond of eggs, Doctor?”
“Very, my dear madam—most of all when boiled in the shell; they are then a wholesome and delicate food.”
“Then we’ll go at once and pick them up; there are sure to be enough for your breakfast.”
Without the least ceremony or hesitation she climbed up the ladder, and though the illustrious philosopher had rapidly turned his head, he could not avoid seeing the plump widow’s blue stockings, through which her sturdy calves were very vigorously indicated.
Dame Catherina slipped into the fowl-loft through a door under the pent roof, and reappeared radiant with satisfaction, bringing with her a dozen eggs, which she displayed triumphantly.
“See here!” she cried, standing at the top of the ladder; “well, I’ve every day as many. What eggs!—not a hen in the village lays such beauties! Help me, Doctor—I daren’t come down alone.”
The good man was obliged to steady the foot of the ladder and lend his hands to Dame Catherina, who laughed, pretended to be afraid, and all the time seemed quite at her ease. Mathéus was as red as a raspberry.
“Thanks, Doctor,” she said. “I’m sure the white hen has laid behind the woodstack. I could see, from up there, an egg lying on some bits of straw. We must send Nickel to get it.”
She took the Doctor’s arm, and in this manner they entered the house.
When Dame Catherina and Mathéus appeared in the kitchen, Coucou Peter, seated on a stool before the hearth, was blowing with all his might through a long iron tube, to make the fire burn; the coals flamed, the vine shoots crackled, water was bubbling in the boiler, a magnificent cutlet was frizzling on the gridiron, and spreading around a most agreeable odour.
Mother Windling paused on the threshold, and cried—
“You rascally Coucou Peter! I’d like to know where you got that cutlet from?”
Without in the least disturbing himself, Coucou Peter indicated the large oak cupboard.
“He’s like a cat, he sees everything! But I thought I’d put the key in my pocket.”
“Who wants your key?” replied the fiddler, quite gravely. “I don’t; with a bit of straw I can open all the locks in the world.”
“Ah, the rogue!” cried the good woman, laughing, “he’ll end with the galleys!”
Mathéus would have remonstrated with his disciple, but Coucou Peter interrupted him.
“Maître Frantz,” he said, “I’m fond of cutlets—it’s not contrary to the system to be fond of cutlets; all that is not forbidden is permitted; isn’t it so, Dame Catherina?”
“I suppose so; anyhow, you’ve always the last word! Now get out of the way, and let me boil the eggs. If the Doctor will go into the best room, I’ll soon be with him; time to say a Pater, and all will be ready. You, Coucou Peter, go and water the Doctor’s horse: Nickel has gone this morning to turn the water on to the large meadow.”
“With pleasure, mother; with pleasure.”
The fiddler went out, and the illustrious philosopher entered the best room.
Never had Frantz Mathéus felt more calm, more happy, more content with himself and nature. The open air had developed his appetite; he heard the fire crackling on the hearth, the cat purring under the table, and Dame Catherina sweeping the front of her door, while humming Karl Ritter’s old refrain—
“Love me, and I’ll love you! I’ll love you! I’ll love you!”
Now he contemplated the ancient Nuremburg clock, all yellow and worm-eaten, with its china face painted with brilliant flowers, and its wooden cuckoo that chanted the hours, and the illustrious philosopher never tired of admiring its ingenious mechanism; now he stopped before an open window, and gazed tenderly out upon the little Place of Oberbronn.
There, about the green trough into which a stream of clear water flowed from a moss-grown spout, were gathered the young girls of the village, in short petticoats, and bare armed and legged. They were beating their linen, bawling, calling to one another, and noisily chatting; and the good man smiled at their unsophisticated manners and graceful attitudes.
Bruno was drinking at the trough, and every now and then turned his head as if to salute Mathéus. Coucou Peter smacked his whip and said soft nothings to the blooming laundresses, who made fun of his fine speeches; but when—no doubt out of revenge—he wanted to kiss the prettiest of the band, there arose an incredible tumult of screams and laughter; the whole of them fell upon him and thumped him with their beetles and wet linen.
In spite of this violent attack, the impudent fellow did not let the girl go: he kissed her on the throat, on the nape of her neck, on her cheeks, crying joyously—
“Oh, how good it is! beat away! beat away! I laugh at it! I like it!”
Everybody came to the windows and laughed at what was going on; the old women squalled, the dogs barked, and Coucou Peter—red, moist, and out of breath—repeated—
“One more little kiss, for love of the peregrination of souls.”
“Ah, the rogue!” said Mathéus; “what an odd disciple I have there!”
At length, seeing the peasants with their sticks running towards the place, Coucou Peter mounted Bruno in haste, leaped over the watertrough, and rode into the stable, crying—
“How pretty the girls of Oberbronn are! They’re as sweet in the mouth as cherries, and as crisp as filberts!”
Then he tried to fasten the door, for the peasant lads were furious.
Unluckily, Ludwig Spengler, the garde champêtre’s son, whose sweetheart he had kissed, arrived almost as soon as he, and pushed his stick between the wall and the door, and the whole of them rushed into the stable. Coucou Peter, yelling like the deuce, and calling out—“Friends!—my dear friends—it was all a joke—nothing but a joke!” was soundly thrashed.
They dragged him out, and blows with sticks were showered on him like hail.
“Sweet as cherries!” shouted one.
“Crisp as filberts!” yelled another.
“I laugh at it!—I like it!” cried Ludwig Spengler, striking with the full swing of his arm.
Mathéus, who was a witness of the whole affair, called from the window—
“Courage, courage, Coucou Peter! accept this anthropo-zoological trial with philosophical resignation; even thank these young men for labouring towards your moral perfection! For a long time I have remarked that you belong to the family of bullfinches, a voluptuous race, feeding on the buds of flowers, and the most delicate fruits. After a few such lessons as this, I hope to see you renounce these sensual principles.”
Poor Coucou Peter writhed, and looked pitifully at his master, as much as to say: “I wish you had been in my place, with your anthropo-zoological principles.”
The Doctor’s short address, however, produced a happy diversion in Coucou Peter’s favour; the honest countrymen, struck by the august physiognomy and gestures of the illustrious philosopher, assembled under the window, and the fiddler took advantage of this moment to make his escape, and shut himself securely into the stable.
Half the village were collected under the Doctor’s eyes; they formed a circle, and looked at him over each other’s heads and shoulders, all being anxious to hear him.
Imagine the good man’s enthusiasm; he would have liked to embrace them all; he could not contain his delight.
“Frantz,” he said to himself, “the hour for your preaching is come; it is clear that the Being of Beings, the Great Demiourgos, has brought together this numerous auditory for the purpose of their being converted by you. You would be blind not to see in this the finger of Providence!”
Such was his emotion, that for some seconds he was unable to articulate a word; he blew his nose, he opened his mouth; so great a number of arguments presented themselves to his mind, that he knew not where to commence: he wanted to say everything at once.
But at length his soul became calm, and, in a ringing voice, he cried—
“O, noble inhabitants of Oberbronn, privileged beings of nature, humble and worthy country-people, you know not how deeply I am touched as I look upon you; you know not the glory that awaits you, the treasures which I bring to you!”
At the word “treasures,” there was a great stir amongst the crowd; they expected to see him plunge his hand into a bag and throw money out of the window. Those who were farthest off instantly struggled to get nearer, and Katel the hunchback, who was in the front rank, began to scream; the poor woman, seeing others forcing their way before her, thought they would deprive her of her share.
This appearance of interest gave evident pleasure to the illustrious philosopher.
“Yes, my friends,” he continued, in a pathetic tone, “I bring you treasures of wisdom, treasures of philosophy and virtue!”
The crowd was undeceived.
“The devil fly away with you and your treasures of wisdom!” cried Ludwig Spengler; “you look to me to stand a good deal more in need of some than we do!”
Mathéus, moved with indignation, stopped short, with the view of overwhelming this rude fellow with a grand apostrophe, but the little miller, Tapihans, approaching the window, took off his cotton cap and said—
“Good day, Abraham, what are you doing here? Do you want to make Jews of us?”
“My name is not Abraham,” cried the illustrious philosopher. “I am Frantz Mathéus, doctor of medicine of the faculty of Strasbourg, corresponding member of——”
“Oh, I know you well,” interrupted the miller mockingly; “you call yourself Abraham Speizer, and not more than a year ago you sold me a blind horse, which I’ve never been able to get rid of. And, more than that, if I’m not mistaken, you must be the rabbi of Marmoutier!”
Hardly had he uttered these words than a great commotion rose amidst the crowd.
“Set upon the rabbi!—down with the rabbi!—on to the Jew!”
“My children, you are deceived!” cried the good man, “your animal instincts blind you; listen to me!”
But nobody would hear a word he had to say. The old women raised their broom-handles, the men their cudgels; some looked about for stones; and Mathéus, pale, overcome with emotion, stammered unintelligibly. Suddenly acting upon a luminous inspiration, he turned on his heels and fled into the kitchen.
The shouts and tumult then redoubled outside the house. Dame Catherina herself was terrified.
“Good heavens!” she cried, “what have you done, Doctor?”
“Nothing, dear madame, nothing,” gasped the good man; “it’s the miller, it’s——”
“Tapihans?—ah, the wretch! the wretch! He wants to separate us; he’s raised the village against us! But fly!” she cried, thrusting a large black-pudding into his pocket. “Fly! we shall see each other again; you will come some other time!”
The illustrious philosopher did not need this advice; he had already hurried across the yard, stammering—
“Yes, yes! we shall meet again in the spheres above!”
He darted into the stable by the back door, and found his disciple buckling the girths of his horse.
Coucou Peter had observed the scene from a window looking out on to the street, and foreseeing the issue of the sermonising, had come to saddle Bruno.
“Aha, Maître Frantz!” he said; “you’re just in time; I was off without you. Our peregrination of souls doesn’t appear to take in this village.”
“Let us hasten away from this place,” cried Mathéus, not knowing which way to turn.
“Yes, I think that’s the best thing to be done; these beggars of peasants are not up to our level. Get up behind me, for there’s an end of our business here.”
At the same time he mounted on horseback, and the illustrious doctor clambered up behind him with marvellous dexterity.
Coucou Peter at once drew the bar, threw open the door, and dashed out like one riding for his life.
A terrible clamour rose on all sides of them, and Mathéus immediately received three painful cudgel-blows, Coucou-Peter calling out at each blow—
“Ah! ah! another psychological lesson!”
But the illustrious philosopher said nothing; he closed his eyes and clung to his disciple so tightly that the fiddler could hardly breathe.
Dame Catherina, standing on her doorstep, her eggs in a basin, uttered plaintive cries as she watched these proceedings, despairing of her dear doctor’s safety. But when she saw his horse going off at full gallop through the midst of the hooting and yelling crowd, the good woman pressed her hand upon her tender heart, dried her eyes with the border of her apron, and returned to the kitchen heaving a deep sigh.
“Poor, dear man!” she murmured; “may Heaven conduct him!”