CHAPTER XVII.
Winter had come again, and the earth had to consent, with or against her will, to receive her rude visitant. It is all very well when winter comes in pleasantly with bright frosty weather, but when it brings a nasty cold rain at Christmas time, it is very disagreeable. This year, however, it came in merrily as I have often known it do, with the cracking of whips and tinkling of sledge-bells. I remember well how William of Siden-Bollentin drove up to my door in a sledge, his horses smoking in the frosty air. He sprang to the ground, rubbed his cold blue cheeks, slapped his arms once--twice--thrice, across his chest to warm himself, and said: "Good-morning, Mr. Reuter, I've come to fetch you. My master and mistress send their compliments, and you've nothing to do but to get into the sledge, for the foot-bags and cloaks are lying in a heap on the seat ready for you. To-morrow's Christmas, and little Jack told me to drive as hard as I could."--When winter comes like that my wife and I rejoice and welcome it with delight, so we gave the old groom a glass of wine, seated ourselves in the sledge, and off we went at the rate of ten miles an hour--and yet when we got to the front-door at Bollentin, Fred Peters greeted us with: "What the devil has made you so long in coming?"--His wife embraced my wife, took off her hood, and said to me; "Uncle Reuting, I have a nice little dish of cabbage and sausage ready for you."--And the two girls, Lizzie and Annie, whom I have so often carried in my arms when they were little babies, ran up to me, gave their old uncle a hearty kiss, and then threw themselves into my wife's arms. Fred and Max, who were now great school-boys, came and shook my hand in the old high-school fashion, and while they were doing so, Jack was watching his opportunity to spring out upon me. As soon as he caught me, I gave him a ride on my foot, and would have liked to have been his playfellow for the rest of the evening. Then little Ernest, the baby, was introduced to me, and we all stood round that wonder of the world, and exclaimed at his look of wisdom, and at his being able to take so much notice. Last of all came the old grand-mother. After that the amusements of the evening began. The Christmas tree was lighted up. The Julklapp knocked, and the first thing it threw in was a poem written by my wife, the only one she ever made, and which was as follows: "Here I sit, and am so hot; and ask naught by day ....." There it ended, and it was no matter, for it was perfect as a fragment. Then Christmas day came with a solemn hush into the world, and God scattered His soft snow-flakes like down upon the face of the earth, so that no sound was to be heard without. On the next day parson Pieper and his wife, and the superintendent and his wife came, and Anna too, who is a great pet of mine, for she was once my pupil. Then came Mrs. Adam, the doctor's wife, and Mrs. Schönermark, the sheriff's wife; they brought Lucy Dolle with them, and she had rather an uncomfortable seat between the two ladies. After that another sledge drove up, out of which Dr. Dolly lifted a great round bundle, beside which he had been sitting, and handed it over to the two parlour-maids, who were standing ready to receive it. When the bundle was unrolled, and all the furs, cloaks, shawls and foot-bags which composed its outer covering had been removed, Mr. Schröder, the barrister, was disclosed to view. He was not ready even then, for he seated himself on one of the hall-chairs, and Sophie took possession of one leg, and Polly of the other, and then they pulled off his fur-boots, while I held him firmly, lest his legs should be tugged off. Then came another sledge, and out of it sprang Rudolph Kurz--he jumped right over the reins the coachman was holding in his hand, and after him came Hilgendorf. Do you know, Hilgendorf? Hilgendorf, our Rudolph's teacher? No? Well, it is not necessary that you should. To describe him in a few words: Hilgendorf is a natural curiosity, his bones are made of ivory--"pure ivory." He is so hard that any one thumping him on the shoulder or knee has his hand badly bruised--because of his ivory bones.
Then coffee was drunk, and the barrister told stories, very good stories they were too, and he told them with fire, that is to say, his pipe was continually going out while he was talking, and he had to light it again every now and then, so that before long he had smoked a whole boxful of matches. Max was deputed to sit beside him, and see that he did not catch fire during his consumption of matches. After that there was whist with van der Heydt and Manteufel, and various other things of the sort, for that was the barrister's usual play. During supper, whilst he was disposing of roast goose and other good things, the barrister made all kinds of beautiful poems out of the most extraordinary rhymes; for instance, "Hilgendorf," "Schorf," and "Torf," and when given "Peters," he made the next lines end with "Köters," and "versteht er's." When we at last separated, we all shook hands, and parted in peace and good-will, every face saying: "Till next year!"
The day after Christmas passed very differently at Pümpelhagen. The weather was bright and beautiful there also, but the peace and good-fellowship that should have made the day a happy one, were wanting. Each member of the household was busy with his or her own private thoughts, with the exception of Fred Triddelfitz and Mary Möller, who spent the afternoon together eating ginger-bread-nuts. Fred said after a time: "I can eat no more, Polly, for I have to go on a journey to-morrow. I am to take three loads of wheat to Demmin, and if I eat more ginger-bread I may be ill. I shouldn't like that you know, especially as I want to make up the parcel of our reading-books for the library, that I may change them in Demmin, and so let us have something to read in the evening." He then rose and went out to visit his sorrel-mare, and Mary Möller felt that his heart was not entirely hers, for he divided it between her and his mare.
Hawermann was sitting alone, buried in thought. He was very grave, for he felt that his active work in the world had now come to an end, that he might fold his hands on his knees, and take his rest. He was sad when he thought of how his life at Pümpelhagen had ended, and how all his joy in the place had turned to sorrow.
Alick and Frida were sitting in another room. They were together, and yet they were alone, for they thought their own thoughts, and did not confide them to each other. They were silent; Frida calm and quiet, and Alick rather cross. Suddenly sledge-bells were heard outside, and Pomuchelskopp drove up to the door. Frida picked up her work and left the room, so Alick was obliged to receive his visitor alone.
The two gentlemen were soon busily engaged talking of farming matters, such as horse-breeding, and the price of corn. The afternoon would have passed innocently and peacefully, if Daniel Sadenwater had not brought in the post-bag. Alick opened it, and found a letter for Hawermann. He would at once have given it to Daniel, but he saw his own crest on the envelope, and on looking more closely, he discovered that it was addressed in his cousin's hand-writing. "Is that confounded plot still going on behind my back?" he exclaimed, as he threw the letter to Daniel, almost hitting him in the face with it: "Take that to the bailiff."--Daniel went away looking rather dazed, and Pomuchelskopp asked Alick sympathisingly what had put him out.--"Isn't it enough to make any one angry to see how that idiotic cousin of mine has allowed himself to be caught in the toils laid for him by that old rascal and his daughter, and how obstinate he is in carrying on that foolish love-affair?"--"Oh," said Muchel, "I thought that was over long ago. I was told that your cousin had broken off all connection with these people as soon as he heard what every one was saying about them."--"What is it?" asked Alick.--"Oh, what is said about your bailiff and the labourer, Kegel--isn't that the man's name--and the three hundred pounds."--"Tell me, what do people say?"--"You know. I think that was why you gave the old fellow the sack."--"I don't understand. Tell me what you mean."--"Everyone knows it. It is said that Hawermann and the labourer had made a compact together. That Hawermann let the labourer escape, and that he got half of the money for doing so. That he gave him an estate-pass, which enabled him to get an engagement as ordinary seaman at Wismar."--Alick paced the room with long strides: "It isn't possible! He can't have deceived me so shamefully!"--"Ah, people even go so far as to say that he and the labourer had arranged about the theft from the very first, but I don't believe that."--"Why not? What was the old sinner talking secretly to the woman for? What made him take such a prominent part then, when he is generally so very retiring."--"If there had been anything in that," said Pomuchelskopp, "the mayor of Rahnstädt would surely have noticed it"--"The mayor! I have very little confidence in his judgment. They make out now that the wife of a poor weaver was the thief who stole the money from the labourer on the public road. And why? Because she tried to get change for a Danish double Louis d'or which she had found. She declared that she had found it, nothing would make her change her story, and so the wise mayor of Rahnstädt had to set her free."--"Yes," answered Muchel, "and the man who saw the Louis d'or was Kurz, the shopkeeper, and he is a relation of Hawermann's I think."--"I'd give another hundred pounds with pleasure," cried Alick, "if I could only get to the bottom of this villany."--"It would be difficult to manage," said Pomuchelskopp, "but, first of all I'd--when does he go?"--"Hawermann? To-morrow."--"Well, you should go over his books very carefully, you can't tell whether they're in good order or not. Be particular to add up the columns of figures yourself, and you may perhaps find something wrong, at any rate it's the best check. He must have feathered his nest pretty well, for I hear he is going to live in Rahnstädt on his savings. Certainly he has been receiving a high salary here for a number of years, but I know that he had to pay off a good many, and rather considerable debts, when he first became your father's bailiff. After that he--as I hear from attorney Slus'uhr--lent out his small savings, and perhaps some of the estate-money at usury, and has made a good thing of it."--"Oh," cried Alick, "and when I asked him once ....." but he stopped short in order not to betray himself, but he felt as if he hated Hawermann for not having helped him when he could so easily have done so, for having refused him assistance because he had not offered him a high enough percentage on the money he had wanted to borrow.
After this there was very little more conversation, for each of the gentlemen had too much to think of to care to talk, and when Pomuchelskopp at length drove home, he left young Mr. von Rambow a prey to all kinds of suspicious fancies, which made him so restless and uneasy that he could not go to sleep the whole night.
In an upper room in the Pümpelhagen farm-house Hawermann was sitting over his desk, with his account-book open before him. He was going over the last months' accounts to make sure that they were all right, and corresponded with the quantity of money he had in his safe. Since Alick had come into the estate, he had taken him the books every quarter to be examined, but the young squire sometimes said he had no time to look at them, and sometimes without looking at them, had returned them, saying, he was sure they were all right, and that it was not necessary to show them to him. Hawermann had not made use of this carelessness of his master, but had been even more particular than before, and had kept his books as he had been accustomed to do from his youth up. He had taught Triddelfitz to keep an account of the corn used, and to bring it to him every week; if ever the lad made a mistake in his report he scolded him for it far more severely than for any carelessness in other things.
While the old man was sitting at his desk Fred came in, and asked his advice about this or that concerning his journey to Demmin. When all was settled, and Fred was about to leave the room, the bailiff called him back: "Triddelfitz," he said, "I hope you have your corn-account ready."--"Yes," said Fred, "that's to say, very nearly."--"Didn't I ask you to be particular about having it ready for me to-night, and to be sure that you added it up properly?"--"All right," said Fred, leaving the room. Daniel Sadenwater came in, and brought the bailiff a letter; and as it was growing dark Hawermann took it to the window. When he saw that it was from Frank his heart beat quicker, and as he read it, his eyes shone with pride and joy, and his heart softened and thawed under the influence of the young man's affection, in the same way as the snow on the roof melts in the sunshine, and before he had finished the letter a few tears had fallen from his eyes upon the paper.
Frank wrote that he had heard that Hawermann was going to leave Pümpelhagen, that he was now free, and must consent to his sincere desire to write to Louisa at once. The enclosed letter was to be given to her, and Frank hoped that it would lead to three people being happier than before.
The bailiff's hands trembled as he put his daughter's letter into his pocket-book, and his knees knocked together as he thought of the future happiness or unhappiness of his only child being thus in his hands. He seated himself on the sofa, and considered what he ought to do. In the morning the sea sometimes rises in wild billows, at noon it is calmer, but still gloomy and uncertain looking, but in the evening the blue sky is reflected in the smooth mirror of the water, and the setting sun encloses the picture in a golden frame.
Something of this sort was going on in the old man's spirit. At first his thoughts were tumultuous and confused, then he grew calmer, and was able to think whether he should be failing in his duty to Mr. von Rambow if he consented to do as Frank wished him. But what duty did he owe to the man who had returned him evil for good, and who was even now driving him away by his conduct? None. And he raised his head proudly, feeling that his conscience could not reproach him for his actions or thoughts, and then he determined that he would not sacrifice his best and dearest for the sake of a foolish boy, that he could not make his child suffer because of unjust social prejudices. Then he pleased himself by thinking of the happy future before Frank and Louisa, and lost himself in a delicious day-dream.
While he was thus engaged the door opened, and Christian Degel rushed into the room, exclaiming: "Oh, sir, you must come at once, the Rubens-mare has been taken very ill, and we don't know what to do." The bailiff rose and hastened to the stable.
Scarcely was he gone than Fred Triddelfitz came in carrying a portmanteau, club-books, shirts, and clothes of all kinds. He laid the portmanteau on a chair by the window, and began to pack up his things that he might be able to cut a figure in Demmin, when he caught sight of Hawermann's farm-book; for the old man had forgotten in his excitement to shut his desk.--"That'll, do for me," said Fred, and seating himself in the window as it was beginning to grow dark, he set to work to enter the corn-account.
Before he had quite finished Christian rushed into the room again: "Mr. Triddelfitz, you must go at once--this very moment--and fetch a rape-cloth from the granary, we are going to pack the mare in wet sheets." When Fred heard footsteps coming he hid the book behind him on the chair, and when Christian thrust the key of the granary into his hand, he left the book lying on the chair and went away with the groom. He met Mary Möller coming from the cow-house just as he got to the granary door; "Mary," he cried, "will you be so kind as to put up my things for me. You'll find them with the portmanteau on the chair at the parlour window; be sure you don't forget the books."--Mary did as she was asked. It was very dark and she was in love, so she packed Hawermann's farm-book as well as the novels from the lending library.
When Hawermann came back from the stable he locked his desk without noticing that anything was missing, and next morning Fred Triddelfitz set off at cock-crow for Demmin with his wheat and portmanteau, never thinking he had anything with him that he ought not to have had.
After the old bailiff had given the labourers their orders for the last time, he returned to his house to collect and pack his things so that he might leave that afternoon, but before he was quite ready, Daniel Sadenwater came in, and desired him to come to Mr. von Rambow.
Alick had spent a very restless night; his best thoroughbred mare in which he had placed his hopes had been taken ill; the suspicion Pomuchelskopp had aroused, troubled him; the difficulty of farming by himself overwhelmed him, and then he must pay Hawermann's wages at once, to say nothing of various small sums he had got the bailiff to pay for him to the labourers, and the total amount of which he did not know. The bailiff had given him warning, not he the bailiff, and he must try to think of some pretext to put off paying him at once what he owed him. A good reason for such conduct is difficult to find, but a subject of quarrel is always to be had, and may be made to serve as a pretext for putting off the payment of one's debts. It is a wretched means to gain such an end, but a very common one! And Alick determined to make use of it, thereby showing how much his pride as a man and a gentleman had been lowered. Nothing has so much influence on a weak man's character as being short of money, especially when he wants to keep up appearances. "Needy and bumptious" is a true proverb.
When Hawermann came in, he turned to the window, and asked while he looked out into the yard: "Is the mare quite well again?"--"No," said Hawermann, "she is still ill, and I think you should send for the vet."--"I will see that he comes. But," he added, still staring out of the window, "she would have been quite well if the stables had been properly looked after, and if she had not been fed on that bad, mouldy hay."--"Mr. von Rambow, you know that the hay got a good deal of rain this summer, but still it's by no means mouldy. And you took the entire charge of the thoroughbreds into your own hands, for when I made a slight change in the stable a few weeks ago, you forbade my order being obeyed, and undertook to manage the horses yourself."--"Of course! Of course!" cried Alick beginning to walk up and down the room, "we know all that. It's the old story over again." Suddenly he came to a stand-still before Hawermann, and looking at him a little uncertainly, went on: "You're going away to-day, ar'n't you?"--"Yes," said Hawermann, "after our last agreement ...."--"I needn't," interrupted the young squire, "let you go before Easter unless I choose, and I insist upon your staying here until the second of January."--"You're right, but ....."--"That isn't so much longer for you to stay," interrupted Alick, "and we must go over our accounts. Go and get your book now."--Hawermann went.
Alick was determined to save his money a little longer if he could. When Hawermann came back with his book, he might say that he had not time to look at it at that moment, and if the bailiff begged him to do it, he might get on his high horse, and say that the second of January would be time enough. But matters were to go more easily for him than he had thought. Hawermann did not return. He waited, and waited, but still Hawermann did not return. At last he sent Daniel Sadenwater to seek him, and then he came back with the butler. The old bailiff was pale and excited, and as he entered the room, he exclaimed: "I don't understand it. How can it have happened?"--"What's the matter?" asked Alick.--"Mr. von Rambow, I was busy finishing my book yesterday afternoon, and when I had done I put it in my desk, and now it is gone."--"A nice story forsooth," cried Alick scornfully, and the seed Pomuchelskopp had sowed in his soul began to grow, "yes, it's a nice story. When no one wanted the book it was always ready, and now that it is asked for, it has disappeared."--"I entreat of you," urged Hawermann, "don't judge so quickly. It will be found; it must be found," and he hurried away.
After a time he came back, "It isn't there," he said mournfully, "it has been stolen from me."--"That's a good joke!" working himself into a rage. "My three hundred pounds were not stolen, at least you said they were not, and now you say your book is stolen, because it suits you to say so."--"Oh God!" cried the old man, "give me time!" He clasped his hands together: "Oh God, my book is gone."--"Yes," cried Alick, "and the labourer Regel is also gone, and everyone knows how he escaped. My three hundred pounds are also gone, and everyone knows where they are to be found. Have you noted them in the book?" he asked advancing close to Hawermann, and looking him full in the face.--The old man stared at him, and then looking all round as if to make sure where he was, let his clasped hands fall to his side. He shivered from head to foot as does a giant river when about to break its icy fetters, and the blood rushed through his limbs and tingled in his face, like the waters of the great river, when they have freed themselves from their bonds, and rush swiftly on their course carrying all before them. Beware of such times, children of men! "Scoundrel!" he shouted, springing upon Alick, who had: retreated a few steps when he saw the expression of the other's face. "Scoundrel!" he cried, "my honest name..." Alick got into a corner and seized the weapon that was always kept there. "Scoundrel!" cried the old man, "your gun and my honest name!" And now began a violent struggle for possession of the gun, which the bailiff caught by the stock and tried to wrench out of his opponent's hand. Bang! The gun went off.--"Oh Lord!" cried Alick, falling back upon the sofa. The old man stood beside him with the gun in his hand.--The door opened, and Mrs. von Rambow rushed up to her husband: "What is it? What's the matter?" she exclaimed, and all the love she had ever felt for him came back with a rush. "Oh, what is this? Blood!"--"Never mind," said Alick, trying to raise himself, "it's only my arm."--The old man stood motionless with the gun in his hand. His fury was calmed, but he felt that he had done an evil deed that he could never wash out however long he might live.--Daniel and the housemaid both ran into the room, and with their help Alick's coat was taken off and he was laid upon the sofa. His arm was much lacerated by the shot, and the blood dripped upon the floor.--"Go for a doctor," said Mrs. von Rambow, while she tried to stop the flow of blood by binding handkerchiefs round her husband's arm. She had not enough to be of any use, so she rose to fetch more. She had to pass Hawermann on her way to the door. He was standing pale and motionless by his master's side. "Murderer!" she said as she went out, and again when she came in she repeated: "Murderer!" The old man made no reply, but Alick raised himself, and said: "No, Frida, no. He is not that," for even an unrighteous man speaks the truth when he feels that he has escaped death by a hair's breadth, "but," he added, still harping on the old theme, "he is a cheat and a thief. Get out of my sight as quick as you can," he said addressing the bailiff.--The old man's face flushed, he opened his mouth as if to speak, and then seeing how Mrs. von Rambow shrank from him, he staggered out of the study.
He went to his own room: "A cheat and a thief," the words rang in his ears. He went to the window and looked out into the yard. He saw everything that went on there, but he saw it as in a dream. "A cheat and a thief," that was the only thing he could understand, that alone was real. He saw Christian Degel driving out of the yard; he knew that the man had gone to fetch the doctor; he threw the window wide open and was about to desire him to drive as hard as he could; but--"a cheat and a thief" was what he involuntarily called out instead of the order he had intended to give; he shut the window again. But the book! The book must be found--the book! He pulled everything out of the boxes he had already packed; he strewed all his possessions about the floor; he fell upon his knees--not to pray, for he was "a cheat and a thief"; he poked about under his desk with his stick, under his chest of drawers, and under his bed; the book must be somewhere, the book! All in vain! "A cheat and a thief." He once more took his stand in the window, and looked out; he still had his walking stick in his hand, was he going out, or what did he want with the stick? Yes, he would go out, he would go away from here, far away! He snatched up his hat, and went out. Where should he go? It was all the same to him, all the same, but habit led him to Gürlitz. As he went along the familiar road, old thoughts came back to him: "My child! My child!" he cried, "my honest name!" He felt his breast pocket--yes, he had put his pocket-book there, he had his daughter's happiness safe. What was the use of it now? He had destroyed the power that letter contained of making her happy, his honesty was doubted, and that shot had made matters even worse than they were before. A few bitter tears were wrung from him in his agony of spirit, and the tears brought him comfort; he knew that he had only meant to wrest the gun from Alick, not to hurt him; his conscience acquitted him of that crime, and he breathed more freely--but his honest name was gone and with it the happiness of his only child. Oh, how distinctly he remembered his joy yesterday when he had read and thought over that letter in his own room, when he had indulged in day-dreams of his daughter's future happiness, and now, all was changed and lost. The brand attached to his name would sink into his daughter's heart and bring her sorrow and shame. But what had his child to do with it? Alas! The curses and brands that rest on the father descend to the children even to the fourth generation, and the same hedge of thorns which separated him from all honest men came between his daughter and happiness. But he was innocent. Who would believe him if he were to say so? He, whose white robe of innocence has been, however unjustly, smirched, may go on his way through the world, no one will wash him clean; even if God were to proclaim his innocence by signs and wonders--the world would not believe. "Oh," he cried, "I know the world!" Then his eyes fell on Gürlitz manor, Pomuchelskopp's home, and out of a corner of his heart, a corner he thought he had closed and barred for evermore, rose the dread figure of Hate, the tears he had shed for his child dried on his cheek, and his voice which had before uttered the words involuntarily, now repeated them, "a cheat and a thief," and angry thoughts rose thick and fast in his mind: "he is the cause of it all, and we must be quits some day!"
He went through Gürlitz, but saw nothing on the right hand or the left. All he had loved there were gone from the place, he had only to do with his hate, and had only one object to set before him in life.--Bräsig was standing by the parsonage barn, and seeing his friend went forward to meet him: "Good morning, Charles. Where are you going? But what's the matter?"--"Nothing, Bräsig! But leave me, leave me alone. Come to Rahnstädt to-morrow, come to-morrow," so saying he walked on and left him. When he came to the hill on the other side of Gürlitz, from the top of which Alick had first shown his young wife his beautiful estate of Pümpelhagen, and where she had shown such unaffected pleasure in what she saw, he stood still. It was the last point from which he could see the place where he had been so happy, and where he had as it were wept tears of blood when his honour and his name had been so cruelly tarnished. His whole soul rebelled against his fate: "The miserable liar!" he said. "And she--she called me a 'murderer' once, then she said it again: 'murderer,' and turned from me in horror.--Your day of sorrow is coming upon you all. I could have saved you, and I would have saved you. I watched over your interests and served you as faithfully as a dog, and you have thrust me from you like a dog; but ...." and he turned to resume his walk to Rahnstädt, hatred still possessing his soul.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1]: Translator's note. The housekeeper in a large farm in N. Germany is a person of great consequence, and is always called Mamselle.
[Footnote 2]: Translator's note. In Germany the wife has to provide, as well as her own trouseau, all the house and table-linen, and all the furniture even tables and chairs.
[Footnote 3]: Translator's note. "Fasan"--"Vasall."
"Vinum, the father,
And cœna, the mother,
And Venus, the nurse,
Make gout much worse."