Later on, when the children were many and my fathers business slack, these visits had to cease owing to the fact that my parents could no longer afford the price of the post-coach. But the memory of that lovely, quiet spot, connected so closely with a sweet and careless childhood, still arouses sudden sadness and makes me yearn for it.
My mother used to take my brother and myself to church every Sunday, and that place so lofty, so dark, so doleful, and always smelling strongly of incense, made me strangely shy and still. My mother sat upon one of the benches, but my brother and I had to stand with the school children. We were right in front of the altar, and the priest, together with the sacristan, had to pass us when they left the vestry. The priest was the same priest who taught us scripture at school, and I thought him even more handsome in his surplice, made of white lace. As I never managed to remember when we were to kneel during the Mass, I simply imitated the others; but no matter whether I knelt or stood up, I always watched the priest, and followed all his movements. With a feeling of profoundest reverence I looked at him, and saw how he mixed the wine and drank it, how he swung the censer solemnly, how he prayed, with folded hands, out of the holy book, and kissed it reverently at the end....
My brother, as a matter of course, had also started school, and spent most of the time with his schoolfellows. We were not so much together now, but had, nevertheless, plenty of opportunity to quarrel; he grew naughtier from day to day, and my poor mother was unable to manage him. When my father came home in the evening I, in my little bedroom, could hear my mother crying and declaring that she could stand it no longer. Then my father used to grow angry and say that he could not possibly undertake both the education of the children and his business. So everything remained as it had been.
When I was twelve years old a great change happened. My father sold his business, and bought a house (including a business) in a distant little town. Once more all our furniture was removed, but on this occasion it was carried to the station. Strange to say we children were not informed about it until the last hour, so that I had left the church-square the previous evening in the usual manner and never said good-bye to anyone.
It was getting dark when we arrived at Hohenburg; a carriage drove us home from the station, and my father showed us all the rooms of the first floor. Another floor had been added according to my father's orders, but he would not let us go upstairs that evening. My mother put us to bed and told us not to forget our dreams, since dreams dreamt the first night at a place one has never seen before come true. I listened attentively to what my mother said, and on the morrow I pondered over my dream. "Mother," I said, "I dreamt that we had gone back again to Langenau." My mother smiled, shook her head, and said she did not think that my dream could come true.
The first days and weeks passed quickly, and were full of sweet excitement. My brother and my sisters, as well as myself, made new friends immediately, and I do not think that at this time I thought much about my old friends. The people who lived in the house beside us called my mother "landlady," and I believe my mother liked to hear that. She also took a new maid, whom I thought to be a person of great importance. Very often she used to tell me stories about men, and confided in me her approaching marriage. Whenever she mentioned that coming event she looked exceedingly happy and proud, so I came to the conclusion that "to marry must be something beautiful," and wished to marry too. I confessed it to our maid, but she said that I was not old enough.
"How old, then, must a girl be to be able to marry?"
And to this question she replied:
"I cannot say for certain; some girls marry early, some marry late."
I decided to marry early.