A Noble Name; or, Dönninghausen

by Claire von Glümer

TANNHAGEN.

It was not until after several unsuccessful attempts that Otto had completed this epistle. Johanna's proposal had terrified him. The mere idea of the storm which she would so boldly have called down upon both their heads was intolerable to him. In spite of all he had said, he had not had the remotest intention of offering any opposition to his grandfather's plans. Still, he certainly might be permitted to grumble at them, especially to Johanna. Her taking everything so seriously was awkward, and she must learn to do so no longer; she must certainly give up her unlucky scheme of interference, which would only serve to anger the Freiherr afresh against his grandson. Johanna, indeed, did not know how often he had forgiven him, how often he had afforded him new openings in life; but Otto sometimes remembered this, and never without a certain annoying sense of shame.

He tried to rid himself of this to-day by registering a vow that his grandfather should never again have cause for displeasure with him. If the Freiherr liked Tannhagen, let him buy it. A life in such seclusion was not, indeed, what Otto had desired, but he must not forget that his task in the future would be to make Johanna happy, and she really had a preference for solitude. Moreover, his garrison life had not been all sunshine, and he was uncomfortable enough at present at Klausenburg.

He concluded then that even for himself acquiescence in his grandfather's scheme was best,—at least for the present. If hereafter he should become weary of farming, why, the Freiherr could not live forever; and with regard to Johanna, whose happiness was now to be his chief duty, he was consoled by something which just now occurred to him that Red Jakob had once said.

A few weeks before, Otto had been overtaken by a shower on the mountains, and had taken shelter from it in the Forest Hermitage, where he had asked, in the kind manner which he always adopted towards his inferiors, after the welfare of the newly-married pair. Red Jakob, in his bitter way, had congratulated himself on the accident that had procured him a subsistence, while Christine, who was still tasting to the full the sweetness of her honeymoon, could not sufficiently extol the delights of her forest life. Otto had told her in jest that she would not talk so in the winter when she might be kept in-doors by storms and snow; then she would wish herself back again in the pleasant village streets, with the neighbours' houses near, and the spinning-rooms in the evening. Jakob would have too much to do to comfort her; she might even run away some fine day. The little wife eagerly contradicted him, and Jakob interrupted her with, "Never mind, Christine; Squire Otto does not understand it yet, but he'll learn by and by." And turning to Otto, he said, with his ugly smile, "When the wife is in love with the husband and he understands whistling, he can play the Piper of Hamelin with her. I mean, she must follow him wherever he chooses. However hard it may be for her, she'll always thank him for taking her with him."

Otto went to Dönninghausen very gay of mood, and at his request, immediately after the second breakfast, all drove, even Aunt Thekla, to Tannhagen.

The road led at first through Klausenburg, then turned to the left, and continued by an easy ascent up the mountain through a magnificent forest. Far up they crossed the road to the Forest Hermitage, then descended a short distance, and upon reaching the edge of the woodland, descried, through the gray veil of the falling rain, a long valley with a little village, and at the farther end a large farm.

"That is Tannhagen," said the Freiherr.

Johanna was disappointed; from the name she had expected a woodland nook. But her grandfather praised the meadows and fields through which they drove, the sheltered position of the valley, which made it possible and profitable to grow fruit even here among the mountains, and Otto seemed to agree with all he said.

The farm-buildings, too, the barns and stables, the farm-yard, with its well-built walls and green gates, made the best possible impression; but the old two-storied mansion that formed one side of the farm-yard looked, with its gray walls, its projecting tiled roof, and its small windows, like a peasant's habitation. In summer its ugliness might be partly concealed by the two tall chestnuts before the door, but now their bare boughs, dripping with rain, made the melancholy picture still more melancholy.