Seed-time and Harvest: A Novel

by Fritz Reuter

Frau Nüssler was happy in the happiness of her children, and young Jochen and young Bauschan sat together peacefully, for hours, without saying a word, and thought of the time when they should have a new crown-prince, young Jochen Rudolph, and young Bauschan the seventh. That was not exactly a morning sky, but for moderate people, like Jochen and Bauschan, an evening sky often looks golden.

So in every house, in the whole region, there was happiness for each after its kind, but in one house, where Peace had long been an inmate, and had sat in his own place by the warm stove, in winter, and under the lindens before the door, or in the arbor in the garden, in summer, like a good old grandfather, and had kept a watchful eye upon little Louise's joyous bounds, and had guided the Frau Pastorin's duster, and kept the Herr Pastor's papers in order, the good old grandfather was no longer there,--he had silently taken his leave, and had shut the door softly behind him, and was gone to the place whence he came; and, in his stead, unrest and anxiety had entered, for the good old Pastor was daily growing weaker. He was not confined to a sick-bed, and had no particular disease, and Doctor Strump, of Rahnstadt, with the best intentions in the world, could find, out of the three thousand, seven hundred, seventy and seven diseases which humanity is subject to, by good rights, no single one which suited him. So he must minister to himself, and he did so, for good old grandfather Peace, when he took his departure, had laid his hand on the Pastor's head, saying, "I go, but only for a short time; then I will return to thy Regina. Thou dost not need me, for I entered thy heart years ago, in the solemn hour when thou didst choose between God and the world. Now sleep, for thou mayest well be weary."

And he was weary, very weary. His Regina had placed him on the sofa, under the picture-gallery, according to his desire, that he might look out of the window; his Louise had covered him warmly, and they had both gone out on tiptoe, that they might not disturb his repose. Out of doors, the first snowflakes of the winter were falling from the sky, gently, ever gently; and it was as quiet without as within, as within his heart; and it seemed to him as if the outstretched hands of Christ beckoned and pointed,--no one saw it, but so his Regina afterwards explained the matter,--and he got up, and opened his old chest of drawers, which he had from his father, and which his mother had always polished, herself, and had seated himself in the arm-chair before it, wishing once more to look over things which he had valued so much.

The chest was his cabinet of curiosities, for everything that had been important or remarkable in his life had its memento here; it was his family medicine chest, in which he stored his remedies for the troubles and cares of this world, which he used when he was sick at heart; simple remedies, but they always answered the purpose. They were not put up in vials and bottles and boxes, and no labels were fastened on them; they were merely plucked by his hand, in happy hours, and preserved for use. Everything, by which he could recall to his memory the purest joys of his life, was gathered here, and whenever he was sad, he refreshed his soul with them, and he never closed the old chest without deriving strength from his remedies, and expressing gratitude for them. There lay the Bible, which, when a boy, he had received from his father, there was the beautiful crystal glass, which his best friend had given him, when he left the University, there was the pocket-book, which his Regina had embroidered for him, when they were betrothed; there were sea-shells, which a sailor, whom he once directed into the right way, had sent to him, years after; there were little Christmas and New Year notes, from Louise and Mining, and Lining, which they had indited with infinite labor, and also their first attempts at needlework; there was the withered bridal-wreath worn by his Regina on their wedding-day, and the great silver-clasped, pictorial Bible, Habermann's gift, and the silver mounted meerschaum pipe, Bräsig's gift, upon his seventy-fifth birth-day. In the cupboard underneath, were old shoes; the shoes which Louise and Regina and himself had worn, when they first entered the Pastor's house.

Old shoes are not beautiful, but these must have been very dear to him, for he had taken them out, and placed each pair by itself, and looked long at them, and thought much, and then he had taken his first Bible upon his lap, and opened at our Lord's Sermon on the Mount, and read therein. No one saw him, to be sure, but it must have been so; his Regina knew very well how it all happened. And then he grew weary, and laid his head back against the chair, and fell softly asleep.

So they found him, and the little Frau Pastorin sat down by him in the chair, and put her arms around him and closed his eyes, and laid her head against his, and cried silently, and Louise threw herself at his feet, and folded her hands upon his knees, and looked, with tearful eyes, at the two dear, still faces. Then the little Frau Pastorin folded down the leaf in the Bible, and took it gently out of his hand, and she rose up, and Louise rose also, and clung about her neck, and they both broke into loud weeping, and sought protection and comfort in each other, until it grew to be twilight. Then the little Frau Pastorin took the Pastor's boots and her shoes, and put them back into the cupboard, saying, "I bless the day, when you came together into this house;" and Louise put her little shoes beside them, saying, "And I the day, when you first crossed the threshold," and then they locked up the chest, with all its joys.

After three days, good Pastor Behrens was buried, in his churchyard, in a place which he had selected, during his life, which one could see, through the clear panes of glass, from the living-room of the parsonage, and upon which fell the first beams of the morning sun.

The funeral guests had departed, Habermann also had been obliged to go; but Uncle Bräsig had explained that he should spend the night at the parsonage. Through the day, he had lent a helping hand, and now, as he saw the two women standing at the window, arm in arm, lost in sorrowful thoughts, he stole softly out of the room, up to his sleeping-chamber, and looked, through the twilight, over to the churchyard, where the dark grave lay in the white snow. He thought of the man who lay beneath it, how often he had extended the hand, to help and to counsel him, and he vowed to repay the debt he owed him, with all his might, to the Frau Pastorin. And underneath, in the living-room, stood the two bereaved women, also looking over at the dark grave, and vowing silently, in their hearts, each to the other, all the love and friendship, which he had so often enjoined, and so constantly practiced. And the little Frau Pastorin thanked God and her Pastor that she had so sweet a comforter in her sorrow as she held in her arms, and she stroked Louise's soft hair, and kissed her again and again; and Louise prayed to God and her other father, that she might be endowed with all that was good and lovely, that she might lay it all in her foster-mother's lap.

Fresh graves are like hot-beds, which the gardeners plant; the fairest flowers spring out of them; but poisonous toadstools shoot up, also, from these beds.

That same evening, two other people in Gurlitz, were standing at a window, and looking through the panes, in the twilight,--not at the God's acre, that was far from their thoughts, no, at the Pastor's acre,--and Pomuchelskopp said to his Hänning, now they could not fail, now the field fell out of the lease, now they would have it, he would speak to the new Pastor about it, before his appointment.