“I see father over there,” said Vinzi. “We ought to hurry if we want to get home at the same time as he does.”
This was the mother’s intention, and, walking fast, they joined the father not far from the house. Soon afterwards the little family sat down to supper in their comfortable room.
The meal passed very quietly because the children knew that they had to be silent, and the parents themselves said little. As soon as the children had finished, Vinzi asked, “Can we go out?” As the request was readily granted, they hurried over to the barn, where many delightful corners could be found for playing hide and seek.
It was a bright, warm June evening. Vinzenz Lesa had leisurely risen from the table, and going out he lit his pipe and settled himself on the bench before the house. His wife soon afterwards came out and sat down, too. Now he grew talkative and told her of a visit he had made to an acquaintance of his in the valley whose meadows, fields and cattle he had examined. He had compared his own property with what he saw, and when he had thoroughly looked everything over he could not help saying to himself, “Vinzenz Lesa, you are blessed with a fine property.”
“Yes, we certainly ought to be grateful and I am sure we are,” said his wife.
“Yes, it is true,” he continued, “but whenever I am very happy about it and begin to plan how to improve and develop the farm it always seems as if some one were throwing an obstacle before my feet and keeping me from going further. I mean Vinzi. For whom should I do all of it if not for him, and what kind of a boy is he? He has no eyes in his head and shows not the slightest pleasure or interest in taking to pasture the most beautiful cows that can be found far and wide in the whole neighborhood. If I say to him, ‘Just look what wonderful fodder is in this meadow!’ he says ‘yes’ and stares into the distance so one can see that he has neither listened nor really looked at the meadow he is standing in. I am afraid there is something wrong with him.”
“No, no, Vinzenz, you must not say that,” his wife interrupted eagerly. “If Vinzi does not always listen and has his thoughts elsewhere and does not show the real pleasure he should have in farming, he has never done anything wrong. You must not say that.”
“I don’t say it,” the man went on, “but what is wrong is wrong, and when a boy has no feeling for such meadows, fields and cows as we own, and everything connected with a farm, something must be wrong. But I am sure I don’t know how to help it.”
“He may yet change; just think how young he is!” said the wife comfortingly, though her secret anxiety about the boy had grown again that day during her stroll. She knew well enough that there was something about the boy difficult to understand and she also realized that his thoughts never were on the objects before him. Deeming it wise to change the subject, she talked about seeing the strangers who had taken the upstairs rooms at Mrs. Troll’s cottage for the summer. She told him that the children had looked so nice that she would not mind taking them into her own home. This might easily be managed in their big house, where a few nice rooms could be fitted up for that purpose.
“Well, what on earth will you say next, and can’t we even have peace in our own house?” said the man, half frightened, half angry. “Why should we take other people’s children into our house when we have children of our own?”