The Haus-frau poured out, and the men drank, striking their glasses with a good clank; the little girl slipped down from her father’s knee, and ran with the mother into the kitchen; the boy looked wistfully into his father’s eyes smilingly, and then towards the pitcher—the father understood him, and gave him some wine; he became more and more lively, and again smiled at the pitcher.
“This boy will never be a peaceful vine-labourer, as I am,” said the father; “he has something of the nature of his grandfather in him: hot and hasty, but in other respects a good-hearted boy—brave and honourable... Alas! the remembrance of what is painful is most apt to assail one by a cheerful glass... If he did but see thee ... thee ... child of the best and most affectionate mother—on thy account he would not any longer be offended with thy father and mother; thy innocent gambols would rejoice his old age—in thee would he see the fire of his youth revive again—but...”
“What dost thou say there?” said the pilgrim, stopping him abruptly; “explain that more fully to me!”
“Perhaps I have already said too much, reverend father, but ascribe it to the wine, which makes one talkative; I will no more afflict thee with my unfortunate history.”
“Speak!” said the pilgrim, vehemently and beseechingly; “Speak! who art thou?”
“What connexion hast thou with the world, pious pilgrim, that you can still trouble yourself about one who has suffered much, and who has new arrived at the port of peace?”
“Speak!” said the pilgrim; “I must know thy history.”
“Well!” replied he, “let it be!—I was not born a vine-labourer—a noble stem has engendered me—but love for a maiden drove me from my home.”
“Love?” cried the pilgrim, moved.
“Yes! I loved a maiden, quite a child of nature, not of greatness—my father was displeased—in a sudden burst of passion he drove me from him—wicked relations, who, he being childless, would inherit, inflamed his wrath against me, and he, whom I yet honour, and who also surely still cherishes me in his heart—he...”