THE GOOSE HERD

My dear man, I've been listening to you now for a long while and you fill me with astonishment. You usually show--more than I do myself--an honest wish to take things as they are. Then whence all of a sudden, in making these nice observations of human emotions, do you draw this idealistic illusion of yours?

It seems to me your levelling-down democratic sentiment has been playing you a naughty trick again. You maintain, if I understand you correctly, that there is not a profound difference in the way the various social classes feel and express their feelings; while, as a matter of fact, life proves the very reverse every day. Oh, it would be beautiful as a dream if you were right. The ideals of brotherhood and equality that I, the bred-in-the-bone aristocrat--that is what you say I am--must necessarily consider mere figments of the brain, would then be reality, or, rather, have already become reality; because the bit of knowledge more or less cannot possibly produce an organic difference in men's natures.

No, no, dear sir, it is the cleavage in the way they feel, more than all differences in wealth, rank, and learning, that separates the upper from the lower classes; so much so that they go through the world together each without comprehension of what the other does, like citizens of different globes. Woe to him who hopes to leap the gap!

You don't believe me? You shake your head? Oh, my dear man, I am speaking from experience. Alas, alas! If I could tell you--but why shouldn't I? Night is falling outside, the November storm is howling, and to-day I celebrated the advent of my thirtieth grey hair--quite the atmosphere for conjuring up a picture of light, spring and youth.

Let me close my eyes, and you listen to me like a good little boy. I want to tell you of my first love. Do you know who my first love was? A goose-herd, a real, out-and-out gooseherd. I am not joking. I have wept bitter tears over the wrong he did me, and that when I had long been a grown-up, highly respectable young lady.

To be sure, when he first set my heart afire, I was still of the age when my highest ideal of happiness was to go barefoot. I was eight years old, he ten. I was the daughter of the lord of the castle, he, the son of our smith.

Mornings, when I took breakfast on the verandah with my mother and big brother, he used to pass by with his geese and disappear in the direction of the pasture. At first he stared up at us with naïve astonishment, it never occurring to him to raise his cap. Then my brother impressed it upon him that it was proper to give the family a decent greeting, and from that time on he always called up a "Good mornin' to you" like a lesson learned by heart and with a long sweep of his cap.

If my brother happened to be in a good humour, I received permission to take a roll down to him, and he always snatched it out of my hand with a certain greedy anxiety, as if there were danger of my withdrawing it at the last moment.

What did he look like? I can still see him as if he were right there in front of me. His straight flaxen hair hung down over his sunburned cheeks like a thatched roof, with his blue eyes peering from underneath, jolly and cunning. He wore his ragged trousers rolled up over his knees, and always carried an osier switch, into which, along the green bark, he had cleverly cut white spirals.

It was upon this switch that my childish covetousness first fastened itself. How fascinating to hold in my hand a marvellous piece of work like that, so different from all my toys! And when I pictured to myself being allowed to chase geese with it and to go barefoot, the pinnacle of earthly happiness had been reached.

And it was this same switch that brought us into human contact. One morning at breakfast, as I saw him going by so cheerily, I could no longer restrain my desire. I furtively put together the pieces of the roll spread with honey that I was eating and asked hurriedly to be excused, and ran after him.

When he saw me coming, he stopped and looked at me wonderingly. But as soon as he caught sight of the roll in my hand, a gleam of comprehension shot into his eyes.

"Will you give me your switch?" I asked.

"Why?" he asked back, and put one foot up to rub the calf of his other leg.

"Because I want it," I said defiantly, then added more gently, "I'll give you my roll spread with honey for it."

He let his eyes rest longingly on the piece of deliciousness, and then finally observed. "No, I have to have it for the geese, but I'll cut another one like it for you."

"Can you do that?"

I was all astonishment.

"Oh, that's nothing," he pooh-poohed. "I can make flutes, too, and jumping jacks."

I was so completely carried off my feet that I handed him the roll on the spot. He bit into it with gusto, and, not honouring me with another glance, he drove his feathered flock off before him.

I looked after him, envy in my heart. He was allowed to shepherd geese, but I had to go up to Mademoiselle and learn French. Yes, I thought, how unequal fortune's favours are.

That evening he brought me the switch he had promised to make. It was even more beautiful than I had dared to hope in my wildest dreams. There were the white spirals that had so fascinated me in the original, and more than that, the butt-end was topped with a knob, on which a human countenance--whether mine or his, I could not unriddle--was depicted by two dots and two dashes at right angles.

From that time on we were friends. I shared with him all the goodies that fell to me, the spoiled little darling, from every side. In return, he bestowed upon me the artistic products of his skilful fingers, reed pipes, little boxes, houses, toy utensils, and, best of all, his famous jumping jacks.

Our meetings took place every evening behind the goose coops, and there we exchanged gifts. I looked forward the whole day to these meetings, my thoughts constantly engaged by my young hero. I saw him on the sunny pasture lying in the grass, blowing his reed pipes, while I was torturing myself with horrid vowels. And the yearning grew ever stronger within me to partake of that bliss which is called minding geese.

When I told him of my feelings, he burst out laughing.

"Why don't you come along, then?" he said.

That tipped the scales, and without a second's reflection, "All right," I said, "I'll go along to-morrow."

"Don't forget to bring something to eat along," my friend forewarned me.

Luck was with me. Mademoiselle's headache came at the very opportune moment, and the French lesson was dispensed with. Feverish with joy and excitement, I sat at the breakfast table waiting for him to go by. My pockets were stuffed with goodies of all sorts, which I had wheedled out of Mademoiselle, and beside me lay the switch, which I looked forward to swinging that day in the strict fulfilment of my duty.

Ah, there he was coming. His blue eyes glanced up at me slily as he bellowed his "Good mornin' to you" at us; and the instant I could slip away without attracting attention I was off after him.

"What have you brought along?" was his first question.

"Two little ginger cakes, three cervelat sandwiches, a roll cut in two with sardelles between, and a piece of gooseberry pie," said I, spreading out my glories.

He fell upon them at once, while I with carefully concealed glee proudly drove the geese along.

After passing through the fir woods, the first part of which was somewhat familiar to me from my previous walks, we came to regions less and less well known. Stunted undergrowth rose on each side of the way, making an uncanny thicket, and then, all of a sudden, the broad, boundless heath opened up to my vision.

Oh, how lovely it was, how lovely! As far as the eye reached, a sea of grass and gaily coloured flowers. Molehills covered with turf stretched away in long rows like motionless waves. The hot air quivered, fairly dancing on the breezy heath, while the buzzing of the bees made the accompaniment. And high up in the deep blue heavens stood the golden sun.

At the edge of the woods was a marsh with gleaming puddles of greyish yellow, thickish water. The refuse of the geese floated on the surface, and roundabout on the ground--so moist that great bubbles gushed up between the clumps of grass--were thousands of fine tracks of the geese's feet, making the whole spot look like a patterned rug.

This was the flock's paradise. Here we made halt, and while the geese settled themselves comfortably in the puddles, we chased about on the heath, shouting and laughing, caught yellow butterflies, and picked blueberries.

Then we played husband and wife. Elsie, the tamest of the geese, was our child. We kissed and whipped the poor creature almost to death, but it finally succeeded, after prodigious efforts, in making its escape from our clutches. Next, I prepared the meals for my husband. I untied my white apron, spread it on the ground for a tablecloth, and placed on it the remnants of the food I had brought along. He sat down to the repast pompously, and when I saw the rapidity with which he finished up one bit after the other, I nearly jumped out of our little home for joy.

The hours passed as in a dream. Higher and higher rose the sun, until its rays came burning down on us perpendicularly. My head began to spin, and a dull lassitude came over me. Also, I experienced considerable hunger, but my spouse had already consumed everything. The inside of my mouth was dry, my lips were feverish. To cool them, I held moist blades of grass against them.

Suddenly, from beyond the woods, from way far away, came the ringing of a bell. I knew what it meant. It was the summons to the midday meal, which called me to table, too. And if they missed me! Oh, God, what would become of me?

I threw myself on the grass and began to cry bitterly, while my companion, meaning to comfort me, passed his rough hands over my face and neck.

Suddenly I jumped up and made a dash for the woods, as though pursued by the furies. It must have been about two hours that I strayed about in the undergrowth crying. Then I caught the sound of voices calling my name, and a few moments later I was in my brother's arms.

The next morning my poor friend appeared in the part of abductor and seducer before the high criminal court of the lord of the manor. He seemed to take it for granted that he was to be the scapegoat and was in for a flogging, and he made not the slightest attempt to shift part of the blame from himself. He accepted the chastisement my brother inflicted upon him with the greatest calm. Then he rubbed his aching back against a porch column, smiling dolefully, and, after that, hastily made off, while I, sobbing aloud, rolled on the floor.

From that day on I loved him. I plotted a thousand wiles and schemes for meeting him secretly. I nabbed edibles like a magpie, so that he might regale himself with the fruits of my pilferings. I fairly oppressed him with the profusion of fond attentions, with which I tried to wipe out of existence those frightful blows of my brother's whip.

He accepted my love calmly and rewarded me for it by a devotion that was moving and an appetite that was sound.

Fate separated us six months later.

My mother had been ailing for some time, and the physician now recommended her living in the south. She put the estate entirely in my brother's charge and moved to the Riviera, taking me along.

Nine years were to elapse before I came back home. The return was sadder than ever I should have dreamed. In Berlin, where I had lived after my mother's death, a tricky nervous trouble had taken hold of me and kept me confined to bed for many weeks. The doctors wrestled with death and saved my life, but the blooming young girl had become a pale weak shadow. My physician recommended the country and pine-needle baths, and so I was bundled on to the train and transported to my brother's estate.

I must have presented a pretty pitiful spectacle, because when I reached the house and was lifted out of the carriage, I saw tears in the old domestics' eyes.

It is a peculiar feeling to know you are back home again after long wanderings, especially if you have gone through as much trouble as I had. A rare softness takes hold of you, and you try to blot out forever the joy and the suffering imposed by an alien world. You try to be a child again and conjure up long lost magic out of the grave.

As I leaned back in my reclining chair and let my tired eyes roam over the familiar fields, one shade after another came alive again, and the first one in the motley throng was--my dear, flaxen--haired goose-herd.

"What has become of him?" I asked my brother, and was rejoiced by the good news that he had grown up into a fine, good-looking young man and could already fully take the place of his father, the smith.

I felt my heart throbbing. I tried to scold myself for my folly, but with poor success. The dear old memories were not to be dismissed, and finally I yielded myself up to them unrestrainedly and pictured the manner of our seeing each other again in all the glowing colours of fairy tale romance.

A few days after my arrival I was allowed to take my first drive. I was lifted into a carriage, driven to the woods, and then set down on a soft, mossy, peaceful little spot, which I had selected deliberately. From it you could see the smithy in which the companion of my childhood dwelt.

My brother wanted to stay with me, but I begged him not to let me keep him from his work, and assured him that the little girl sent along to wait on me was quite enough protection. Besides, what was there to be afraid of in these peaceful home woods? So, the coachman drove my brother back to his office on the estate, and they were to call for me again in two hours. Then I dismissed the little girl, too, telling her to go hunt strawberries but to stay nearby. She ran off happily.

I was alone at last! Now I could dream to my heart's content. The fir trees rustled overhead, and from the smithy came the dull blows of the hammer. Brightly glowed the fire in the forge, and every now and then a dark figure glided in front of it. That must be he.

I did not tire following the movements of his arms. I admired his strength and trembled for him when the sparks flew about his body.

The two hours went by unnoticed, and in the midst of my dreamy meditations I was surprised by my brother coming to call for me.

"Well, did it seem a long time?" my brother asked gaily.

I shook my head, smiling, and tried to get up, but sank back wearily.

"Hm, hm," said my brother, reflecting. "I didn't bring the coachman back, thinking I could carry you to the carriage by myself, but the seat is high, and I couldn't get you up without hurting you. See here, Grete,"--he turned to my little companion, who had come running at the sound of the carriage--"you go run down to the smith, the young one, you know, and tell him he should come and help me here."

He tossed a penny on the ground and the little maid, radiant with delight, picked it up before going for the smith.

I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. I was to see him again, here, on this spot. He was to act the Samaritan to me. I sat there waiting, my hand pressed to my pounding heart, until--until----

There he was coming! Yes, that was he! How strong, how handsome he had grown to be! Heavy flaxen hair about his smoke-blackened face, and a thick growth of light down around his powerful chin. Young Siegfried must have looked like that while serving his apprenticeship with the wicked Mime.

He clutched awkwardly at his little cap, tipped back on his neck so jauntily, while I held out my hand smiling and said, "How do you do?"

"Very well," he replied with an embarrassed laugh, and carefully wiped his grimy fingers on his leather apron before taking my hand.

"Help me lift the lady into the carriage," said my brother.

He wiped his hands again, and caught hold of me--none too gently--under the armpits, and the two of them, my brother taking me by my feet, lifted me up on to the carriage cushions.

"Thanks, thanks," I said and gave him a smile.

He stood at the carriage door, shyly twisting his cap and looking from one to the other of us uncertainly.

"He still has something on his heart," I said to myself. "Why not? At the sight of me old memories have been awakened. He wants to talk to me of the blissful days when in childish innocence we watched the geese together. Ah, he doesn't trust himself--his lord's presence--I ought to come to his assistance a little."

"Well," I said, giving him a friendly, encouraging look straight in his eyes, "what are you thinking of?"

My brother at this turned from his horses, with which he had been busy, and said, thrusting his hand into his pocket:

"Oh, you're waiting for your tip."

I felt as though some one had struck me in the face.

"For goodness' sake, Max," I stammered, my blood going hot and cold.

But my brother did not hear me and handed him--actually dared to--a dime.

I was already seeing my childhood friend dashing the coin back in my brother's face. I exerted all my strength to raise myself and stretch my hands out so as to prevent violence--but what was that? No, impossible! And yet I saw it with my own eyes. He took the money--he said, "Thank you"--he bowed--he walked away!

And I? I stared after him as though he were an evil spirit, then sank back on the cushions with a weary sigh.

That, my dear friend, was the way I said good-bye to my youthful dream.