CHAPTER XIII.
A TROOP OF HOBGOBLINS.
"Let me carry the clothes; give me his clothes," said Adam, as they went along.
"No, I cannot part with them, they are all I now have belonging to him, and I have the new boots in the bundle, that he never wore, and in my hurry I brought his little wooden horse, too."
"Does he like horses? then he will like me also."
"Oh! do not speak so lightly; remember that he may be dead."
"The child may have lost himself in the wood, and yet not be dead; and who knows whether he may not be at home at this moment, having gone of his own accord, or some one have brought him home."
As a token of gratitude for these consoling words, Martina placed the bundle of clothes on Adam's arm, saying, "Carry them for me." When they passed by a weeping willow close to the road, which looked very singular, its drooping branches all hung with snow and glittering in the torchlight, Martina continued: "Do you see that tree? When our Joseph was not quite three years old, I was walking here with him, and on seeing the leaves hanging down, he said, 'Mother! that tree is raining leaves.' He often spoke such strange things, that it was quite puzzling to know whether one was on earth or in heaven, and what one could do, or ought to do with him; and he is grown so strong, so very strong; I was obliged to use all my strength when I wished to hold him—and now to die such a death! it is too dreadful. Joseph! Joseph! my darling Joseph! Oh! where are you now? I am here, your mother and your father too. Joseph! Joseph! oh come! Call him, Adam, can't you shout out his name?"
"Joseph! Joseph!" called Adam with his powerful voice, "My child! come to me; Joseph! Joseph!" and Adam, who once trembled to pronounce the child's name even secretly, now shouted it loudly in the wood. Soon, however, he desisted, and said, "It is no use, Martina; try to be quiet, or you will make yourself ill."
"If my Joseph is dead, I don't care to live either; I care for nothing more in this world."
"I cannot believe that, Martina; surely you have some love for me still."
"Oh heavens! don't wrangle with me just now," said Martina sorrowfully. For a long time neither spoke a word. Häspele proved a good mediator, for he came up to Martina and begged her to take a mouthful of the Kirschwasser that he had most thoughtfully brought for Joseph.
"No, no, I need nothing. I cannot take what the child may require."
"Do take a single mouthful," entreated Adam, as tenderly as his rough voice could be modulated. "Remember, our Joseph cannot drink it all if we find him."
"If we find him? Why do you say that? You know something, and are keeping it from me; I feel sure that you know he is dead."
"I know nothing whatever—as little as you do yourself. I do beg you will take one mouthful of the Kirschwasser."
"Ah! if my Joseph had it, it might restore him to life. I need nothing—leave me in peace." But Adam persisted till Martina took some, and this was a good opportunity for him to get hold of her hand again, and then they pursued their way hand in hand.
Martina spoke very low, and told Adam what a singularly reserved boy Joseph was; and that he had often whispered things to her, that he might have quite well said loud out before everybody; but his peculiarity was, to prefer saying things secretly; and no doubt he had something secret to tell his father, and then he would have been able to discern how it made you creep, when Joseph with his warm breath said something close to your ear. "His warm breath is now frozen," added she, wringing her hands.
Soon she suddenly seized Adam's arm, saying passionately, "Look! there is the very rock, where once on a time I wished to die along with him, when Leegart found me. If we had died together then, before he came into the world, it might have been better for both of us. Oh! where is he now? perhaps he is lying two steps from us, and yet we cannot see him, and he cannot hear us. I will go from hill to hill, to the top of every rock, and down into every valley, to seek my boy."
"Try to be more composed," said Adam, kindly; but Martina's excitement every instant increased, and she turned hastily to him saying:—
"You are to blame! a father can deny his child, and pass him by as if he were nothing to him in this world—but a mother—never! You did this!"
"Why do you reproach me at such a moment as this?"
"I do not reproach you. Why are you so cruel?"
"I am neither unkind nor cruel—only do try to command your feelings; from this day forth all your sorrows shall cease. Come closer to me, my Martina!"
"No, no, I cannot rest!" cried Martina, suddenly, after having leant on Adam for a few minutes—"I cannot—Oh, gracious Father! do with me what thou wilt, only do not deprive me of my child, my Joseph; he is innocent; I alone am guilty—this man and I."
She went some steps from Adam, as if she could not bear his vicinity; she no longer shed tears, but she sobbed convulsively with dry eyes, as if her heart would break.
The scene in the wood was like the procession of the "Wild Huntsman;" the men with torches and lanterns, and their eager shouts and cries, and cracking of whips, and ringing of bells; and the dogs, too, carrying lanterns round their necks, and rushing along the ravines barking, and then galloping up the hills, still barking and pressing forwards, till recalled by the voice of their masters. It was fortunate that such good order was maintained. No one could recognise his neighbour, for each man was a moving mass of snow, and the hills and rocks looked down by the torchlight in amazement, at the men who had come there to shout out, and seek a young child.
"See, how all the village loved him!" said Martina to Adam, relating to him how the boy had wakened her on the previous night, three times, to ask which way his father would come; and she reproached herself severely for having listened to Leegart, and sent him out of the house alone; she might have known that something dreadful was sure to occur on this day.
Adam was sadly perplexed, and did not know what to say; and he was more sad than ever when he thought of the Forest Mill, where they were all sitting waiting for him, and remembered the treachery towards Martina he had been persuaded to commit this very day.
Suddenly a cry of joy was heard—"What is it? what is it?" "God be praised, they have found him!" "Where? where?" The smith came up, out of breath, to Adam and Martina. "Here is his cap; we shall find him now, sure enough."
Martina seized the dripping cap, and shed scalding tears over it. "Heavens! he is now without a cap, and the snow is lying on his head, if he is still in life."
Martina passed her hand over her face, and stared at the smith, who certainly looked a strange monster. He had not taken time to wash his sooty face, and now the snow had drawn all sorts of strange figures on it, and his red beard was hanging full of icicles.
"You must remain on the straight road, that we may be able to find you immediately," said the smith, and turning to go away, he added, "I think this night we have earned from you the right to be well supplied with good liquor at your wedding."
It must certainly be a set of hobgoblins dispersed in the forest; and there was a man in the wood who saw them, as large as life. Speidel-Röttmann, who had followed his son, had made a false step, and rolled down the precipice. When he reached the bottom he became sober all at once. He had received no injury whatever. He went on a long way on the frozen stream, and the rocks and trees towered above him like gigantic monsters. Fresh snow fell thickly on him every instant, and at last he became so confused, that he did not know whether he was going up or down the stream. He tried to break the ice with a stone, to find out in what direction the current of the stream was flowing, so that he might know which way to proceed, but he could not loosen one of the stones. The whole world seemed iron-bound, and no help near. Well! here at last is an opening, here is a path in the forest. He climbs up, often slipping backwards, and almost entirely hidden by masses of snow; but he does not lose heart. Speidel-Röttmann's strength is now to be put to the proof. He succeeds in getting to the top of the rising ground—he is right: here is a path. As he grasps the ground for the last time, he stumbles over something; it is a pipe—it is Adam's pipe. So he must have gone this way; now he will come up with him—which way is he gone? right, or left? The traces of his footsteps have been already effaced by the falling snow. Speidel-Röttmann takes the path to the right; then it suddenly seems to him that the left must certainly be the best way, so he turns back; and then goes forward again, up and down, as if a will-o'-the-wisp were leading him hither and thither. Hark! a sound of horns, and whips, and barking of dogs;—what can it be? Heavenly powers! it is the Wild Huntsman! It is himself, on his gallant grey, with his spectre followers, shouting, and yelling, and blowing the horn; and in the midst of the hubbub there are screams as if from thousands of little children; and if any unlucky being were to look up at him as he dashes past, he would cut his head as clean off as if it were a turnip. All the terrors of the infernal regions assail Speidel-Röttmann. He had, indeed, often boasted that the talk about witches, and spectres, and hobgoblins, was only lies and nonsense; but now every hair on his head stands on end; he remembers that in bygone days men were quite as wise as at present, and they believed it all. "Here he comes! Forgive me for not believing a word of it till now. I will—" Speidel-Röttmann rushes along the path into the wood, and throws himself down on the ground on his face, that the Wild Huntsman may gallop over him without throttling him. So he lies still and hears the fiends rush past. He clutches the snowy moss with his hand, and the moss does not give way. It is a comfort that something in the world still holds fast. Hold on! hold on! or you may be in a moment lifted up in the air, and placed on the top of a tree, or who knows where? and your face twisted entirely round, and you must go about with it in that fashion as long as you live. And he feels as if he were mocked, and some one said to him, "Is not this wood your own property? but in spite of all your foresters, and all your keepers, you cannot prevent the Wild Huntsman galloping through it. Do you hear a child's voice? do you know that voice?"
Speidel-Röttmann has entirely lost his head—the snow in which he had buried his face melts from the warmth of his breath, but something melts also in his hard heart; and face to face with death, he calls out from the snowy moss, "Joseph!" as if that word had the power to save him. "I solemnly vow I will," he goes on muttering to himself. It has suddenly flashed across his thoughts, that there lived a child on earth to whom he had been guilty of great injustice, and that it is for this he hears such groans and cries in the air. He wishes to call back his son, who is in turn striving to recall his son. This is like a chain attached to another chain, and so the links go on.
"I yield! set me free! keep the child!" With these words he at last ventured to raise his head a little. The noise and shouts and cries sounded now further away.
"Who are you? who are you?" cries suddenly a figure, seizing him roughly, not like a man, but like an evil spirit, or the claws of a wild beast, so savage is the grasp.
"I am a miserable sinner! I am the Röttmann—let me go; be merciful!"
"So, I have got hold of you at last!" exclaimed the figure, and knelt down on his breast. "You shall die, for you have killed my grandson, and disowned him, and left him to want and misery."
"How? what? is it you, David?"
"Yes, you shall know first who is going to split your head with this axe—it is I, Schilder-David. Yes, accursed Goliah, I have got you down on the ground, and you shall die."
Speidel Röttmann's strength and courage revived, after a very short deliberation. "Oh, ho! not much fear of him!" and his hand speedily followed his thoughts. He seized with one hand the man who was kneeling on him, and with the other drew forth the sharp knife he always carried on him, and cried out, "Let go, David! let go: or I'll stab you to the heart!"
"Your evil deeds are come to an end," cried David, snatching the knife out of his hand; but Röttmann succeeded in getting on his feet, and David quickly lay under him on the ground.
"Now, do you see!" exclaimed Röttmann, triumphantly, "I can give you the finishing stroke."
"Do so, root out the whole family—you have killed my Joseph, kill me too."
"Stand up! I will do you no harm," answered Röttmann; "I don't know whether it is you that are bewitched, or myself, or the whole world. What on earth brings you here?—who are those in the forest?"
David, breathing hard all the time, told what had occurred; but adding, "I have no business to talk to you at all; both you and your son deserve to die. I will not say another word to you; one of us shall remain on this spot; stab me if you like, I shall be glad to leave this wicked world for I have nothing left to care for now in it." With these words Schilder-David rushed on Speidel-Röttmann, but the latter seized the old man's arms with such a powerful grasp, that they were as immoveable as if fastened into a vice.
"I pity you," said Röttmann.
"I don't want your pity; you are not worthy to be spoken to by an honest man, you hard-hearted villain! you carry your head high enough; and why not? for the door into Hell is so high, that you need not stoop to get through it."
"Abuse me as much as you please, I am stronger than you; but now listen to what I am about to say. You see that no one can force me to do a thing; no man in the world can do that; but I wish to tell you this. I need not stick to what I said, for no mortal man heard me, and as for the Wild Huntsman and the hobgoblins, it is all nonsense and superstition, and if I don't choose, I shall be none the worse. It is no one's business but my own, and you have no right to know why, and how, and where, I made the promise. This is my wood, and I am master here, and if I find you here at night with your axe I can seize you, or shoot you down if you try to escape—just as I think fit; but—this is not what I wished to say; only once more remember that no one can force my will, but I give in of my own accord, so that is settled; and here is my hand on it; if the child is still alive, if we find him indeed at all, either living or dead, you have my hand on it, I have nothing to say against it."
"Against what!"
"You have my consent. When I reflect on the matter, I never was so opposed to it; I was obliged to agree with my wife. I was wandering here in the wood for I don't know how long, and when I fell down the ravine, I thought the rocks covered with snow would fall on me to crush me, and all at once I seemed to hear a child's voice calling 'Father! father!' Now I know what it was, and I can't tell you how that voice went to my heart, and I said to myself, if ever I can, I will; my Adam shall marry his Martina. I promise faithfully he shall."
"It is too late to shut the stable door when the horse is stolen. There is no more happiness or luck in the world. If you had but known the child! he was an angel from Heaven! but alas! he is dead by this time, and who knows where he is? There was a time when I thought I could not bear to look any one in the face on account of the child, and now I wish to leave this world because the boy is no longer in it. If I was not worthy of such a grandson, you are far less so. I will have no peace between us, you or I must die. Kill me on the spot I say, for then I shall see my Joseph again in the next world."
David once more rushed on Röttmann, who, however, again held his arms in such a fierce gripe that he could not stir. It seemed as if a miracle must have occurred to soften Speidel-Röttmann's heart, for he contrived at last to persuade David to go along with him to look for Joseph.
"Joseph! your grandfather calls!" shouted David. Speidel-Röttmann echoed the cry, and David looked round in astonishment several times to see if it was really true that Speidel-Röttmann was calling to his grandchild. David was the only person, who, contrary to orders, had gone alone; now he had found a companion, and such a strange one!
The horn sounded from the hill, the torches and lanterns wandered in all directions, the dogs barked, and rushed up and down the hill, the herd bells rung, and the two grandfathers both went along, as if they had walked all their lives together in peace and amity; at last they saw a light shining at a distance; the light did not move, it must be in some house; so they directed their steps towards it.
CHAPTER XIV.
LOST IN THE FOREST.
In the meanwhile Schilder-David's house seemed to be no longer a small house, belonging to a small family. Every one went in and out, and many left the door standing open, which Schilder-David's wife invariably gently closed without saying one word; indeed she did not even object to the neighbours for forgetting to knock off the snow from their feet, and the floor of the room was like a small lake; she only placed fresh cloths on the place and wrung them out into a pail, which she emptied at the door.
Leegart drew the footstool, on which she placed her feet, closer to her, to prevent any of the women seated round the table having any share of it; for Leegart was not at all accustomed to sit in a damp room, more especially in such a thoroughfare as Schilder-David's room was turned into on this particular day.
David's wife always kept a fierce fire in the stove—the heat was positively stifling; but Leegart had the art of keeping a whole audience awake, and herself into the bargain.
While all the community were rushing about in the night and in the snow, on rocks and in ravines, and the whole village in a state of excitement, there were only two objects that remained steady and stationary and kept time together—these were the clock on the church tower, and Leegart beside her huge pincushion.
Martina had left the room along with the men, but several women remained there. They complained loudly that their husbands were so rash as to expose their lives to danger, for the sake of one single child, perhaps only to cause their own children to suffer want and misery. Leegart, however, while waxing her thread, said, "Indeed it is very dreadful to lose your way in the forest. I can well tell you about it, for it happened to me once in my life, but I found that once quite enough. For God's sake, never, never be tempted to take a near cut through the wood, unless you are thoroughly acquainted with every corner of it. A short cut is the Devil's cut. Am I right or not? It takes a very short cut to go to the Devil. I remember it as if it were only yesterday; and who knows whether poor Joseph may not have done the very same thing. I went through that very forest, and the hatter met the boy at the large beech tree, which I also passed. God forbid that the child should have to go as far as I did, before I found my way back! It was on the Sunday after All Saints—no, it was on a Monday; at all events it was a holiday, St. Peters and St. Paul's. We don't keep it holy, but the Catholics do. I left home on a fine bright day, carrying nothing with me but a velvet cap in a handkerchief for Holderstein's daughter, in Wenger. You know who I mean. She is now a widow: they say she is going to marry a very young man, who lives near Neustädtle; for she went there two Sundays following, and he walked back with her both times: it is not very wise in her to marry such a boy. At the time I speak of, she was betrothed to her first husband, a nephew of the Forest Miller—I mean of the old miller. So I set out and went first along the valley. It was a very fine season; it is long since we have had one like it—just the quantity of rain and sunshine that we required. In the wood I met the beadle's children—the boy and Maidli. The boy became a soldier, and was shot by the Freischärfer. Maidli lives in Elsass, where they say she is happily married. They were herding an old and a young goat, beside the hedge where there are so many hazel nuts. So I asked the children—I don't know why—if there was not a nearer path to Wenger. 'Yes, indeed,' said the children. 'I must not keep on the beaten track; but when I came to the group of juniper trees, turn to the left through the wood.' I wanted one of the children to show me the way, that I might be quite sure of the right road. I can't tell the reason, but I somehow anticipated evil; but the children were so stupid, that they would neither go alone nor together with me. So I walked on, and when I arrived at the wood, where the Rössleswirth has now his field—at the time it was still part of the wood—I called out to the children below to know if I was on the right path, and they shouted 'Yes;' at least I imagined I heard them say so. So I went on, and it was very cool and pleasant in the forest I thought it so fortunate that I was now in the shade of the wood, for the heat was so great outside. It was about ten o'clock, and here it was quite a cool fresh morning still. Such a walk is very beneficial to any one obliged to be constantly sitting and working; and at that time I was quite young, and I could run and jump about like a foal. I saw a quantity of strawberries beside the hornbeam hedge; I gathered a few, but did not stop long, and soon went forward. I climbed, and climbed I don't know how long, and could see nothing; and the path went sometimes up hill and sometimes down. What could be the reason? Had I got into a labyrinth? The proverb says of those who are on a wrong path, that they have got into a labyrinth, and indeed this was one, for it seemed to lead nowhere. I did not know this when I entered it, but I soon found it out, and to my cost too. Oh, nonsense! thought I, the time only seems long to you, because you are so accustomed to sit still, that any walk appears too much for you. I felt so tired, however, that I sat down. Then I heard a slight rustling and something moving, and a dry branch fell from the tree. And look, look! a squirrel, I declare. He hangs on the trunk of the tree and peeps down at me with his quick bright eyes and sharp muzzle. I watch him as he creeps up the tree; and now there are two, and they frolic about and snap at each other. Whish! quick as lightning!—now up, now down! I must say I have a particular love for these little creatures; and I have my mother to thank for that. She said to us a hundred times—'Children, look at all you see attentively, for then you will be aroused wherever you go, and it costs nothing; and you never can tell what use it may be of to you some day, to observe closely what goes on round you.' But no one ought to allow themselves to be detained on the way by anything, for it only tends to perplex you still more. I went on and arrived at a fir-plantation: the trees are so thick that it is quite dark there, but charmingly cool. There is something lying on the ground—it is a stag asleep. I gave a scream of terror, and the animal started up and fixed his great eyes on me, as if to say—'You stupid thing, why do you come and disturb my noonday's sleep?'
"I ran away as fast as I could; I fancied the stag was following me, and then I fancied what I should do if he took me on his horns, and threw me down the hill; and if a branch fell from a tree, I was so terrified that I shook in every limb. God be praised! at last the wood came to an end, and so many hundred butterflies I never saw in all my life as there, and the meadow was quite red with flowers. I stood still to enjoy the sight. A falcon was soaring high in the sky, screeching, and I watched the bird as it flew along. A pretty sight, I must say; he looked as if he were only swimming in the air—but now away! I must not stop again; and surely it is all right at last, for I saw a small footpath. Now, thought I, you are safe—now you can go on boldly, for this must lead to where men are. I saw a bone button lying on the path, I picked it up, and put it into my pocket; and it was lucky I did so, for I had quite forgotten that I had still a piece of bread there. I thought I never tasted anything better—no, not even at a wedding feast. In an intricate wood like this, it seems as if you could no longer imagine that men ever sow grain, and reap, and thresh, and grind, and bake. The path was so narrow, that I was obliged to thrust aside the branches before I could get through. And now I saw that the path went straight down, as steep as the side of a house. Good heavens! what if some wicked man were to come at this moment, and rob me, and throw me down yonder; no one would ever find me again. No, no! was I resolved to say to him; here, here is all I have; here is my silver thimble, and fifteen kreuzers. You have it all now, so let me go, and I will swear an oath never to betray you. Should I be forced to keep such an oath? I think, for the sake of other people, I ought to tell what has happened, that others may not be robbed as I have been. In my terror I began to sing, but search in my head as I would, I could think of no pious song except 'The grave is deep and still,' and that was really too dismal. I therefore sang all sorts of gay, frolicsome songs, although my heart was beating with fear. Thank Heaven! at last I got to the top, and then a spacious, pretty level meadow lay before me; but by this time I was much heated, so overheated that I did not know what to do. My cheeks were burning, and if I had been dragged through water I could not have been worse. I could not venture to sit down to rest, and I could scarcely recover my breath sufficiently to proceed; and in the meadow I heard the humming and buzzing of thousands and thousands of bees. Gracious powers! suppose I were to put my foot on a bee's nest, and they were all to fly out and settle on me, and I to become dizzy. My mother told me how that is—you become quite dizzy, and the only thing that can save you is to jump into the water; and there is no water here. I wish there was some water, for I am frightfully thirsty. What is the meaning of this? Does the path end here? And there is a precipice; and there are the great wild rocks. Am I actually on the rocks of the Rockenthal, where since the creation of the world no human foot has ever trod? Here lie the forest trees decaying, and no man can fetch them away. The birds alone know how things look up there. No, surely I cannot have got so far as that, and yet my way home cannot lie down in that direction. I called out—'Heavenly powers! where am I?' And never did I hear an echo so distinct and beautiful as then, calling out after me—'Where am I? where am I? where am I?' It sounded at least seven times following, and just as if some one were dwelling on the tones in the sky, loud and long; it proceeded from the rocky precipices and the clefts like lovely music, as if something were singing the words, but taking a longer breath than a man could do. I shouted out the names of all those whom I loved, and all those who loved me. I shouted, and shouted—I seemed to love all mankind. In such an extremity as mine, all discord and strife are at an end. I called, and called, but no one heard me—not a living soul. It is no good, I must go on. I search about everywhere—famous! There is another path that goes through the wood; but after pursuing it for a little way I found that it again turned to the left. I thought, however, well! I will go forward, and so I did; but once more I came to a wall of rock, with no path whatever, so I crossed the meadow, and suddenly came on the edge of a precipice going straight down into a fearful abyss. I started back as far as I could, my head began to turn, and I felt as if the precipice were dragging me thither to dash me over the rock. Then I stood still, and thanked God that I was still on solid ground. A yellowhammer sat on a tree above my head, singing so prettily, and when I looked up at him he flew away to the opposite hill—yellowhammers when they fly, raise their backs like a cat, and fly higher than the spot on which they wish to alight, and then let themselves gently down. A bird like that is very well off; he does not care either for hill or valley. Oh! if I could only fly like him! I turned to the right. God be thanked! I could see fields beyond the hills, and the valley looked like a tray, or a flat pan. But, good heavens! am I on the famed Todten Hof? I saw a lilac bush, and that is a proof that men either are, or were here. Yes! the lilac in the ground, and the swallow in the air, show that the dwellings of man are not far away. But no house is to be seen, and all around there is a mysterious dim light, like that on the day of the great eclipse; it is not day, and yet it is not night, and the trees and hills seem trembling with fear. Alas, alas! I am actually in the Todten Hof. Hundreds and hundreds of years ago a rich farmer lived here, so rich and so godless that he and his wife and children bathed every day in milk, and never gave a single drop to the poor—they were even more wicked than the Röttmännin. But in those days our Lord thought fit to punish their sin, and one Sunday, when they were playing at football in the meadow with cheeses, the earth suddenly opened, and swallowed up the whole farm, men, and cattle. There is a particular time, however, when they all wake up again, and show themselves for, one single hour. It is not right to tell children such histories, it only makes them superstitious. I am not at all superstitious, besides it was still daylight; but there was no sun to be seen in the sky, nothing but black clouds, and my hair really stood on end. What terrified me most, was not the dread of the dead men waking up again, but the dogs starting up out of the ground, and beginning suddenly to bark—that would be very horrible. 'There's not a word of truth in it,' I exclaimed, in a loud voice, far into the valley, and this rather revived my courage. I thought, however, that my best plan was to retrace my steps, and not to attempt to go to Wenger that day; still going back was such a long journey, and I knew my way back just as little as my way forward. I would have been quite ashamed to show my face, if I had been obliged to go back, and say that I had lost my way. I said to myself—'No, on I must go. If I do not reach Wenger, at least I am sure to arrive at a house. Don't give way to superstition, and it is still daylight, and tonight there is a full moon; then you can go home when you have rested for a time, or you may remain at Wenger. No one is expecting you.' Unluckily I live quite alone; and it was a sad thought to me at that moment, that I was so solitary and uncared-for. No one would inquire for me, or weep for me, if I were lost I must say I could scarcely help crying; but no! said I to myself, there are people who feel an interest in me, and how frightened they will be, and yet how pleased, when I can relate to them my adventures. Surely they will soon end now. I have quite enough to tell them already, indeed more than enough; and tired, terribly tired I was. Suddenly I heard a boy jodeln, on the hill above. In my fright I never thought of jodeln, but I can jodeln, and right well too. In my youth I could utter this peculiar cry louder than anyone. I could be heard two miles off."
Leegart laid her hand on her cheek, and uttered a shrill, sharp cry, rising like the sharp point of a mountain, and descending again into the valley in scattered fragments. She could uplift her voice in the most marvellous way for her years.
David's wife, who had not hitherto heard one word of the whole story, started up from the bench beside the stove, and asked—"For Heaven's sake! what is the matter?" The women present, and Leegart, had great difficulty in pacifying her, and explaining why Leegart had uttered so loud a cry. The old woman again sunk down on the bench, muttering—"I am well rested now. I wish I could lend poor Martina my feet."
The women entreated Leegart to continue her story. She waxed her thread afresh, and sewed the collar on over and over to the jacket, which had in fact been finished for some time past; but she was resolved not to leave off sewing, for nothing is more sure and certain, than that no mortal man or child can die so long as any one is sewing for their benefit. Moreover, Leegart's story kept them all awake, and they did not wish to sleep till their husbands returned home, when they intended all to go together to the midnight service in church.
After Leegart had quietly blown her nose, she resumed—"So I began to jodeln, and the boy answered me, as if we were doing it for pleasure. I called out—'Which is the right road?' but his only answer was to jodeln again. 'Go to the deuce with your jodeln,' said I. I felt afraid when I had said this, but I cannot deny that I did say it. Come, I see a fresh path leading through the wood. I truly hope and trust it is not a labyrinth this time; it is wet enough, but among these thick trees it probably is never dry all the year round. Here is a clear spring. If I could only be able to drink some water; but all I contrive to get is wet feet. I followed the path into the wood, and soon it was as soft as a bed underfoot, and the moss so deep, that since the beginning of the world I felt sure no single handful of it had ever been plucked; indeed, who was likely to mount up here to get it? The path is no longer wet, and down the hill it seems dry enough; but all trace of a path has disappeared. In a fir wood you cannot see the traces of footsteps, and my shoes were as slippery as if they had been polished. Then I caught on a prickly thorn, and tore my feet till they bled. No matter. God be thanked! here I saw a piece of brick lying on the ground. I lifted it up, and found it really was a brick. So far well, for it was a proof that human beings must have been here; bricks don't grow of their own accord. The finest diamond could not have been more welcome to me than this brick. I went on my way quite tranquillized, and I did not even start on seeing an adder lying coiled up in the sun; I threw my brick at him, and he slipped away in a hurry. Oh! what a lot of strawberries here!—no one gathers them; for no one is likely to be here who has not lost their way, and as for me, stupid, silly creature, I dare not venture to pluck some to quench my thirst, because I have an idea that the adder has poisoned all the strawberries. Good! I saw a dry channel on the face of the bank where the trees, when felled, are slid down to the valley beneath. It surely must go down to the river, and I suddenly thought I heard the rushing of a stream; no doubt it is our river, but perhaps it may only be the tops of the trees rustling in the wind. When you have lost your way your hearing is not acute.
"Be it what it may, I resolved to run down the dry channel into the valley. I lifted up my gown, still holding fast the handkerchief with the cap in it. That packet had given me no end of trouble. When you are forced to go perpetually up and down hill, carrying something in your hand, even though it may not be very heavy, you feel as if one hand was tied fast, and quite useless. Hush! I thought I heard a carriage in the valley, so there must be a good road there; probably a one horse chaise from Bern, or perhaps with two horses, it trots along so rapidly. Soon it turned the corner, and then I no longer heard it at all.
"Gracious goodness! I had again allowed myself to be misled: it was only the leaves rustling in the forest that I had heard, and now the sound was far above me. I resolved not to listen to any other sounds, but to do my best for myself. I tried to climb up again, but the way was so steep that I found it impossible to get any footing on the bank. The ground, too was so hard, from the trees being shoved down it, that I could no longer dig my heels into the ground to get a firmer footing, and so I tore a pair of shoes that had cost me two gulden. I was not to get half of that for making the velvet cap. What matter! if I only get home safe, without damage to life or limb! I only fell once. No one should trust to anything they grasp, unless they have first proved its strength. Broom has a good hold, it stands very fast in the soil: once I seized hold of the roots of a tree, but the roots came away in my hand, and I slipped back a long way. I closed my eyes: now I must die, it is all over with me! I was brought up, however, by a rock, in the middle of a large anthill. I managed to get away from it at last. I went close to the dry channel on the side of the hill, and kept it in view, and jumped from tree to tree; but it could scarcely be called jumping, it was as if I had been cast forwards; my progress was just like sparrows flying and clapping their wings, and then tumbling topsy turvy in the air. I felt almost inclined to laugh when this thought struck me, but it was no laughing matter. I thought to myself, this will be a story for you to tell all your life long; and then it occurred to me again—if you could talk about it, you would by that time be well out of the scrape. I plucked up courage, and hoped it would soon be all right, and that there was no fear of dying; only I must get on. And so by dint of first seizing one branch, and then another, I got forward by degrees, and only slipped back once more, but I had no more tumbles. Fragments of rock rolled down beside me, jumping into the air, and rebounding as they went, till at last I seemed to hear them splash into the river. And I thought to myself that if I fell, I should fall, just like them, to the bottom and into the river. I stuck my nails into the earth, and crept on and on, and then sideways into the underwood, close to the dry channel, where a footing was to be found. Slowly, slowly, I crawled along. But stop! one step further and I must have been killed! A rock as steep and high as a house, as if cut out with a knife, overhung the river. I stopped short, and could have seized the tops of the larches with my hands, but there was no path. I went back two steps, and leant on a tree, and now my mind was easier. I saw running water. God be praised and blessed for all His mercies! this is the valley, and to have reached the valley is to have reached home. How pleasant was the rushing of water to my ears—so calm, so peaceful, so homelike! even seeing and hearing it quenched my thirst. I now accomplished the greatest feat of the whole, when, after a long round, I at last contrived, after much scrambling, to land in the valley. And when I actually found myself there, then, and not till then, I thought myself safe.
"Big drops of heat were running down my cheeks. I seated myself on a large log of wood, lying on the ground, close to the very beech tree where the hatter met Joseph. I was so overheated that I would gladly have got rid of some of my wraps; but there was a very cool breeze in the valley. The sun was just sinking behind the hills, and it was not yet noon when I left home. I saw swallows flying about. Oh! what a pleasant sight that was to me! And then I heard a cock crow. No nightingale's song could sound half so sweet as the crowing of a cock to a person who has lost his way. Well! I felt that I was now in the world again. I heard a hen cackling: wherever an egg is laid, there is sure to be a woman near. I heard a dog barking: where a dog barks a man is not far off. I am once more among my fellow-creatures. Presently I heard the rushing of a mill. Where am I, then?
"So long as I was wandering about and lost, even in my anguish, I never shed a tear; but now, when I was safe, I for the first time became fully aware of the dangers I had undergone, and I began to cry so dreadfully that I thought I must dissolve away, and yet I could not stop myself. Then, luckily, I saw a woodcutter coming along. I asked him where I was. 'Röttmannshof is close by up there,' said the man, passing on. I called after him to ask what o'clock it was. 'Past five.' So I had actually been running about for seven hours. I could scarcely believe it—seven mortal hours! If I had been superstitious, I should have certainly believed that some wood demon had purposely led me astray, for after seven o'clock has struck their delight is to mislead people, and there are day spirits as well as night spirits. By following the river I was sure to reach the Forest Mill; so I set off towards it. Scarcely, however, had I gone two hundred paces when I discovered that I had left my small parcel lying on the trunk of the tree; and it had caused me so much trouble, and I had taken such care of it! Gracious me! this too! Perhaps the woodcutter stole it, and I shall be obliged to pay for the velvet cap, instead of receiving a sum for making it. I ran back. Men are very good and honest, especially when they don't know the value of a thing. My parcel had slipped down behind the tree, and there I found it. The Forest Miller's wife was an excellent woman, and her daughter Tony takes after her. The good creature gave me dry clothes, and took as much care of me as if I had been her sister. But for three days I felt as if all my limbs had been dislocated. I started for home at last.
"When any one has been lost in a wood, it is scarcely possible to realise that they have a home of their own—a place where your bed stands, your looking-glass, your table, your chest of drawers, your Psalm Book. Oh! what good old friends these all seem, and how you love them all when you come home, and would gladly thank the tables and chairs for having stood steadily in the same place, and quietly waited for your return. And do you know the worst part of losing your way?—that you are so laughed at when you tell the story afterwards. But I wish no one—not even the Röttmännin herself—to have such a thing happen to them.
"It was a lovely summer's day, the Sunday after All Saints—no, not Sunday, the Monday of Peter and Paul. Oh! what must it be to wander about in the snow at night, and such a child, too! what could it do but lie down and die! Oh heavens! I see the child before me, fast in the snow, or in the cleft of a rock, its hands struggling, and its feet frozen, so that it cannot move; and crying out, 'Mother!' and listening, and hoping that some one will come, and no one answers but the raven on the tree. And a hare runs past him—whish!—over the snow. It is afraid of the child, and the child looks after the hare, and forgets his misery for the moment. 'Mother! mother!' he goes on calling, and it is a blessing that he falls asleep at last, never to wake again. Good heavens! what an unhappy creature I am to have such thoughts pass through my mind; and come they will, I can't help it; but it runs in our family, and my mother was right in saying, that she knew more than that two and two made four. And you know what happened to the poor child that lies buried up yonder in Wenger. He was found in the wood on the third day, quite covered with snow, and only close to his heart was the snow melted. All those who saw it could not help sobbing their very hearts out; and the mother became an idiot. The Herr Pastor wrote a beautiful epitaph on the tombstone: I knew it once by heart, but I could not repeat it now. And what happened to the hatter, who was carrying a bundle of newly dyed hats on New Year's Day to Knusling? He arrived at the Schröckenhalde, the very precipice where I was when I lost myself, and went on through the meadow; and there was such a fog that you could not see your hand before you. He went round and round the village at least seven times, and could never find his way in. The bells were ringing, but they always seemed to him to come from the other side, and so he never got there. At last he heard geese cackling, so he followed the cry, and soon got safe to the village. But if you could but have seen him! he looked just as if he had been buried, and dug up again. But one thing I forgot to tell you, which was that the Forest Miller"—
Here Leegart was interrupted by loud cries in front of the house.
CHAPTER XV.
A CHILD SEEKING HIS FATHER.
Leegart was absolute mistress of Schilder-David's house, on the days when she came in the morning to stay till night; and therefore it was but natural that she should dismiss little Joseph at noon; for in his presence, it was not possible to discuss the many points that were absolutely necessary to be discussed.
The news that the Pastor intended to leave the village came first to Leegart; and now she proved that she richly merited the name she had earned of The Privy Councillor. She sent instantly for two of the churchwardens, and dispatched them, along with Schilder-David, to the Pastor, in order to persuade him, by their united eloquence, to give up his intention.
A servant from the Forest Mill had gone to fetch wine from the Rössleswirth, and sugar and all sorts of spices from the grocer. This occurrence was, of course, very soon known in the village, and speedily found its way to the house of Schilder-David, whom it naturally concerned most, and to Leegart, who was there, and who always contrived to have the earliest intelligence about everything. Every one in the village took a pride in bringing her news, and they considered it only their simple duty to tell her all reports, being well paid for it beforehand.
There was now a perfect strife as to who should concoct the mulled wine, preparing for the betrothal of Adam and the Forest Miller's Tony. Leegart added her share of spice mentally, but very different from that you buy at the grocer's. She kept wishing that she could drop poison into it, and that all who drank it should die. Her only difficulty was whether to wish most for the death of the Röttmännin or that of the Forest Miller, who was about to sacrifice his child in such a criminal manner, in order to save her marriage portion.
Martina, however, was vexed that Joseph should be sent out of the house on this particular day. Still it was quite right that he should not hear what they were going to talk about; and though she did not join in Leegart's denunciations, she could not help crying and lamenting. She sent Joseph back to Häspele, but Joseph had talked enough already of the dog he seemed doomed never to get. He went along the village, and a woman who met him said in a compassionate tone, "Ah! poor child! this is an evil day for you," Joseph thought so too, as he had been pushed out of the house. Presently another, by way of cloaking the bad news adroitly, said, "Joseph, what is your father doing? Is it long since you saw him?" The boy perceived that something was going on in the village, and that it concerned him; he, however, kept his promise to his mother, and told no one that his father was to come this very day.
It never ceased snowing, and Joseph, being quite alone on the ice, kept sliding backwards and forwards on the ground, and constantly looking at the path where his father was likely to come. But he found himself at last so solitary, that he went to his grandfather's. He remained standing outside the door of the workshop, for he heard two men talking there. He knew their voices: they were the two churchwardens Wagner and Harzbauer. They were saying that the cook at the Parsonage had let out that the Pastor intended to leave the village, and that she believed Röttmann and the Forest Miller were the chief cause of this; and then they abused Adam, saying that he well deserved his nickname of The Horse, for he allowed himself to be bridled and driven about, just as other people chose.
The men now came out, along with Schilder-David, who said, "So you are there, Joseph? Go home, and I will soon come to you."
His grandfather did not take him by the hand, as usual, but went with his two friends to the Parsonage. Joseph stood still. But suddenly, as if some one had whistled to him, he turned round, and ran off through the village into the fields, to meet his father. "He will be so glad to see me! and he will put me before him on his horse." Away ran the boy, jumping merrily along through the fields, and into the wood. Every now and then he wiped off the snow from his face and breast with his hands, and making small snowballs, he threw them at particular trees that he fixed upon, and never failed to hit them. He went more slowly when he was once fairly in the wood, and often looked round. Two bullfinches were perched on a mountain ash close to the path, twittering incessantly, but as if half asleep, and every now and then picking the red berries; but many more than they ate, were scattered on the ground. "You are silly, greedy fellows, and destroy more than you eat," said Joseph, and, despising the simple creatures, went on his way. Below in the valley a bird was singing charmingly, and with infinite tenderness: it sounded something like the notes of a thrush. What could it be? And the bird went on singing and flying—on and on, further and further! Deep snow was lying where the path takes a sharp turn. At the very first step Joseph sunk up to his knees. He was, however, quick enough to clamber up an overhanging bank, and then to get down again into the path beyond the snowdrift. It was lucky that this steep declivity was planted with mountain ash, to show the way.
"Do the mountain ash berries belong to my father, too, I wonder?" said Joseph aloud. The trees could not answer him, and there was no human being near to give him any information. A fox appeared on the path in the thicket, and stared at the boy. No doubt he was puzzled to make out what such a singular apparition could be: he stood for some moments immoveable, watching the boy, till the latter cried out, "Get along!" And off trotted the fox, but in no hurry, and little Joseph again exclaimed, "Yes, grandfather, it is just as you said, for now I saw it myself,—the fox drags his tail after him on the ground, to brush away the marks of his paws, that no one may know which way he is gone. How clever of him!" Magpies chattered from the tops of the trees, and a crossbill was perched on a projecting bit of rock, just above the valley; and the boy nodded to it, and the bird nodded too: he did not say a word, but he only opened and shut his beak, as if he wished to say, "I am hungry." "There's something for you!" cried little Joseph, flinging down the ravine the only bit of bread he had left. The bird, no doubt, supposed that it was a stone thrown at him, for he flew away timidly, and the piece of bread was buried in the snow, so no one got a share of it.
Joseph went on quietly, resting sometimes under a tree, and sometimes under a projecting rock, amusing himself by watching how the snow fell in such thick showers, and yet so softly, covering everything more and more. "My father must take me a drive in a sledge tomorrow," thought Joseph; and, thinking of his father, he wandered further and further.
Twilight was beginning to fall, and the boy felt rather frightened, but he still went straight on; and it was lucky for him that Schilder-David had guarded him from all the prevalent superstitions of the country. Still Häspele had told him that the souls of the dead danced in churchyards at night, in the shape of lights, and often in the wood besides; and the rider on the gallant grey, who rides through the air, can crack his whip famously, for he has a fir tree as tall as the church steeple for a whip. There is the stone cross at the side of the road, where once a peasant with his cart and horse fell down the hill; and there sits a raven on the cross. "You are nothing but a raven," said Joseph, throwing a snowball at the bird, who flew away with a croak.
Joseph went on till he came to a group of wooden figures, the faces almost covered with snow, and the figures, in summer attire, peeping out of the hollow in which the group was placed. Joseph broke off a fir branch, and rubbed off all the snow from the wooden faces, that seemed to stare at him so strangely. They consisted of five men, in the hollow, under green trees: they all wore white shirts, green breeches, and short yellow leather gaiters. They stood in a row, each with an axe in his hand. In front, however, of the others stood one man alone, with uplifted axe, and beside him lay a man on the ground, bleeding and crushed, close to a felled tree. Joseph read the inscription: it was, "Vincent Röttmann was crushed by this tree on the 17th of August, and died, after great suffering, on the 23rd of August. May God grant him everlasting rest, and punish the guilty!"
Joseph shuddered. The figures kept staring at him as if he were guilty. And what Röttmann could this be?
As a sign that he was innocent, Joseph placed the green fir branch on the group, and went on his way, not quite easy in his mind, because the figures stared after him so oddly.
What does he see coming, along the path? Is it a man?—he has at least a hundred protuberances! He must be a spectre! He comes nearer and nearer. Joseph goes up to him boldly, and says—"Good evening!" The man with the hundred protuberances—it was the hatter with his bundles of three-cornered hats hanging round him—tried to persuade Joseph, first kindly and then by force, to go back with him; but he slipped through his hands, and running on, cried loudly through the wood, "Father! father!" and on he went. "He will soon come—he is sure to hear me." Night now set in, and Joseph walked further and further, calling out his father's name; and his cheeks were in such a glow that the snow melted as it fell on his face. He knelt down and said his usual night prayer at least thirty times over—"God, bless my father and mother!" He always said this with peculiar piety; and again started up, thinking that he heard something crackling and moving in the ravine. But no—all was again still. "But where is the path?—there is now no path at all." The boy began to cry bitterly as he ran along, stumbling first against one tree and then against another. "Father! mother! father!—good Lord, help me!" And God heard his cry. Three angels are coming hither with lights: they have white garments and gold crowns on their heads, and are singing such a strange song.