Читать книгу: «The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 08», страница 7
"She is only our maid." That little word "only" smote painfully on the girl's heart. But she recovered herself quickly and smiled; for a voice within her said:
"Don't let your pleasure be spoiled by a single word. If you begin anything new, you are sure to step on thorns at first."
Rose took Barefoot aside and said: "You may go for the present to the dancing-room, or wherever you like, if you have any acquaintances in the place. When the music begins I shall want to see you again."
And so Barefoot stood forsaken, as it were, and feeling as if she had stolen the clothes she had on, and did not belong to the company at all, as if she were an intruder.
"How comes it that thou goest to such a wedding?" she asked herself; and she would have liked to go home again. She decided to take a walk through the village. She passed by the beautiful house built for Brosi, where there was plenty of life today, too; for the wife of that high official was spending the summer here with her sons and daughters. Barefoot turned back toward the village again, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and yet wishing that somebody would accost her that she might have a companion. On the outskirts of the village she encountered a smart-looking young man riding a white horse. He was attired in farmer's dress, but of a strange kind, and looked very proud. He pulled up his horse, rested his right hand with the whip in it on his hip, and patting the animal's neck with his left, called out:
"Good morning, pretty mistress! Tired of dancing already?"
"I'm tired of idle questions already," was the reply.
The horseman rode on. Barefoot sat for a long time behind a hedge, while many thoughts flitted through her mind. Her cheeks glowed with a flush caused by anger at herself for having made so sharp a reply to a harmless question, by bashfulness, and by a strange, inward emotion. And involuntarily she began to hum the old song:
"There were two lovers in Allgau
Who loved each other so dear."
She had begun the day in expectation of joy, and now she wished that she were dead. She thought to herself: "How good it would be to fall asleep here behind this hedge and never to awake again. You are not to have any joy in this life, why should you run about so long? The grasshoppers are chirping in the grass, a warm fragrance is rising from the earth, a linnet is singing incessantly and seems to dive into himself with his voice and to bring up finer and finer notes, and yet seems to be unable to say with his whole heart what he has to say. Up in the air the larks, too, are singing, every one for himself—no one listens to the others or joins in with the others—and yet everything is—"
Never in her life had Amrei fallen asleep in broad daylight, or if ever, not in the morning. She had now drawn her handkerchief over her eyes, and the sunbeams were kissing her closed lips, which, even in sleep, were pressed together defiantly, and the redness of her chin had become deeper. She had slept about an hour, when she awoke with a start. The smart-looking young man on the white horse was riding toward her, and the horse had just lifted up his fore feet to bring them down on her chest. It was only a dream, and Amrei gazed around her as if she had fallen from the sky. She saw with astonishment where she was, and looked at herself in wonder. But the sound of music from the village soon aroused the spirit of life within her, and with new strength she walked back and found that everything had become more lively. She noticed that she felt more rested after the many things that she had experienced that day. And now let only the dancing begin! She would dance until the next morning, and never rest, and never get tired!
The fresh glow following the sleep of childhood was on her face, and everybody looked at her in astonishment. She went to the dancing-room; the music was playing, but in an empty room—for no dancers had come yet. Only the girls who had been hired to wait upon the guests were dancing with one another. Crappy Zachy looked at Barefoot for a longtime, and then shook his head; evidently he did not know her. Amrei crept along close to the wall, and so out of the room again. She ran across Farmer Dominic, whose face was radiant with joy today.
"Beg pardon," said he; "does the mistress belong to the wedding guests?"
"No, I am only a maid. I came with Farmer Rodel's daughter, Rose."
"Good! Then go out to the kitchen and tell the mistress that I sent you, and that you are to help her. We can't have hands enough in my house today."
"Because it's you I'll gladly go," said Amrei, and she set out at once. On the way she thought how Dominic himself had once been a servant, and—"Yes, such things happen only once in a century. It cost him many a pang before he came to the farm—and that's a pity."
Ameile, Dominic's wife, gave a friendly welcome to the new comer, who offered her services and at the same time took off her jacket, asking if she might borrow a large apron with a bib on it. But the farmer's wife insisted that Amrei should satisfy her own hunger and thirst before she set about serving others. Amrei consented without much ceremony, and won Ameile's heart by the first words she spoke; for she said:
"I will fall to at once, for I must confess that I am hungry, and I don't want to put you to the trouble of having to urge me."
Amrei now remained in the kitchen and handed the dishes to the waitresses in such a knowing way, and managed and arranged everything so well, that the mistress said:
"You two Amreis, you and my brother's daughter, can manage all this, and I will stay with the guests."
Amrei of Siebenhofen, who was nicknamed the "Butter Countess," and who was known far and wide as proud and stubborn, was very friendly with Barefoot. Once, indeed, the mistress said to the latter:
"It's a pity that you are not a boy; I believe that Amrei would marry you on the spot, and not send you home, as she does all of her suitors."
"I have a brother who's still single—but he's in America," replied Barefoot, laughing.
"Let him stay there," said the Butter Countess; "it would be better if we could send all the men folk away and be here by ourselves."
Amrei did not leave the kitchen until everything had been put back in its proper place; and when she took off her apron it was still as white and unruffled as when she had put it on.
"You'll be tired and not able to dance," said the farmer's wife, when Amrei, with a present, finally took her leave.
"Why should I be tired? This was only play; and, believe me, I feel much better for having done something today. A whole day devoted to pleasure! I shouldn't know how to spend it, and I've no doubt that was why I felt so sad this morning—I felt that something was missing. But now I feel quite ready for a holiday—quite out of harness. Now I feel just like dancing, if I could only find partners."
Ameile did not know how to show greater honor to Barefoot than by leading her about the house, as if she were a wealthy farmer's wife, and showing her the large chest full of wedding presents in the bridal room. She opened the tall, blue cabinets, which had the name and the date painted upon them, and which were crammed full of linen and all sorts of things, all tied up with ribbons of various colors and decorated with artificial flowers. In the wardrobe there were at least thirty dresses, and nearby were the high beds, the cradle, the distaff with its beautiful spindles, and everywhere children's clothes were hanging, presents from the bride's former playmates.
"Oh, kind Heaven!" cried Barefoot; "how happy a child of such a house must be!"
"Are you envious?" said the farmer's wife; and then remembering that she was showing all these things to a poor girl, she added: "But believe me, fine clothes are not all; there are many happier who do not get as much as a stocking from their parents."
"Yes, yes, I know that. I am not envious of the beautiful things, but rather of the privilege that it gives your child to thank you and so many good people for the lovely things she has received from them. Such clothes from one's mother must keep one doubly warm."
The farmer's wife showed her fondness of Barefoot by accompanying the girl as far as the yard, as she would have done to a visitor who had eight horses in the stable.
There was already a great crowd of people assembled when Amrei arrived at the dancing-floor. At first she stood timidly on the threshold. In the empty courtyard, across which somebody hurried every now and then, a solitary gendarme was pacing up and down. When he saw Amrei coming along with a radiant face, he approached her and said:
"Good morning, Amrei! Art thou here too?"
Amrei started and turned quite pale. Had she done anything punishable? Had she gone into the stable with a naked light? She thought of her past life and could remember nothing; and yet he had addressed her as familiarly as if he had already arrested her once. With these thoughts flitting through her mind, she stood there trembling as if she were a criminal, and at last answered:
"Thank you. But I don't know why we should call each other 'thou.' Do you want anything of me?"
"Oh, how proud you are. You can answer me properly. I am not going to eat you up. Why are you so angry? Eh?"
"I am not angry, and I don't want to harm any one. I am only a foolish girl."
"Don't pretend to be so submissive—"
"How do you know what I am?"
"Because you flourish about so with that light."
"What? Where? Where have I flourished about with a light? I always take a lantern when I go out to the stable, but—"
The gendarme laughed and said: "I mean your brown eyes—that's where the light is. Your eyes are like two balls of fire."
"Then get out of my way, lest you get burnt. You might get blown up with all that powder in your cartridge-box."
"There's nothing in it," said the gendarme, embarrassed, but wishing to make some kind of retort. "But you have scorched me already."
"I don't see where—you seem to be all right. But enough! Let me go."
"I'm not keeping you, you little crib-biter. You could lead a man a hard life, who was fond of you."
"Nobody need be fond of me," said Amrei; and she rushed away as if she had got loose from a chain.
She stood in the doorway where many spectators were crowded together. A new dance was just beginning, and she swayed back and forth with the music. The feeling that she had got the better of some one made her more cheerful than ever, and she would have taken up arms against the whole world, as well as against a single gendarme. But her tormentor soon appeared again; he posted himself behind Amrei and said all kinds of things to her. She made no answer and pretended not to hear him, every now and then nodding to the people as they danced by, as if she had been greeted by them. Only when the gendarme said:
"If I were allowed to marry, I'd take you."
She replied:
"Take me, indeed! But I shouldn't give myself!"
The gendarme was glad to have at least got an answer from her, and continued:
"And if I were allowed to dance, I would have one with you right now."
"I cannot dance," replied Amrei.
Just then the music ceased. Amrei pushed against the people in front of her, and made her way in to seek some retired corner. She heard some one behind her say:
"Why, she can dance better than anybody in this part of the country!"
CHAPTER X
ONLY A SINGLE DANCE
Down from the musicians' platform Crappy Zachy handed a glass to Amrei.
She took a sip, and handed it back; and Crappy Zachy said:
"If you dance, Amrei, I'll play all my instruments so that the angels will come down from the sky and join in."
"Yes, but unless an angel comes down from the sky and asks me, I shall not get a partner," said Amrei, half in fun and half in sorrow. And then she began to wonder why there had to be a gendarme at a dance; but she did not hold to this thought long, but immediately went on to say to herself: "After all, he is a man like anybody else, even though he has a sword on; and before he became a gendarme, he was a lad like the rest. It must be a plague for him that he can't dance. But what's that to me? I, too, am obliged to be a mere spectator, and I don't get any money for it."
For a short time things went on in a much more quiet and moderate manner in the dancing-room. For the "English woman," as Agy, the wife of Severin, the building contractor, was still called, had come to the dance with her children. The rich wood-merchants set the champagne corks to popping and offered a glass to the English woman; she drank the health of the young couple and then made each one happy by a gracious word. A constant and complacent smile was lighting up the face of everybody. Agy honored many a young fellow who drank to her from the garlanded glasses, by sipping from hers in return. The old women, who sat near Barefoot, were loud in their praises of the English woman, and stood up a long time before she came when they saw her approaching to speak a few words to them. When Agy had gone away, the rejoicing, singing, dancing, stamping, and shouting broke out again with renewed vigor.
Farmer Rodel's foreman now came toward Amrei, and she felt a thrill of expectation. But the foreman said:
"Here, Barefoot, take care of my pipe for me while I am dancing." And after that several young girls from her village also came; from one she received a jacket, from another a cap, or a neckerchief, or a door-key. She let them hand it all over to her, and stood there with an ever-increasing load as one dance followed another. All the time she smiled quietly to herself, but nobody came to ask her to dance. Now a waltz was being played, so smoothly that one could have swum to it. And then a wild and furious galop; hurrah! now they are all hopping and stamping and jumping and panting in supreme delight. And how their eyes glitter! The old women who are sitting in the corner where Amrei is standing, complain of the dust and heat; but still, they don't go home. Then—suddenly Amrei starts; her eyes are fixed upon a handsome young man who is walking proudly to and fro among the crowd. It is the rider who had met her that morning, and whom she had snubbed in such a pert way. All eyes are fastened upon him as he comes forward, his right hand behind him, and his left holding a silver-mounted pipe. His silver watch-chain bobs up and down, and how beautiful is his black velvet jacket, and his loose black velvet trousers, and his red waistcoat! But more beautiful still is his round head with its curly, brown hair. His brow is white as snow; but from the eyes down his face is sunburnt, and a light, full beard covers his chin and cheeks.
"That's a bonny fellow," said one of the old women.
"And what heavenly blue eyes he has!" added another; "they are at once so roguish and so kind."
"Where can he be from? He's not from this neighborhood," said a third.
And a fourth observed:
"I'll wager he's another suitor for Amrei."
Barefoot started. What did this mean? What was that she said? But she soon found out the meaning of it, for the first old lady resumed:
"Then I'm sorry for him; for the Butter Countess makes fools of all the men."
And so the Butter Countess's name was also Amrei.
The young stranger had passed through the room several times, turning his eyes from one side to the other. Then he suddenly stopped not far from Barefoot and beckoned to her. A hot flush overspread her face; she stood riveted to the spot and did not move a muscle. No, he certainly beckoned to somebody behind you; he cannot mean you. The stranger pressed forward and Amrei made way for him. He must be looking for some one else.
"No, it's you I want," said the lad, taking Barefoot's hand. "Will you dance?"
Amrei could not speak. But what need was there to speak? She threw everything she had in her arms down into a corner—jackets, neckerchiefs, caps, pipes, and door-keys—and stood there ready. The lad threw a dollar up to the musicians; and when Crappy Zachy saw Amrei on the arm of the stranger, he blew his trumpet until the very walls trembled. And to the blessed souls above no music can sound more beautiful than did this to Amrei. She danced she knew not how; she felt as if she were being carried in the stranger's arms, as if she were floating in the air, and there seemed to be no one else there. And, indeed, they both danced so well, that everybody involuntarily stopped to look at them.
"We are alone," said Amrei during the dance; and then she felt the warm breath of her partner as he answered:
"Oh that we were alone—alone in the world! Why cannot one go on dancing thus—on and on to the end of time."
"I feel," said Amrei, "just as if we were two doves flying through the air. Juhu! away into the heavens!" And "Juhu!" cried the lad gleefully, "Juhu!" And the sound shot up heavenward like a fiery rocket. "Juhu!" cried Amrei, rejoicing with him. And on they danced with ever-increasing joy. Finally Amrei said:
"Tell me—is the music going on? Are the musicians still playing? I don't hear them any more."
"Of course they are still playing. Don't you hear them?"
"Yes, now I do," said Amrei. And now they stopped, for her partner probably felt that she was becoming giddy with happiness.
The stranger led Amrei to the table, and gave her wine to drink, and did not let go her hand. He lifted the Swedish ducat that hung from her necklace, and said:
"This ducat is in a good place."
"And it came from a good hand," answered Amrei. "That necklace was given to me when I was a little child."
"By a relative?"
"No, the lady was no relative."
"Dancing agrees with you apparently."
"Oh, indeed it does! You see, I'm obliged to jump around so much all the year around when nobody is playing for me—and therefore I enjoy it doubly now."
"You look as round as a ball," said the stranger in jest. "You must live where the food is good."
Amrei replied quickly:
"It's not the food itself that does it, but the way one enjoys it."
The stranger nodded; and after a pause, he spoke again, half questioningly:
"You are the daughter of Farmer—"
"No, I am a maid," replied Amrei, looking him full in the face. The stranger's eyes almost fell; the lids quivered, but he held them open by force. And this struggle and victory of the bodily eye seemed to be a symbol of what was going on within him. He felt almost inclined to leave the girl sitting there; but he resisted and conquered the impulse, and said:
"Come, let us have another dance."
He held her hand fast, and the pleasure and excitement began again; but this time it was more quiet and moderate. Both of them seemed to feel that the sensation of being lifted to the sky was over and past; and this thought was evidently in Amrei's mind when she said:
"Well, we have been very happy together once, even if we don't see each other again in all our lives, and even though neither of us knows the other's name."
The youth nodded and said:
"You are right."
Amrei held the end of her braid between her lips in embarrassment, and after a pause spoke again:
"The enjoyment one has once had cannot be taken from one; and whoever you are, you need never repent of having given a poor girl a pleasure she will remember all her life."
"I don't repent of it," replied her partner. "But I know that you repent of having answered me so sharply this morning."
"Oh, yes, you are right there!" cried Amrei; and then the stranger said:
"Would you venture to go out into the field with me?"
"Yes."
"And do you trust me?"
"Yes."
"But what will your people say?"
"I have nobody but myself to give account of my actions to; I am an orphan."
Hand in hand the two went out of the dancing-room. Barefoot heard several people whispering and tittering behind her, but she kept her eyes fixed on the ground. She wondered if she had not ventured too far after all.
In the fields, where the first ears of wheat were beginning to sprout and still lay half concealed in their green sheaths, the two stopped and stood looking at each other in silence. For a long time neither said a word. But finally it was the man who broke the silence, by saying, half to himself:
"I wonder how it is that one, on first sight, can be so—so—I don't know—so confidential with a person? How is it one can read what is written in another's face?" "Now we have set a poor soul free," said Amrei; "for you know, when two people think the same thought at the same time, they are said to set a soul free. And I was thinking the very words you just spoke."
"Indeed? And do you know why?"
"Yes."
"Will you tell me?"
"Why not? Look you; I have been a goose-keeper—"
At these words the stranger started again; but he pretended that something had fallen into his eye, and began to rub that organ vigorously, while Barefoot went on, undismayed:
"Look you; when one sits or lies alone out in the fields all day, one thinks of hundreds of things, and some of them are strange thoughts indeed. Just try it yourself, and you will certainly find it so. Every fruit-tree, if you look at it as a whole, has the appearance of the fruit it bears. Take the apple-tree; does it not look, spread out broad, and, as it were, in round pieces, like the apple itself? And the same is true of the pear-tree and the cherry-tree, if only you look at them in the right way. Look what a long trunk the cherry-tree has—like the stem of a cherry. And so I think—"
"Well, what do you think?"
"You'll laugh at me; but just as the fruit-trees look like the fruits they bear, so is it also with people; one can tell what they are at once by looking at them. But the trees, to be sure, always have honest faces, while people can dissemble theirs. But I am talking nonsense, am I not?"
"No, you have not kept geese for nothing," said the lad; and there was a strange mixture of feelings in the tone of his voice. "I like to talk with you. I should give you a kiss, if I were not afraid of doing what is wrong."
Barefoot trembled all over. She stooped to break off a flower, but did not break it. There was a long pause, and then the lad went on: "We shall most likely never meet again, and so it is best as it is."
Hand in hand the two went back to the dancing-room. There they danced once more together without saying a word to each other, and when the dance was over, the young man again led her to the table, and said:
"Now I shall say good-by. But first you must get your breath, and then drink once more."
He handed her the glass, and when she set it down again, he said:
"You must drain it, for my sake, to the very bottom."
Amrei drank and drank; and when the glass was empty in her hand, she looked around—the stranger was gone! She went down and stood in front of the house; and there she saw him again, not far away, riding off on his white horse; but he did not look back.
The mist hung over the valley like a veil of clouds, and the sun had already set. Barefoot said to herself, almost aloud:
"I wish tomorrow would never come, but that it would always be today—always today!" And then she stood still, lost in dreams.
The night came on quickly. The moon, looking like a thin sickle, was resting on the summits of the dark mountains. One little Bernese wagon after another drove away. Barefoot went to find her master's chaise, to which the horses were now being hitched. Then Rose came and told her brother that she had promised some young people of her village to go home in company with them. And it was understood as a matter of course that the farmer could not drive home alone with the maid. And so the little Bernese wagon went rattling off toward home with a single occupant. Rose must have seen Barefoot, but she acted as if she were not there. And so Barefoot once more wandered forth along the road on which the stranger had departed. Whither could he have gone? How many hundred villages and hamlets there were along that road, and to which one was he bound? Barefoot found the place again where he had first accosted her in the morning; she repeated aloud to herself his salutation, and the answer she had given him. And once more she sat down behind the hazel hedge, where in the morning she had slept and dreamt. A yellowhammer sat on a slender spray, and its six notes sounded just as if it were saying: "And why art thou still here? And why art thou still here?"
Barefoot had lived through a whole life's history in this one day. Could it be but a single day? She went back again to the dance, but did not go up to the room itself. And then she started out homeward alone. She had gone almost halfway to Haldenbrunn, when she suddenly turned back; she seemed unable to tear herself away from the place where she had been so happy. And she said to herself that it was not right for her to go home alone anyway; she should go in company with the young men and girls from her village. When she arrived in front of the tavern at Endringen again, she found several people from her village already assembled there.
"Ah, are you here, too, Barefoot?" was the only greeting she received.
And now there was great confusion; for many who had been the first to urge going home, were still upstairs dancing. And now some strange lads came and begged and besought them to stay for just one more dance; and they got their way. Barefoot, too, went upstairs, but only to look on. At last the cry was: "Whoever dances now shall be left behind;" and after a great deal of difficulty and much rushing to and fro, the Haldenbrunn contingent was finally assembled in front of the house. Some of the musicians escorted them through the village, and many a sleepy father came to the window to see what was going on, while now and then a woman, who had once been one of the merry-makers herself, but who had married and so culminated her days of frivolity, would appear at a window and cry: "A pleasant journey home!"
The night was dark, and large pine fagots had been provided for torches; and the lads who carried them danced about and shouted with joy. Scarcely had the musicians gone back, and scarcely had the party left Endringen well behind, when the cry was: "Put out the torches! They only dazzle us!" And two soldiers in particular, who were then off duty and had joined the party, made fun of the torches, in proud consciousness of their sabres. Accordingly the torches were extinguished in a ditch. And now they began to miss this or that boy, and this or that girl, and when their comrades called out to them, they would answer from a distance.
Barefoot walked behind the rest, a good distance from those of her own village. They let her alone, and that was the greatest kindness they could have done her; she was with the people of her own village, and yet she was alone. She often looked around at the fields and the woods; how wonderful it all looked in the night!—so strange and yet so familiar! The whole world seemed as strange to her as she had become to herself. And as she went along, step by step, as if she were being pulled or pushed, without realizing that she was moving, so did her thoughts move, involuntarily, in her mind; they seemed to be whirling on, and she could not grasp or control them—she did not know what it meant. Her cheeks glowed as if every star in the heavens were a heat-radiating sun, and her very heart burned within her.
And now, just as if she had begun it, as if she herself had struck up the tune, her companions ahead began to sing the song that had risen to her lips that morning:
"There were two lovers in Allgau,
Who loved each other so dear;
And the young lad went away to war;
When comest thou home again?
Ah, that I cannot, love, tell thee,
What year, or what day, or what hour!"
And then the "Good Night" song was sung; and Amrei, in the distance, joined in:
"A fair 'good night' to thee, love, farewell!
When all are sleeping
Then watch I'm keeping,
So wearily.
A fair "good night" to thee, love, farewell!
Now I must leave thee,
And joy be with thee,
Till I come back.
And when I come back, then I'll come to thee,
And then I'll kiss thee,
That tastes so sweetly,—
Love, thou art mine!
Love, thou art mine, and I am thine,
And that doth content me,
And shall not repent thee,
Love, fare thee well!"
At last they came to the village, where one group after another detached itself. Barefoot paused under the tree by her father's house, and stood there for a long time in dreamy meditation. She would have liked to go in and tell Black Marianne everything, but gave up the idea. Why should she disturb the old woman's rest at night? What good would it do? She went quietly home, where everybody was asleep. When she finally entered the house, everything seemed so much more strange to her than it had outside—so odd, so out of keeping, so out of place. "Why do you come home? What do you want here?" There seemed to be a strange questioning in every sound; when the dog barked, when the stairs creaked, when the cows lowed in the stable—they all seemed to be questioning her: "Who's that coming home? Who's that?" And when at length she found herself in her room, she sat down quietly and stared at the light. Suddenly she got up, seized the lamp, held it up to the glass, and looked at her face; she felt inclined to ask herself: "Who's that?"—"And thus," she thought, "he saw me—this is how I looked. He must have been pleased with something about you, or else why did he look at you so?"
There arose in her a quiet feeling of contentment, which was heightened by the thought:
"Well, for once you have been looked upon as a person; until now you have been nothing but a servant, a convenience for others. Good night, Amrei—this has been a day indeed! But even this day must come to an end at last."
