Chapter VIII: Part 8

“The parade doesn’t agree with him,” he exclaimed, “doesn’t agree with him at all. But there’s no help for it. Misdemeanour must be followed up by punishment. Sergeant Möller, how often has Cæsar been to parade? If I am not mistaken, it was eight times. I want him to come four more times. Let’s have the dozen full, by all means. Confound him! We’ll teach him better manners than to get up on his hind legs and caper. All I could do to keep him from falling. Did I tell you all the details of the story, Lieutenant von Schwenkenberg?”

“I--had--the--good--fortune--to--be--an--eye-witness,” leisurely remarked the lieutenant.

“Ah, presence of mind, presence of mind, there’s nothing like having presence of mind in an emergency. The deuce! the very last thing we’d want on the battle-field would be a nag that stumbles and falls.--Keep right on, Sergeant Möller,” he added, turning to the latter, who had stopped calling the roll to listen to the Captain’s speech, and looked up to his superior with unbounded reverence. “Keep right on; never mind me. I always take this time to examine not only the battalion within and without, but the barracks as well--yes, the barracks.” Saying these words, he had twice pranced round about the battalion, casting many a glance into an open door which, as the emerging smoke would indicate, marked the entrance to the regimental kitchen.

“What is the story about the horse?” the young lieutenant asked his superior.

The latter shrugged his shoulders gently to and fro, and then replied, “The--horse--behaved--rather--badly,--the--Herr--Captain--thought-- best--to--chastise--him,--and when--the--horse--took--it--ill,--they-- parted company,--you--see. As--a--well-deserved--punishment--Cæsar--is-- to--come--to--parade--for--twelve--consecutive--days--saddled--and packed with--the--full--equipment--for--battle.”

“Seems to me that is harder on the groom than it is on the horse.”

“Does--it--strike--you--so?” remarked Lieutenant von Schwenkenberg with imperturbable tranquillity.

Now the voice of the Captain was heard again. “Lieutenant Schwarz, will you have the goodness to look at this man of your column.” He had ordered a man in the left wing to turn around, and was standing close before him. “I have told you, no doubt, that it takes a practised eye; look closely at the man, will you? Well? What is it? What do you see that’s wrong about him?”

The young officer inspected him carefully from all sides, but he was bound to confess, with a shrug of his shoulders, that he saw nothing unusual.

The Captain smiled with evident satisfaction. Then he said in a gratified tone, “Ah yes, a practised eye is not a thing to be acquired in a day or two. Just look at the buttons on his jacket.”

“They are not polished as brightly as they might be,” the young officer remarked timidly.

“It’s not that, Lieutenant Schwarz. Ye saints, it’s not that,” replied the Captain, raising his left hand like a mason holding a plumb-line. “Imagine a line drawn from the hook of his collar to the middle seam of his trousers. Do you discover nothing? Nothing whatever? Well, my dear Herr Lieutenant, it would really be expecting too much, altogether too much. All that will come to you in good time, no doubt. I have not served in the army for twenty-five years for nothing. Well now, I’ll tell you. The fourth button counting from the top is about half a line too far to the left. You think it is the tailor’s fault, do you? No, sir; I never make the tailor responsible for such things in my regiment. Saints preserve us! I always test them with a plumb-line. Tell that fellow to unbutton his jacket, and if you don’t find a _manœuvre de force_ at the fourth button then I’m very much mistaken.”

The cannoneer unbuttoned his jacket, and sure enough it was just as the Captain had said. Instead of being sewed on, the fourth button was fastened with a small stick, which set it slightly awry, and brought its owner under the ban of the penal code.

_F. W. Hackländer_ (1816-1877).

_THE KING OF MACCAROONIA._

THE King of Maccaroonia, who was just in the prime of life, and in fact had been there for some time past, arose one morning and sat himself down in his night attire upon a chair by the side of his bed. His Minister of State stood before him holding his stockings, one of which had a large hole in the heel. Although he carefully turned the stocking in such a way that the king should not perceive the hole, and although it was much more in the king’s line to have an eye for dainty boots than for well-mended stockings, the hole had not escaped his royal penetration. With horror he seized the stocking, put his fore-finger through the hole up to his knuckles, and then remarked with a sigh--

“What good is there in being a king, so long as I have no queen! What think you of the project of taking a wife?”

“That, your Majesty, is indeed a sublime idea,” replied the Minister; “an idea which I am confident I, your humble subject, should have made bold to conceive, had I not felt that your Majesty himself would deign to utter it this very day.”

“Very well then!” answered the king; “but do you think it will be an easy matter for me to find just the right kind of a wife?”

“Pooh!” said the Minister, “you’ll find a dozen!”

“Do not forget that I am very fastidious. To please me, a princess must be beautiful and clever. And then there is another point that I would lay special stress on. You know how fond I am of ginger-nuts. In my whole kingdom there is not a person who knows how to bake them--that is, to bake them as they should be baked, not too hard and not too soft, but just nice and crisp. She must _partout_ know how to bake ginger-nuts.”

When the Minister heard this his heart fell. But he soon recovered, and replied: “A king like your Majesty will, without doubt, be able to find a princess who can bake ginger-nuts.”

“Well then, we will look about us!” said the king; and that same day he set out accompanied by his Minister on a journey to such of his neighbours as had princesses to dispose of. But it so happened that only three princesses were discovered whose beauty and cleverness were sufficient to satisfy the king, and none of the three could bake ginger-nuts.

“I am sorry to say I can’t bake ginger-nuts,” said the first princess, in answer to the king’s question, “but I can bake delicious little almond-cakes. Wouldn’t those do?”

“No!” replied the king, “nothing short of ginger-nuts will do!”

The second princess snapped her fingers when he asked her, and said pettishly, “Go away with your nonsense! There is no such thing as a princess who can bake ginger-nuts.”

But the king fared worse than this even with the third, who was, alas! the fairest and cleverest. She gave him no opportunity to ask his question; before he could do so, she confronted him with a query on her part asking him if he knew how to play on the Jew’s-harp. When he answered in the negative she rejected him, politely expressing her regrets. She liked him well enough, she said; but she had a particular fancy for the Jew’s-harp, and it was her firm intention to marry no man unable to play upon that instrument.

So the king and his minister drove home again, and as he was getting down from the carriage he said quite dejectedly, “So this was a wild-goose chase!”

But a king must needs have a queen, and some time later he sent for the minister once more, and informed him that he had given up finding a wife who could bake ginger-nuts, and resolved to marry the princess they had visited first. “It is the one who knows how to bake little almond-cakes,” he added. “Go and ask her if she will be my wife.”

The next day the minister came back, and narrated to him how the princess was quite out of the reach of such offers, having married the king of the land where capers grow.

“Well, then, go to the second princess!” But this time too the minister came home again without having accomplished his errand. The old king, he said, regretted exceedingly that it was quite out of his power to gratify him, his daughter having unfortunately died.

The king was very thoughtful for a while, but being quite determined to have a queen, he ordered his minister to go once more to the third princess, as there was no knowing but she too might have changed her mind. And the minister yielded to his orders, although his own inclination was quite averse to the project, and although his wife told him it would be quite useless. The king awaited his return in some trepidation. He was thinking of the question concerning the Jew’s-harp, and the recollection was no agreeable one.

But the third princess received the minister very graciously, and told him that once she had been quite determined to have only such a husband as could play on the Jew’s-harp; but that now, after all, she had come to the conclusion that dreams are flighty, especially the dreams of youth. She saw now, she said, that the realisation of her wish was quite out of the question, and as she had taken a fancy to the king she was willing to have him.

Then the minister drove home as fast as his horses would go, and the king embraced him, and gave him a tremendous medal to wear about his neck. Bright flags decorated the town, garlands were hung from house to house across the streets, and altogether the wedding was such a splendid affair that nothing else was talked of for the next fortnight.

The king and the young queen lived in a state of bliss and rapture for the space of an entire year. The king never thought of ginger-nuts, and that little matter of the Jew’s-harp had quite slipped out of the queen’s mind.

But one morning the king got up with his wrong leg first, and everything went wrong. It rained the whole day long; the imperial globe fell down, and the little cross on top of it broke off; then the court painter came and brought the new map of the kingdom, and when the king looked at it he found that the land was painted red instead of blue, as he had ordered it; and besides all this, the queen had a headache.

So it happened that the couple had their first quarrel; what it was all about they themselves did not know next morning, or if they did know it they did not want to say. In short, the king grumbled and the queen pouted and would always have the last word. After they had wrangled for some time, the queen shrugged her shoulders contemptuously and said--

“It seems to me you might be silent, and stop finding fault with everything you set your eyes on, when you yourself don’t even know how to play on the Jew’s-harp.”

But no sooner were the words out of her mouth than the king petulantly interrupted her with the words, “And you cannot so much as bake ginger-nuts!”

Thereupon the queen for the first time had no repartee upon her tongue’s end, and succumbed into silence, and without another word they both walked away. The queen sat down in a corner of her sofa in her own room, weeping bitterly, and thinking, “What a foolish woman I am! Where did I have my senses? That was the silliest thing I could have done!”

The king walked up and down in his room, gleefully rubbing his hands, and saying, “What a piece of good fortune it is that my wife doesn’t know how to bake ginger-nuts! If she did, I should have been sadly put to for an answer when she reproached me for being unable to play on the Jew’s-harp!”

After he had repeated this three or four times his mood brightened visibly. He began to whistle a favourite tune, then he went and looked at a large likeness of the queen hanging on the wall. He got up on a chair and took out his handkerchief to brush off a cobweb hanging down straight over the queen’s nose, and at last he said--

“She must have been very much put out, the dear little woman! I will go and see what she is doing!”

With that he went out into the hall, into which all the rooms opened. But this being a day on which everything went wrong, the valet had forgotten to light the lamps, although it was already eight o’clock, and moreover pitch dark.

So the king put out his hands before him so as not to bump his royal head, and cautiously felt his way along the wall. Suddenly he came upon something. “Who is there?” he asked.

“It is I,” answered the queen.

“What are you looking for, my love?”

“I was coming to ask your forgiveness,” replied the queen, “because I hurt your feelings.”

“You needn’t do that!” said the king, putting his arms about her neck. “The fault was more mine than yours, and I don’t give it another thought. But I’ll tell you one thing: two words shall be forbidden on pain of death in our kingdom, Jew’s-harp and----”

“And ginger-nuts,” the queen interrupted him, laughing and secretly wiping a tear from the corner of her eye; and that is the end of the story.

_Professor Volkmann_ (1830-1891).

_THE SAD TALE OF SEVEN KISSES._

IT is quite a while ago, I think, since one day the dear God called the angel Gabriel to him, as he often does, and said, “Thou Gabriel, go and open the slide and look down! Methinks I hear some crying!” Gabriel went and did as the dear God said, put his hand up to his eyes because the sunlight dazzled him, looked all around, and finally said, “Down there is a long green meadow; at one end sits Barbelie pasturing her geese, at the other sits Christoph pasturing his pigs, and both of them are weeping to melt a heart of stone.”

“Indeed!” said the dear God; “go away, you tall fellow, and let me see.”

When he had looked he found it was just as Gabriel had said.

And this was how it came that Christoph and Barbelie were weeping so pitifully. Christoph and Barbelie loved each other dearly; one of them took care of the geese and the other took care of the pigs, and so it was a very suitable match, there being no disparity of rank. They made up their minds to be married, and they thought being fond of each other was a good enough reason. But here their employers differed from them. So they were obliged to be content with a betrothal. Now, as it is well to be methodical in all things, and as kissing plays an important part in betrothals, they had come to an agreement to the effect that seven kisses in the morning and seven kisses in the evening would be quite the proper thing. For a while all went well, the seven kisses being duly given and received at the appointed time. But on the morning of the day when this story occurred it came about that, just as the seventh kiss was coming around, Barbelie’s pet goose and Christoph’s pet pig had a falling-out over their breakfast, threatening to end in a serious _melée_. To settle this difficulty it was necessary for the two to stop short of the proper number. Later, when they were sitting lonely and far apart by the edge of the meadow, it occurred to them how very bad a thing this was, and they both began to weep, and were still weeping when the dear God looked down.

The dear God thought at first that in the course of time their sorrow would subside of itself; but when the sound of weeping waxed louder and louder, and Christoph’s pet pig and Barbelie’s pet goose began to grow sad for sympathy, and to make woe-begone faces, he said, “I will help them! Whatever they wish for this day shall come true.”

But as it was the two had but one thought; as each looked in the direction where the other one sat, and neither could see the other, for the meadow was long and there was a bush in the middle, Christoph thought, “If I were but over where the geese are!” and Barbelie sighed, “Oh, could I but be near the pigs!”

All at once Christoph found himself sitting by the geese, and Barbelie was with the pigs; but for all that they were not together, and there was still no possibility of correcting that wrong number.

Then thought Christoph: “Barbelie very likely wanted to make me a little visit;” and Barbelie thought, “No doubt Christoph has gone around to see me!” “Oh, if I could but be with my geese!” “Oh, if I could but be with my pigs!”

So Barbelie sat once more beside her geese, and Christoph sat beside his pigs, and so it went turn and turn about all day, because they always wished past each other. And so to this day they are short of that seventh morning kiss. Christoph, to be sure, was all for making it up that same evening when they both came home tired to death with wishing, but Barbelie assured him it wouldn’t do a bit of good, and that there was no possibility of getting things straightened out again.

And when the dear God saw how the two had been wishing themselves away from each other, he said: “Well, this is a nice kettle of fish. But what I have once said I _have_ said! There is no help for it!” He made up his mind then and there never to grant lovers’ wishes rashly in future, before having made careful inquiries as to what it was they wanted. Later, I am told, he once told Gabriel confidentially that it was really a great pity that their wishes were so very rarely of a kind that he could grant them; and a long long time ago, when I applied to him in a similar affair, he did not so much as give me a hearing. Later Gabriel told me this story, and then I ceased to wonder.

_Professor Volkmann._

_A COUNTRY COMEDY._

IN the open door of the house the dark figure of a woman stood out distinctly against the brilliant snow--it was Eva Barbara. Without a word she seized his hand and drew him after her; he felt her pulses beat, and her quick breath betrayed her excitement. At a rapid pace she drew him along the silent streets, retarding her steps only as she approached her father’s farmyard, where she dropped his hand, and with a shiver wrapped herself closer in her little shawl.

Suddenly the girl raised her head as if listening, and with a sob she said, “I am the most unhappy lass on God’s earth!” Then with a sudden start: “Hark! they are coming. I am yours, Paul, whatever may come. Sure you can depend on me. Don’t you hear them? For God’s sake, Paul, don’t stay here. It would be death to me to think you might fall into the hands of the Rottenstein lads! Be quick and away--why do you stand and look at me? If you care for me, go! God knows what a hard time I shall have of it with the old folks, without having to tremble for your safety!”

“Eva Barbara--my own Eva Barbara! I _will_ turn over a new leaf; I----”

“Oh, my God, don’t you hear how they are surrounding the house? Away with you, before it is too late!”

Paul turned to fly--it was too late! Logs of wood came crashing into the farmyard, and were shivered into bits against the house. With a leap Martin, who was far ahead of his comrades, came bounding around the corner, and with a cry of rage he threw himself upon his hated rival. But in the face of danger Paul had regained his self-possession; cleverly evading the attack, he seized Martin and threw him down. Then he felt his hand seized, he dipped into deep darkness, a door was thrown to--at the same time there was a fearful crash upon the threshold, making the silent house resound. Eva Barbara quickly fastened the bolts and hooks, and for the time being Paul was safe.

For the time being!

A thrill of suppressed rage passed through the lad standing in the dark, icy-cold entry beside the weeping girl, while his enemies raged about without the house, now shaking the doors, now demanding admission. What an ill-fated, miserable sort of scrape was this he was in! He felt like a grain of wheat between two mill-stones. He dared not go out; his life, or at least his future bodily welfare, was at stake. But if he stayed, and the farmer found him in his house--and there was not the slightest doubt that the peasant would soon find him, what with the unearthly din without--what would await him then he faintly divined!

Again there were heavy thumps against the door, and Martin’s voice was heard crying, “Open it quick! Open it, peasant, or by the devil we’ll smash the door! Open it--Paul Schülzle is in your house--deliver him over, or we’ll open fight!”

“My God, my God! how shall this end?” moaned the trembling girl. “Hark! Don’t you hear anything? Sure enough----Oh, goodness me, father is awake! Come upstairs. I can’t let you into the barn because the door creaks, and you can’t stay here by the stairs. Come, find a hiding-place upstairs, in the hall or in the kitchen--come quick! Oh, blessed Saviour, turn this misfortune! Come! father will be here with a candle in a minute; if he finds us together--you know what his temper is!”

Paul’s hand was seized again, and he was drawn upstairs; fortunately the resounding blows against the door smothered his stumbling steps. In the sitting-room the peasant was swearing about the matches that would not catch fire; the girl trembled. “Straight ahead you’ll find the kitchen-door! God be with you; I can help you no further. If father finds me here all is lost.”

A ray of light falling through the key-hole frightened the girl away. Paul was alone. Cautiously he felt his way in the direction she had indicated, but he found no door; in fact, he did not have much time left to feel for it, for just then the sitting-room door was opened. Paul bounded into the shade and then behind the door, which the farmer in his excitement forgot to shut. Again Paul was safe for the moment, although he feared the beating of his heart might betray him.

A new attack upon the door put the peasant beside himself; he put his candle on the floor, then pulled open the hall window, and a very excited interview took place between him and the men without. Hot words fell between the peasant and Martin, until finally Martin declared that if the peasant did not deliver over Paul at once he would storm the house in good earnest; whereupon the peasant replied he certainly would not have that rogue of a trumpeter in his house for a minute, but as for doing a thing because Martin said so, there was nothing further from his mind, and if there was one more blow upon the door he would not be slow to reply.

The lads actually stepped back, and the peasant shut the window. He approached the door--Paul bit his lip; if he moved it, it would bring him face to face with the old man!

But the peasant paid no attention to the door--he merely called into the room, “Wife, they say that scamp of a musician is in the house! Get up! strike a light, and help me wake the servants; the fellow shall not go unpunished!”

“I’ve been up this long while,” replied a faint woman’s voice trembling with cold; “but there’s no finding those matches!”

“I don’t wonder! I was so flurried I threw them in the wash-bowl,” replied the peasant. “Strike a light in the kitchen, and hurry up.”

The peasant disappeared with his candle in the narrow passage-way which passed through the entire depth of the house; in the dusk a figure flitted past Paul; he heard a rustling sound beside him, and then a ray of faint bluish light streamed through a half-open door. So that was the kitchen! If the woman came out now the light would first fall into that nook between the wall and the door which harboured him--discovery was inevitable. He could not stay where he was--but whither should he turn? The approaching steps of the farmer’s wife startled him. He must away--just then there was only one exit possible--with one bound he was in the sitting-room behind the stove.

Again he was safe for the moment--but he was more securely than ever in the trap. Where should he go when the farmer came back with his servants?

The woman shut the door of the room and walked away along the passage to the back of the house. Paul stepped up to one of the frost-painted windows, thawing it with his breath, and looked out.

A leap into the garden was hazardous, but it was not impossible. By the pale light of the moon he saw how the men from Rottenstein were surrounding the house. This cut off all possibility of escape for the present.

He heard steps approaching; he heard the peasant’s wife talk soothingly to his weeping sweetheart, Eva Barbara, the maid-servants also endeavouring to comfort her. So then he might expect all the feminine inmates of the house to enter the room at any moment--where should he find refuge?

Other sounds became audible throughout the house. He heard the farmer rail, the men-servants laugh and swear--whither, oh whither? In the room there was no nook, no hiding-place.

Nearer and nearer came the women; desperately, with a curse between his lips, he ran out into the bed-chamber of the worthy couple. It was a narrow room, a so-called _rafenetle_; two thin panels of wood, about six feet high, connected with the ceiling above by carved lattice-work, just enclosed two broad beds, leaving merely a passage between them. The panelled walls were closely hung with wearing apparel, under which Paul quickly crept, squeezing himself tightly into a corner and resigning himself with a sigh to his fate.

It was a tragic situation! How could he ever hope to leave this prison unnoticed? The only window was barred, and there was no other exit except through the room and across the hall! It was horrible! More than once did Paul scratch his head. As a measure of precaution he began to take off his boots, and, together with his trumpet, he hung them across his shoulders in order to have his arms and hands free in case of need.

His situation was the more painful for the proximity of his beloved; he saw her shadow on the wall and ceiling, he heard her pitiful sobs, which showed him how helpless were the words of her mother and of the maids to comfort her--he knew only too well why Eva Barbara would not be comforted. How despicable he seemed to himself, crouching in his corner!

Meanwhile the uproar in the house continued; by the zeal with which all nooks and corners were searched he could judge what store the farmer set upon his discovery, and at the same time how hot a reception was awaiting him if he were found. Time seemed endless until the peasant came back into the room shivering with cold, and declared--to Paul’s infinite relief, “Those Rottenstein fellows shall pay dearly for this hubbub! Thunder and lightning! Those fools! It’s clear as day that Paul Schülzle is not in this house. Like as not he got away from them while they were thumping on the door for dear life! He can’t crawl into a rat’s hole, I take it, and he’s not invisible--we should have found him sure as pop if he were in the house. Every corner has been searched--every room except the _rafenetle_, and there he can’t--humph, the devil! There is no knowing! Never say die!”

Terror took Paul’s breath away--whither, oh whither? He heard the old man’s wife say fretfully, “Go along with you! Have you lost your senses? How could anybody get into this room, not to mention the _rafenetle_?”

But he did not wait to hear the result of this intervention, and with an alacrity worthy of a better cause he crawled under the bed nearest him. This was no easy thing to do; first his boots and his trumpet hindered him, and then he found under the bed a collection of band-boxes, jars, and baskets filled with eggs, which he cautiously pushed aside, arranging them in such fashion that in case of need they might serve as a barrier to screen him from view. One round basket of eggs he very nearly knocked over; the eggs were still rolling and rumbling about in their receptacle as the farmer entered the _rafenetle_ saying, “That’s all very well, but there is no knowing!”

The farmer examined the clothing hanging along the panels, then, sure enough, he put his candle on the floor and looked under the beds--but for the boxes and baskets the poor devil had been lost. So the farmer went back into the sitting-room grumbling, and Paul heard him say, “There’s nothing to be seen of him! Now I’ll have a word to say to those Rottenstein lads!”

Thereupon a heated debate took place in the hall and in the courtyard, which Paul could not understand. At last the farmer clapped the window to, sent the servants to bed, and came back into the room panting with ire.

“So there!” he roared, “we are well rid of the musician, and of that fellow Martin as well! It is well--quite well so! About Martin I am rather sorry, but you never cared for him much, Eva Barbara, so let him go--there’ll be no lack of suitors. And now, stop crying, child! Go to bed and sleep! But there’s one thing you must promise me, Eva Barbara: be sure you don’t so much as look at that trumpeter again,--that’s all over, d’ye hear me? Eh, will you promise me that?”

“Now hush, don’t say another word, and leave the poor lass in peace!” interrupted his wife. “Have you forgotten that this whole business is your fault? Now go to bed, dear child. Don’t you be troubled; I’ll let no harm come to ye! Go now, the Lord will turn it all to a blessing!”

To lose no word of this conversation, which made Paul’s heart beat faster, he had kept quite still, and now it was too late to leave his uncomfortable place under the bed. The maids left the room and the old people hastened to get into bed.

Shame, rage, fear, and contrition joined to raise Paul’s bitter indignation against himself. So this was what his stubbornness had brought him--to lie in fear and trembling, shaking with cold, under the bed of the man whose son he might have been! To hide like a thief, to be so disgracefully situated that he dared not stir for fear of discovery. Paul ground his teeth. Suppose to-night’s adventures should become known! Holy Virgin! to think of the laughter and the scoffs!

The peasant threw himself from side to side in a restless manner, greatly to the discomfort of his guest, who was vastly alarmed every time the bedstead creaked. And when his wife on the other side began to sigh audibly, the farmer said, “I say, old woman, I can’t sleep. I can’t for the life of me get that vile affair out of my head!”

“It’s just the same with me!” was the troubled answer.

“A most provoking piece of business it is, confound it!”

“Swearing don’t make it any better! Don’t be foolish! The lass likes him better than Martin; there’s no denyin’ it! It’s not so very dreadful that he walked home with her!”

“That’s not what I mean!” growled the peasant. “The lass will not be willing to let Paul slip; and, to tell the truth, for all I’m so enraged with the fellow, I like him better now than all the other lads. _That’s_ where the trouble lies!”

“Good gracious! If that is what you mean----”

“I might have known what was coming!” interrupted the farmer angrily. “There’s no such thing as talking sensible to you women-folks. It’s all over between the lass and Paul Schülzle, now and forever, I tell you. Don’t you say another word about that, whatever you do!”

Except the sighs of the woman and the creaking of the peasant’s bedstead, it was now quiet in the chamber. Paul did not stir. Although the frost was shaking him, and he was biting his fur-cap so that the chattering of his teeth might not betray him, there was a fire raging within him. He was very unhappy under the bed!

In feverish excitement he waited for the couple to fall asleep. After a while the sighs died away, the bedstead ceased to creak, but it was in vain he waited for the reassuring sound of healthy snoring. At Paul’s slightest movement the peasant would lift his head and ask, “Old woman, don’t you hear anything?”

“Be quiet, it’s only mice a-chattering!” was the answer every time; but Paul was obliged to resign himself to keeping very quiet, so as to raise no suspicions.

He suffered the pangs of hell under that bed. It was not only that he was growing stiff and stark with cold--every limb pained him from his uncomfortable position. Now and then he would consider the question of leaving his hiding-place, even at the risk of a fight, and so escaping by main force. What was there to fear? To overpower the old man was child’s-play to him, and before the servants could be roused he would be well out of the way. He would do it--yes, he would! When he had reached this point a tremor seized him. Should he lay hands on a man who had never harmed him, in his own house--ay, in his own bed-chamber? Paul cursed and raved, then he set his teeth more firmly in his fur-cap, and stayed where he was.

His only hope was that in the morning the peasant and his wife would leave the chamber to wake the servants. This movement should serve him to leave his undignified retreat, and seek a transient hiding-place in the hall or kitchen, from whence to slip out of the house later on, when the farm-work had begun.

This hope also was made futile by no less a person than Eva Barbara! Anxiety for Paul had robbed the poor child of sleep; his mysterious disappearance filled her mind with horrible fancies. What if he had come to grief by a fall! Or perhaps in his distressed search for a hiding-place he had wedged himself into some tight place which would not let him escape! There was no doubt to her that he was still in the house; she had seen only too well how the Rottenstein men had surrounded the house; an attempt at flight would have caused a great tumult at the least. Where could he have hidden? She wept bitterly, and each passing hour laid a new burden upon her soul. At last the deep, unbroken stillness in the house grew unendurable to her. How could she rest while he was in danger, suffering pain and distress perhaps? Softly she arose, and walked stealthily through the house, wringing her hands, and whispering his name. There was no reply; everywhere the same deep and fearful silence. Without, the Rottenstein men were still guarding the house. Where could he be? Overpowered by grief and despair, she fell upon her knees.

But there was no help or satisfaction in that. If Paul was still in the house, he was in need of aid and succour. Above all she must master the situation, and gain a free hand to act in his favour. Rousing herself, she hastened to her parents’ bedroom, asked them to remain in bed to make up for the night’s rest they had lost, and saying that she would wake the servants and look after the household.

Had she but known in what a despairing rage her lover close beside her was biting his cap and clenching his fists!

The old people were greatly touched by this tender filial attention after the storms of the previous night; they praised the girl, and gladly assented to her proposal. The house now grew lively; a shrill whistle in the courtyard told Paul that his opponents had given up their plan and were about to disperse. Holy Virgin!--and he was still under the bed! Every moment lessened the chances of escape. How should this end?

At last the family sat about the breakfast-table, on which an enormous dish of sourkraut was steaming. Eva Barbara came in, and without ceremony turned out a large potful of boiled potatoes directly on the table-cloth round about the sourkraut-dish. While the men and maids eagerly seized the potatoes, blowing them, and often shaking their burned fingers, the farmer shook his head thoughtfully, and said, “Lass, lass, if I but knew what’s the matter with ye! You look like a ghost, and there’s still water in your eyes! Do be sensible! Come, wipe off your tears and eat. Sit down; my breakfast swells in my mouth when I see you so woful!”

“I cannot eat, not the least bit. There’s nothing the matter. I’ll be all right again, ere long!” replied Eva Barbara softly. The mother shook her head, the father growled; but they let the girl have her own way, and Eva Barbara walked slowly away to make up the beds in the _rafenetle_.

Suddenly something began to stir in the clothing on the wall, a pale face emerged, and a pair of lips, trembling with cold, whispered, “Eva Barbara, help me!” With a scream the girl retreated.

The face disappeared, and immediately the good mother put her head through the door, and cried, “For the Lord Christ’s sake--what is it?”

Eva Barbara began to grow dizzy; rapture to find Paul still living, terror to find him so dangerously near discovery, nearly robbed her of her senses. Covering her face with her apron, she stammered, “Oh, dear--I don’t know--I shouldn’t wonder if it was a mouse!”

“How you did frighten me, you silly girl. I am trembling in every limb!” cried the mother indignantly. “Is that all? The mice made a deal of noise the whole night long. I’ll tell you what, you’d better take out the old straw, and fill the ticks with new at once.”

Eva Barbara was unable to reply; she only nodded her head. When her mother was gone, she whispered, “Keep quiet, I’ll help you!” and she hastened away. Before long she returned with a huge basket, removed the bedding, and began to fill in the straw.

Eva Barbara was an uneducated girl; she had never heard of the women of Weinsberg, but in the simplicity of her heart she hit upon the same expedient. It was a difficult piece of work that she undertook; while she was panting under her load it seemed as if her heart would break, for she was deeply conscious of the fact that she was now bearing away her life’s happiness on her back.

Hanehret, one of the servants, thoughtfully remarked, “It’s queer how that basket creaks, and how hard it seems for Eva Barbara to carry it, and there’s naught but straw in it!”

Eva Barbara started, and tried to walk faster, when there was a sudden crash! All of a sudden her load grew horribly light, and there was a muffled thud behind her! She did not dare to look about her; with a cry of despair, “God have mercy upon us!” she rushed out of the room.

The heap of straw in the middle of the room began to stir, a dark figure arose--slowly Paul emerged out of the cloud of dust, and sitting down with the resignation of despair upon the bench behind the stove, he put his hand under his fur-cap, scratching his head, and saying dejectedly, “Good-morning to you all! Here I am--do what you will with me.”

_Heinrich Schaumberger_ (1843-1874).

_HOW BLINDSCHLEICHER WENT COURTING._

BLINDSCHLEICHER was a handsome lad, but dull-witted. One would think therefore that he must have been a great favourite with the women. But the village lasses of Zesendorf were not that sort. They would not “put up with a fellow whom nature had but half-finished,” as one of their spokeswomen had it.

“But nature did not leave me half-finished!” said Blindschleicher.

“She did,” exclaimed the girl, “because she did not put a head on you.”

He immediately seized that member in both of his hands, thereby proving the truth of what she had said.

The fact was corroborated later by the military commission. He was nearly six feet high, but they dismissed him with the verdict, “too short by a head.”

But there was one thing Blindschleicher knew--viz., that women-folks are to be prevailed upon mainly by flattery; and that a good head is not a necessary equipment for flattery and courtship is a well-known fact. But the handsome gardener’s apprentice had nothing that was at all available in his curly pate, and it must be admitted that nothing at all is too little. He was sweet as a fig-pudding. When he went out most of his button-holes were decked out with roses and rosebuds. If it looks pretty to wear one rose, as others do, he would argue, it must improve the effect to wear a number. His hair was made smooth and shiny with lard, and above each ear he would plaster it on each temple in a delicate crescent, like a Vienna dandy. He always chose bright and striking colours for his neckties, and tied them into knots, with long ends gracefully flowing. This as an indication of originality, and to attract the girls. But instead of the girls, the turkeys ran at him, and chased him with cackling vindictiveness through the village.

In associating with men, he was rather helpless, and he avoided them as much as might be, because they either chaffed him or ignored him, according as their mood was frolicsome or serious. Toward women he put on his most gracious mien, and oftentimes he would secretly sigh, “Ah, if I had a wife! if I only could get a wife!” For a long time he could not make out the reason for his desire, but at last his feeling consolidated into a point, and then it grew into a thought, and he gradually became conscious why it was that he wanted a wife. He could then say to his tormentors, “You may laugh as much as you please. Here is one who will have me!” And there was one in particular before whose countenance he would melt like butter in the sun.

That was Liese, the farm-maid. She was the most blooming lass in the valley, and he set a wistful eye upon her.

And Blindschleicher confided his troubles to his friend the watchman, as they walked through the silent village one night. “Man,” he lamented, “never was there such ill luck as mine. You wouldn’t believe it. I’m head over ears in love with the lass, and there’s no help for it.”

“Why don’t you take her, then?” said the watchman.

“Take her, fool! when she won’t so much as look at you!”

“She needn’t look at _me_. My old woman is firmly yoked to me.”

“But it is at _me_ that she might look,” said Blindschleicher. “When I think of all the trouble I go to to make myself agreeable! And as for her--when I say to her, ‘Liese, good morning, Liese!’ she turns on her heel; and when I say, ‘How bonny you are, Liese!’ she says, ‘How clever you are, lad!’”

“Well, don’t that please you?” said the watchman.

“How can it please me, when she goes on to say ‘she will only take a fool.’ She’s a vixen, is Liese! And when I give her a rose, and say, ‘You look just like it, you are as pink, and you are as sweet, and you are as thorny!’ she takes the pretty blossom out of my hand, and gives it to the goat to eat.”

“Blindschleicher,” said the watchman in a low tone, “you’re on the wrong track to get a wife.”

“I am sick at heart,” said the gardener’s apprentice, and he looked it and hung his head. “Time and time again have I said to her, ‘Precious Liese, darling Liese, you are like butter and honey; I could eat you up for love. I will kiss your feet, and you may tread upon me. There is nothing you could do that would hurt me,’ I said. ‘You may put your arms tight around my neck, and smother me with your cheek; it would not hurt me. You are like a heavenly paradise to me. I can do a great deal of fine talking when I once get started. Think of the ardour of my youthful blood,’ I said.”

“And what did she reply?”

“‘Go to the barber and get bled,’ she answered. ”Oh, she is a stone, man; she is a stone.”

“Be comforted, lad,” said the watchman, who was a kind and experienced man. “If she is a stone, we will manage her. Stones cannot be raised by whining and pining, good friend. When there is a stone on the ground you must loosen it first by a sharp knock, then you can lift it. Do you understand?”

“What do you mean? Shall I run into her to shake her loose?”

“Not so fast, my lad. There is such a thing as a simile you must know. Supposing, for instance, I say you are an ass, you must not take it in dead earnest, but merely as a means of comparison.”

“Yes, yes,” said Blindschleicher. “When I hear you talk like that I understand you well. You are not rude like the others, and you are my best friend. But if I could but have Liese!”

“Women,” said the watchman with an air of superior knowledge, standing still and leaning upon his long staff, “women are the most peculiar among God’s creatures. The first human being did sorry credit to his creator, as is apt to be the case when you’re a new hand at making things. It turned out a plain wooden man. But the second human being--the second, you see, was much more of a success. It turned out to be something very different from the man, much finer, so much finer. The truth is, man is the job of an apprentice; woman shows the touch of a master. I understand women; ah, I understand them! An old watchman like me, who has his eyes open every hour of the night, knows a thing or two, good friend. If you cannot win them with dainties and fine manners, remember that it isn’t every bird that can be caught with sugar. Try some other way; do something to offend her. Not in any faint-hearted, playful way, but seriously and thoroughly; do something to her that will make her think of you, and that will give her pain when she thinks of you. Soon she will stop teasing you and looking upon you with disdainful indifference. Perhaps she will hate you; but, my friend, you must know that hatred is a good deal nearer to love than indifference is. There is many a tale I could tell you of how love began with anger and pain. That’s what I meant about loosening the stone. There is nothing like the harsh, reckless deed of a man to make an impression. Try it; you can’t lose anything.”

Blindschleicher went his way and made extensive preparations to think out this new idea. For hours he walked by the side of the brook, but how can we catch hold of an idea when the water is making so much noise! He stole across the fields, but there the crickets disturbed him, or a dark, mysterious figure would rise up in front of him which, for all he knew, might be a ghost. To be sure the schoolmaster had said to him, “Blindschleicher, I pledge you my word, you are safe from ghosts!” But then, who knows! It seems wicked enough to be thinking out something in the silent night wherewith to offend one’s beloved. “Wicked or not wicked, if I could but make her have me!”

It was not until he was pulling off his boots in his own room that various more or less attractive devices occurred to him by means of which he might offend her. When he was in bed he discarded them one by one. He thought he could hurt her most deeply by going up to her and saying, “Liese, you do not love me; farewell for ever, I go to die!” He was quite stupefied by the power of this thought. It gave the poor fellow a headache, and the next morning when he got up, and the sun shone brightly upon the flowers of the garden, he felt that this would not do, and he said to himself, “Best say nothing about dying.”

This selfsame day was a Sunday, so he donned his tight grey pantaloons, a yellow flowered vest, with the ends of a cherry-coloured necktie fluttering over it, put rosebuds in all of the button-holes of his blue jacket, arranged the two little greased crescents of hair neatly upon his cheeks, bestowed due care upon his sprouting moustache, and a look in the mirror convincing him that he was irresistible, his heart swelled with happy forebodings.

It was with solemn feelings that he walked through the shady alley to church; this very afternoon he would try to meet Liese, and would carry out his purpose of mortally offending her. She would weep, she would pout; he would ask her forgiveness, and then their relation would appear altogether in a new light. Should these extremest measures prove unsuccessful, then he would put her out of his mind and offend some other girl. If that was all that was required, why love was easy play.

“There goes the girl-hunter!” called out a giggling urchin as Blindschleicher was passing a group of lads with a mien half haughty and half self-conscious.

As he reached the church the bells were just ringing for High Mass, and the people were crowding through the door, and he joined them like a good Christian as he was. Turning once to see who it was that was in such a mighty hurry behind him, whom should he discover quite near his side but Liese. She was giggling with some lads, who pressed close about her. Blindschleicher saw the vessel for holy water wherein each dipped his fingers in passing. At that moment the gardener’s apprentice was seized with a sudden impulse. Dipping his hollow hand in the water, and crying, “Here is one whose devil I would expel!” he threw the entire handful into fair Liese’s face.

Liese caught her breath, said loud and distinctly, “He is out already!” and gave the fellow a resounding box on his ear.

And that is how Blindschleicher went courting, and what it brought him.

_P. K. Rosegger._

“_WHOM FIRST WE LOVE._”

_May 1._--I love him! Only thou, my journal, shalt know it, thou silent confidant of all my sorrows and my hopes. Without it is spring-time, and the nightingales warble and the lilacs are in bloom. What a lovely time for one’s first love!

_May 2._--All night I lay awake and thought of him, and made poetry. It seems like the bitterest irony of fate that I must go to school to-day, as if I were a child!

_May 3._--He is perfectly heavenly, handsome, raven-locked, with dark, glowing eyes, and a pale Roman face; his moustache is simply enchanting. There is certainly something demoniacal about him. I adore demoniacal men. They are so exciting and interesting. He looks marvellously like Lord Byron. Perhaps he is a poet, or a Polish prince in exile. He looks so melancholy and aristocratic. I imagine Max Piccolomini looked like that as Mortimer in _Mary Stuart_.

_May 4._--How he looked at me as he passed me on the way to school to-day! I put that provoking school-bag behind my back. I trust he did not see it.