Joseph in the Snow, and The Clockmaker. In Three Volumes. Vol. I.

CHAPTER VII.
THE HOME OF SCHILDER-DAVID

"Woe's me, Leegart!" had been the exclamation of little Joseph as that good woman entered, for which want of civility his grandfather gave him a hearty box on the ear. The boy began to cry and his grandfather to scold, and Martina both to scold and to cry; for David would not even allow her to soothe the boy by a single kind word. And Leegart said, in a sensible tone of voice, though certainly with rather a nasal twang – "It is really too bad to meet with such a welcome! I ought to go away again immediately: it is enough to make one superstitious; but whatever we do, let us at all events avoid superstition! Nothing in the world is so dreadful; for people plague themselves perpetually about things they do not see, and I am sure we have all plague enough with the things we do see; so I shall stay where I am. Good morning, Joseph! Say 'good morning' to me, prettily. There – now shake hands!"

"The boy slept very badly last night, and does not know what he is saying," said Martina, in order to excuse the child.

"Make no apology to me, and let us say no more about it," said Leegart, placing on the table, in formidable array, a solid pincushion, consisting of a heavy brick covered with cloth, a pair of scissors with a large and a small handle, and a smaller pair, a stock of pins and needles, and a tiny wax taper. She thereby took possession of the house for the day, and regulated it accordingly from her throne; for she never rose again from her seat till she went away late at night. Before, however, she settled in her place for the day, she went into the next room, and returned shorn of her upper petticoat, for she was never seen in the street without being very neatly dressed; but she was anxious not to spoil her best gown by sitting on it. When she came into the room again, she pushed the table into a comfortable corner, seated herself, and Martina placed a footstool under her feet; and now Leegart gave her orders in few and distinct words, and commenced by saying, "Martina, get breakfast."

Martina brought in the oatmeal porridge, and placed it on the table. Joseph said grace; and out of his stock of prayers, he selected on this occasion the shortest – "May God give food to all poor children on earth. Amen." Joseph had dried his tears, and was seated between his grandfather and grandmother; and, after grace was said, all were as quiet as possible at table – each helped himself with his own spoon out of the dish, and there were no disputes as to precedence.

The room was perfectly clean and tidy, though small and poor. Above the stove, just over the substantial old easy chair, there was a large nail, with a brass head, stuck in the wall, on which once upon a time, Martina's certificate of confirmation had hung – but nothing hung from it now. Martina always avoided looking at it, and David had given strict orders that the nail was not to be removed.

The head of the house, Schilder-David, was a man advanced in years, but it was difficult to know his exact age. His hair was thick, closely cropped, and snow white; but his face, encircled by a snowy beard, had rather a youthful appearance, especially his deep blue eyes and dark eyebrows, which appeared not to harmonize with the rest of his features. His wife was tall and slender, but very little of her face was visible, for she invariably wrapped her head in thick handkerchiefs, and when she did speak, the sounds she uttered were apparently brought forth with such difficulty, that it was evident she did not hear even her own voice. The sempstress Leegart was a delicate, pale, rather superior-looking person, somewhat advanced in life, but still preserving traces of extreme beauty: moreover, her manner was always gentle and polite. Her black cloth jacket was only fastened at the throat, and open down to the waist, so that a white kerchief and still whiter skin were visible. Those who did not know the fact could scarcely perceive that she occasionally took a sly pinch, for she never showed her snuff-box, and took a pinch so neatly and quickly that it was almost imperceptible. It was difficult to believe that little Joseph was only just six years old, for he might easily be supposed three years older at least: his limbs were strong and finely formed – what the country-people here call a well grown lad; his hair was fair and curly, to which his marked eyebrows and dark eyes – his mother's eyes – formed a singular contrast. Little Joseph was in fact, the central point of the family, and this was evident by the extreme confusion his strange welcome to Leegart had caused.

There was little said during the meal, but Leegart mentioned that the Pastor had been sent for on the preceding night to the Röttmännin.

"We never speak of such a person here," said Schilder-David, giving a significant glance at Leegart and then at Joseph.

They all rose from table. Joseph's measure was taken for his jacket, and then the outlines drawn with white chalk on the green cloth, and Leegart's huge shears cut out the cloth on the table with a strange snapping sound.

"Stay at home to-day – the mill-stream is frozen over," said David to Joseph, and went into his work-shop, which was partitioned off a loft above the saw-mill. There was here a turning lathe with a strap attached to a cylinder, and this was fastened to the spring-wheel of the mill below; and the water power that impelled the large machine turned also the smaller one, at which David constructed his wooden watch dials and clock cases.

Little Joseph was standing apart, as if in disgrace, when his grandfather, contrary to his usual custom, went out alone. Usually he took Joseph with him; and the boy supplied his furnace with chips, and brought him rough pieces of wood for his work, taking away those that were finished and arranging them in good order. His mother took the boy with her into the kitchen, and there she asked him, "Joseph, what ails you to-day? Why did you exclaim so uncivilly, 'Woe's me, Leegart!'? she is so kind to you, and your godmother besides, and is making you a pretty new jacket."

Not a word from Joseph.

A child can scarcely remember what he said a few minutes previously, and can never recall the train of his ideas, and consequently cannot explain them. The words of children are like the songs of birds, devoid of rhythm, and yet emanating from a hidden life within.

After a pause, Joseph began of his own accord to say, "Mother, is not my father to be here to-day? You told me so."

"Yes, he will be here. He is sure to come, I think," answered Martina, with a deep sigh. Now she understood why Joseph had been so disappointed on seeing Leegart. No doubt, when she threw open the door, Joseph expected to see his father; so he had called out, "Woe's me, Leegart!" simply because it was another person, and not his father. Joseph went on talking, and saying he knew his father would take him on his horse, and probably give him one of his own.

Martina anxiously endeavoured to divert the child's thoughts from his father, but she could not succeed. In the depression of her heart, she had too often made Adam a topic of conversation, and had frequently spoken her inmost thoughts to the boy, whose dawning intellect and thoughts were entirely concentrated on his father. He had formed the most singular ideas about him, and was perpetually asking why his grandmother persisted in plaguing his father, and preventing his coming home to them.

"Which way will my father come to-day?" asked Joseph.

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do know, and you must tell me," said little Joseph, beginning to whimper; and his mother, drawing him closer to her, said, "Hush, hush! no one must overhear us. If you are quite good and quiet, I will tell you presently."

The boy checked his sobs, and his mother began to tell him what pretty presents he was to get at Christmas, and asked him if there was anything he particularly wished for. The boy cared for nothing but a horse: people had told him that his father had fourteen horses in his stable. All attempts to distract his attention were vain; his thoughts were entirely concentrated on his father; and he repeated, "Tell me, which way will he come to day?"

The mother said in a subdued tone, "You must not tell a living creature one syllable about your father coming here to-day. Give me your hand on it; not one word to any human being."

The boy gave his mother his hand, and stared at her, his large eyes still swimming in tears. Martina said no more, for she thought she had pacified the child. But presently, with the most obstinate pertinacity, he began again, "Which way will he come? tell me!"

"There are several roads, but I think he will come through the valley and the wood. But now not another word; you are not to plague me any more. Go and fetch some fir chips from the workshop."

The boy went out to fetch the wood, and the mother thought, with quiet satisfaction, "He will one day be a true man: when he wants a thing he will never rest till he gets it."

She then went with the boy into the sitting-room, but Leegart said, "Send away Joseph, for we can't talk before the child."

"Joseph, go to Häspele, and look at the new boots he is making for you," said the mother.

Joseph did not want to go, but his mother persisted in sending him out of the house. The boy stood outside, looking very indignant, and muttering, "When my father comes I will tell him all about it. I am not to stay anywhere; neither with my grandfather nor at home." Nevertheless he did go to see Häspele, and was as merry and good humoured as possible, for Häspele loved the boy, and when he was tired of playing with his toys, he could always amuse him by talking to him.

For a year past he had repeatedly promised to give Joseph a dog, and the boy was now very speculative as to what the animal was to be like, and what tricks it was to be taught. Häspele had one capital pretext for delay, which was that he would have to search some time before he could find a dog exactly answering Joseph's description; for it was sometimes large, and sometimes small; at one time it had four white paws, at another all brown; at one moment it was to be a wolf dog, and the next a Spitz.

In the meanwhile Leegart was talking to Martina, and could not comprehend why Martina was not more eager to ascertain whether her deadly foe had not at length quitted the world. She urged her to go to the Parsonage to inquire what state the Röttmännin was in.

"You know very well," said Martina, "that formerly our Pastor was always glad to see me in his house, but not now. I can't go there without some pretext when he is at home."

"Very well; in that case, go to my house; and on the chest of drawers with the mirror above it you will find a china soup tureen, and in it three nightcaps, which I have just made for the Pastor's wife. Take them to her from me, and then you will hear how matters stand."

Martina did as she told her.

CHAPTER VIII.
WARM AND SNUG IN THE PARSONAGE

Can there be such a thing as a holy feast for a woman like the Röttmännin? Can there exist a human being doomed one day to leave this world, without ever having felt the joyful sensation of being happy, or of having contributed to the happiness of others? That there are such persons, cannot fail to cast a dark shadow on the earth, and must prevent anyone feeling unalloyed gladness of heart.

These were the reflections floating in the mind of the Pastorin, as she sat at the window. Soon, however, she chased away all such shadows, and her soul became as bright as the morning of this joyous and holy festival, which is a ray emanating from eternity.

She arose and went through the house, like a gentle hushed spirit. The approaching feast day, and also the thought that her brother was with her, shed such lustre and gladness on her whole being, that everything seemed to smile on her; and while she prepared a good breakfast for her brother, who was sure to return very hungry from shooting, she looked at the ham, the butter, and eggs, with considerable complacency, as if grateful to them for possessing the excellent property of nourishing and strengthening man.

These articles of food could not speak, or make any observations in return; but the maid being pretty well aware that her mistress liked to talk of her brother, said, "What a handsome, grand gentleman your brother is, ma'am. When he arrived yesterday evening I really thought he was the Prince who drove through here last winter, on his way to shoot;" and the maid gave her own face a good rub with her apron, to make it look as well as possible. "I was so glad we happened to have killed a goose," added she, giving an affectionate look at the slaughtered victim, hanging outside the kitchen window.

Brother Edward returned home about ten o'clock. The Pastorin warned him that her husband was still asleep, and he placed his gun as gently in the corner as if it had been made of cotton. Her brother's good appetite pleased the Pastorin, who seated herself with her embroidery beside Edward, and told him the Pastor's adventures. He, in return, said he had shot nothing, for he felt quite sure he had got on the track of the wolf; but he lost all traces of the animal in a ravine, as he was afraid of venturing to descend into it alone. He had gone as far as the forest mill, and described with much enthusiasm the grand and striking aspect of the landscape, the waterfalls all frozen, and the rocks glittering like finely cut crystal. The more awe inspiring and imposing the young man delineated the scene without, the more snug and comfortable did the room appear within. And the brother and sister talked to each other with the same quiet ease with which the heat diffused itself through the room: the pendulum of the clock and the crackling of the wood in the stove were more audible than their voices. Gentle flakes of snow were falling slowly and quietly outside, fluttering in the air as if in play, making the room within seem even more comfortable than usual.

"I have still an adventure to relate to you," recommenced Edward.

"Won't you wait till my husband is awake, so that you may not have to tell it twice over?"

"No; I wish you alone to hear it, and you must promise me secresy. I was standing behind a bush, not far from the forest mill, on the watch, for I thought the wolf would be sure to appear again, when I saw two girls coming along the path. They stood still not far from my hiding-place, and one girl said, 'I will say good bye to you here; thank you for your kindness, my mother in Heaven will reward you for it. But it is all over; I cannot help myself. Oh! why are those days gone by, when a wicked woman could transform you into a raven? I wish I were that raven in the sky above our heads; then I could fly far away, then my misery would be over. See! the snow is melting where my tears fall on it; but nothing can melt a hard heart, and my father is entirely changed.' Her tears prevented her saying more, and her companion left her. The weeping girl turned back towards the mill; I could not resist advancing to meet her, but I almost regretted it when I saw such sorrow overclouding the young, fresh, blooming face. I would gladly have tried to console her, but I really did not know what to say; so I simply wished her good day. She looked at me, startled, and stood still for a moment in surprise, and then went on her way."

"That must have been the Forest Miller's Tony," said the Pastorin; "a good-hearted girl, as ever lived. She is to be betrothed to Adam, I hear."

"That would be too shameful!" exclaimed Edward, indignantly.

"I quite agree with you. Tony is the Forest Miller's only child. Her mother was an excellent woman: so long as she lived, the forest mill was the most highly respected house in the whole community, and the resort and refuge of all the poor. Little Tony went daily for four years to school, three or four miles off, and in winter she came on a donkey. A child like that, going daily alone for years through a valley, encircled by rocks and by the forest, cannot fail to become thoughtful and observant, if naturally of a quick and lively disposition; for there is much to see and hear of animal life in the forest, unknown to the world. Little Tony was a very quick child, and she was often to be heard telling her thoughts aloud, and singing songs in the forest. She has a most lovely voice. Two years ago her mother died, and the guardian appointed by her father is the innkeeper at Wenger, whose sister shortly after married the Forest Miller. From that hour the girl had never another happy moment; and her guardian being unluckily the brother of her stepmother, it comes to pass that Tony will be forced to marry Adam Röttmann."

Suddenly the Pastorin interrupted herself, saying, "I must surely have left the house door open, for I hear some one on the stairs."

"Hush! be quiet!" said she softly, opening the door. "Oh! it is you, Martina; come in, but tread softly, for the Herr Pastor is asleep. What message have you for me?"

"Leegart sent me here, to bring you these nightcaps."

"Why did she not come herself?"

"She is in our house, busy making a new jacket for my Joseph."

"You dress Joseph too smartly; you will spoil him," said the Pastorin.

"Leegart takes no payment from me," said Martina timidly, and, turning away suddenly, the red shawl in which she had wrapped her head fell back. The young man gazed earnestly at her pretty oval face, and large dark brown eyes. Martina felt that he was looking at her, and casting down her eyes blushed deeply, groping for the handle of the door in going out, as if she had been in the dark.

The Pastorin, however, followed her into the passage, and said, "You would like to know about the Röttmännin? The state of her health is as bad as that of her heart. She sent for the Herr Pastor last night, but she is not dangerously ill; far from it."

"God is my witness that I do not wish for her death," said Martina earnestly, laying both hands on her heart.

"I believe you. My husband had a severe struggle with her, but he persists in his determination never to marry Adam to any one but yourself. But I will tell you all about it another time," said the Pastorin, turning to re-enter the room.

But Martina said uneasily, "Oh! dear Madam, I cannot make out what is the matter with my Joseph for some days past; he speaks and thinks of nothing but his father. He insists on my talking of him till he goes to sleep, and in the morning his first words are always about his father. He has refused positively to go back to school any more, for they call him The Foal there, because his father's nickname in the village is The Horse."

The Pastorin could not help smiling, but she said, "I cannot stay with you at present: that was my youngest brother who has come to visit me. Pray be very strict with Joseph: the whole village spoils that child. Come to see me again during the holidays, and shut the outer door very gently."

Martina went homewards with slow and heavy steps, singing in a melancholy tone the lines that seemed to haunt her memory:

 
"Faithful love my bosom fills, —
Can true love ever fade?
Oh! what a smile that heart must wear
That never was betrayed."
 

In the mean time the Pastorin returned into the sitting-room, when her brother Edward proved that he had a quick eye, not only for fine scenery, but also for pretty people, by expressing his sincere regret, that so lovely a creature should be doomed to pass her days in poverty and sorrow.

"But though she looks ill even now," said the Pastorin, "if you had seen her a year after her disgrace, she was so changed that it was scarcely possible to recognise her, she looked so deadly pale, and just like a dying person. It is said that a speech of Leegart's made her strive to bear her calamity with more courage. 'Don't go on grieving in that way,' said she, 'or people will say that Adam is quite right to forsake such a faded, emaciated creature.' This advice, and love for her boy, inspired Martina with new life."

While the Pastorin was talking to her brother, and listening to him, she was also listening to sounds in the adjacent room, for she suspected that the Pastor was now dressing; and, while doing so, he was humming the air that she had sung with Edward the evening before; so she quickly sat down at the piano, and sung once more, with her brother, Mozart's melody, "Joys and sorrows let us share."

The Pastor entered the room, smiling kindly. He must, however, have heard a good deal, even in his sleep, for in a few moments he said, "Lina, Martina has just been here, I do beg that my orders may be attended to, that she is not to be in the habit of coming here."

"You are generally so indulgent," ventured Edward to remark.

"Perhaps so; but that is quite compatible with sternness, when it is requisite. Those who have sinned may reform and repent, but the privilege of being at home in the Parsonage is one they ought no longer to enjoy. It would be destructive to all morality if sin were allowed, from false ideas of humanity, to remain unpunished."

The usually benevolent features of the Pastor assumed a stern, uncompromising air while uttering these words. But he quickly added, "Edward, give me one of your cigars."

The three once more sat pleasantly together.