Landolin

CHAPTER XLI

Landolin strove to think of something else than that which, against his will, forced itself upon him; and asked his wife after they had got to their room:

"Is there nothing new? Hasn't anything happened all this long time?"

"No; at least not much. The old Dobel-Farmer was so badly hurt, unloading a wagon-load of wood, that he died. Perhaps you heard of it. The government has bought the Dieslinger farm for a forest. The owner of the Syringa farm is married again. In Heidlingen they have a new minister. The former one tried to make his church Old-Catholic, as they call it; and the Improvement Society, as they call it, has laid out a new road near our forest. The superintendent, the good old General, has often been here, and asked after you."

Thus his wife went on.

"Who came to see you oftenest while I was away?"

"My brother. But there were a good many other people who came to condole with me. I wouldn't listen to their pity, so after awhile they stopped coming."

"Didn't the miller ever come to see you?"

"No; not once."

"That's just like a Dutchman. He won't go unless he's pushed. To-morrow I'll straighten matters between Anton and Thoma. I'll go and see the miller."

"Don't do that. Don't try to hitch up so fast. You understand what I mean. You know when a man wants to turn a wagon round, or back his horses, he can't do it on a gallop."

"Aha!" thought Landolin, "she's trying to be smart. Everybody thinks they're smarter than I am."

As Landolin was silent, his wife continued: "Now, you go to sleep. I'm sleepy."

The quiet did not last long, for Landolin tossed back and forth on his bed, and sighed and groaned.

"What is the matter? Aren't you tired?"

"Oh, wife, I can't make it real that I am not alone; and that the sword no longer hangs over my head. I see the counselor's glittering eye-glass on its black ribbon all the time. Indeed, you haven't your old husband any more. You have another-and I can't abide the fellow, he's so soft-hearted. I wish you would often remind me not to care for what other people think. They have forgotten me, and I'll do what I can to forget them. Only you must be very patient with me; but don't give up to me, and don't let me be so soft-hearted."

The strong man wept bitter tears in the depth of the night, and called out, almost with a curse:

"May my eyes run out if I ever weep again, as long as we two live together! I make this promise to you, and to myself. Others cannot embitter my life, if I do not embitter it myself. Yes, yes! Self-defense! Self-defense!"

His wife lighted a candle, and tried to comfort the self-tormented man. He said, at length:

"One thing more. Cushion-Kate called after me, that I must make away with myself-I won't do that, for your sake."

His wife stroked his hand, wet with freshly-fallen tears.

"I won't give people the satisfaction of thinking we need sympathy. Leave the candle burning; and then, if I wake up again, I shall know I am no longer in prison. Good-night, we'll go to sleep now."

He slept until late in the day. His wife rose gently and went about her work, carefully avoiding the least noise that might wake her husband. She blessed every moment that brought him sleep and exhilarating strength and health.

CHAPTER XLII

Thoma was still in the harvest field when Landolin came into the living-room. His wife sat down beside him, and he said:

"You can't think how different food tastes when one has to eat it alone, in prison."

"Don't let your thoughts run back to that all the time."

"Has any one been here to see me?"

"No. But remember what you said last night."

Yes, that was easily said; but Landolin could not help thinking of the people outside, and how it could be possible that they were not at least curious to look at him again.

He looked out of the window. Heavily laden grain-wagons passed by, but no farmer, no servant, so much as gave a glance toward his house. The new bailiff came up the road, steadying the wagon with his pitchfork. He had evidently seen Landolin from a distance; for, not far from the house, he walked to the other side of the wagon, where he could not be seen.

Landolin drew back into the room, and seating himself in the great arm-chair he drummed awhile on its arms, then went into the bedroom and pulled on his high boots.

"You're not going out?" said his wife. He looked at her in astonishment. This questioning, this observation of all he did or left undone, was distasteful to him. He was about to say so to his wife, but checked himself, and explained that in prison he had worn slippers, and he felt like putting on his boots again, and going out.

The cracking of a whip was heard in the yard.

It was Peter on the saddle horse, driving the four-horse grain-wagon. Landolin went out, and met Thoma with sunburnt face following the wagon. For a while she looked at her father in silence, as though she could find nothing to say. Her look was severe and gloomy.

"Good morning, Thoma."

"Good morning, father," she replied. A milder frame of mind seemed to gain predominance as she looked on her father's care-worn face, but she threw back her head as if to shake off the gentle feeling. Now that father and daughter met in the clear light of day, they seemed unfamiliar-yes, almost strange in appearance to each other. To Thoma her father appeared smaller in size than she remembered him; and the self-confident, defiant expression of his face had become uncertain and timorous.

On the other hand Thoma had grown stronger, prouder, more erect in her carriage; her eyebrows seemed to have sunk lower; and between them deep, narrow wrinkles had been traced. These are furrows from which a bitter harvest springs.

"Good morning, master," was the greeting of the head-servant Tobias, in a confidential tone. "You will find everything, the stock and the fields, in good condition."

Landolin only nodded. So Peter had not yet dismissed the head-servant; perhaps he will not do it.

Landolin spoke to the servant who had been taken in Fidelis' place; and asked him, condescendingly, from what district he came, and in whose service he had previously been. The servant answered respectfully, and Landolin was reassured. Peter had evidently not announced that he was now to be master, and Landolin was almost grateful for this deference, which in reality was simply what was due to him. He went through the stables, and found everything well cared for. A maid, who was singing as she filled the racks with fresh clover for the cows, did not stop her song when she saw him. He looked at her in astonishment, and asked at length, "Why do you not speak to me?"

"Because I've hired out to the Gerlach farmer, and the other two maids are going too."

"Why?"

"Peter has dismissed us; but we would have gone anyway."

Landolin went into the yard again, and while he unfastened the dog's chain and patted him, he said,

"You'll not forsake me, will you?" He pushed the dog's jaws apart, to look into his mouth. "You must be happy! they have broken out my teeth. I can bite no more, and people are no longer afraid of me. Come; hold still, while I put a spiked collar round your neck. I must have something of the kind for myself."

He went in and sat down in his arm-chair. The dog lay on the floor beside him. Strange! The chair is not so easy as it used to be-the seat is hard, the back too straight! But, notwithstanding this, Landolin forced himself to stay quietly at home. He felt sure that somebody or other would call, if only as they were passing. He frequently looked toward the door; but it did not open, and no one came.

Finally, when evening drew near, he went out of doors.

CHAPTER XLIII

Only a few months ago a strong man had crossed this threshold. He was now changed, and the world was changed, particularly his own household. During his absence he had constantly thought how merry it was at home. And yet there was nothing merrier there than quiet, uninterrupted work; and he himself had always been a stern, morose man, before whom every one in the house, save Thoma, trembled. To be sure Thoma had always been light-hearted, and perhaps that was why he thought the whole household merry.

With downcast gaze Landolin went up the road. His present frame of mind was the most injurious a man could be in, and highly improper for a farmer. He was irritable, and, as is always the case with irritable people, he was weak and helpless, and trusted to external causes to bring him new energy and incitement.

As he raised his eyes he saw, at some distance, a woman with a red kerchief approaching him. Is that "Cushion-Kate?" Should he turn back?

He called the dog nearer to him; but it was not "Cushion-Kate;" it was a stranger.

See! There comes the "Galloping-Cooper." He was walking faster than usual, and as he hurried by he said "Good evening" carelessly, and without waiting for a response. Landolin stood still, looked back after him, and shrugged his shoulders contemptuously at the beggarly man, who once, if he wanted to borrow a log of wood for barrel staves, could not find submissive words enough. "Not another chip shall you have from me," said Landolin to himself as he walked on. He had now reached the bailiff's farm. The watch-dog rushed out at Racker; but as soon as he saw the spiked collar he fled. Racker started in pursuit of the coward; but Landolin called him back. The bailiff, who was sitting astride a block of wood, mending a scythe, must certainly have heard him, but he did not look up; and not until Landolin stood in front of him and spoke, did he stop hammering. Then, running his fingers along the edge of the scythe, to see if there were any notches left, he said:

"Back again, eh?"

"As you see. Down! Racker." The dog had been standing perfectly still beside him; and it seemed as though he visited upon the dog a fit of anger which something else had provoked. It galled him that the bailiff should speak so disrespectfully, neither offering to shake hands, nor rising; but he said with a forced smile:

"I only came to tell you, and you may announce it generally, that I shall not be a candidate for councilman for this district at the election; and that I resign my office of judge of the orphans' court."

"All right. I'll attend to it."

Landolin stared at the young bailiff. Is that the way to speak to him? Must he put up with that? And not dare to get angry and give blow for blow? Yes, Landolin; you are no longer feared. Curb your passions, and learn to rule yourself.

After a long pause, during which Landolin struggled against his indignation, he said abruptly:

"Good by."

"Good by," was the dry answer.

Landolin walked away, and the bailiff went on hammering his scythe. But the strokes fell faster and faster; for he thought exultingly that he had treated Landolin as he deserved, for having brought scandal and dishonor upon the whole district. Had not Landolin acted as though he could still lay claim to something? "Now, I think, he'll know what his standing is."

But Landolin only knew that the whole world was hostile to him, and begrudged him his life.

"Good evening, Mr. Ex-bailiff." Thus he was suddenly accosted.

He looked up and saw a rough-looking young man of sinewy make standing before him, and taking off his hat. Disordered, bristly hair fell over his forehead into the unquiet, black eyes, that wandered restlessly here and there.

"Who are you?"

"The ex-bailiff does not remember me? I am Engelbert, the shepherd of Gerlachseck. I have been waiting for you."

"For me?"

"You'll surely take me into service now."

"Where do you come from?"

"From down there."

The vagrant made a motion toward the plain. "I had three years. If my master had been good to me, and had not prosecuted me-"

"So you are just out of the Penitentiary?"

The man nodded, and smiled in a confidential way.

"And why should I, in particular, take you?"

"Well, just because it is so. Of course, after this, your servants will have an easy time. You'll get a new set throughout, and you'd better have me to watch the rest."

The veins swelled on Landolin's forehead, but he concealed his annoyance, laughed aloud, and called out in a commanding tone:

"March! How dare you speak to me so? Off with you, or-"

"Oho! So you want to murder another man. You can't finish me as quickly as you did Vetturi."

He put on his hat and clenched his fists.

Without speaking another word, Landolin went on, while the vagrant called after him with threats and insult.

The evening bells began ringing. Landolin nodded, as if greeting the sound, or as though he felt they were calling him. He took a roundabout way, so as not to pass through the church-yard where Vetturi's grave was.

The church stood open. Landolin took off his hat, ordered the dog to lie down and wait for him, and was just putting his foot on the threshold, when Cushion-Kate came out. She gave him a look that made him blench; then she caught the heavy church-door, and dashed it to with such force that it fairly groaned. And louder yet the terrible woman cried:

"For you the church is closed. Raise your hand! Here, at the church door, kill me! You are equal to anything. You are rejected by God, cast out by men. You-"

The dog had sprung up. His master quieted him, and the old woman went away.

Landolin opened the door and entered the church. All was silent within, save the pendulum's measured tick, far up in the tower. A bird had flown through the open window. It fluttered about, affrighted, until it found the opening again, and Landolin was alone in the vast edifice, where the ever-burning lamp alone shed its light. No prayer escaped his lips. Rather, in imagination he gathered in the whole congregation, men and women, one by one, to their places. In imagination he took hold of each one, looked him in the face, and shook him-but what good did that do? They still hated him. Cast out, as a dead body, by the stream! Cast out. All the empty benches repeated Cushion-Kate's words.

Hate of the God of whose compassion he had been taught in his childhood, grew within him. It is not true, and if it were, what good does it do for God to be pitiful, if he does not force men to be pitiful too?

A sudden terror seized him, as though the roof were falling, and he left the church and went home.

"Has no one been here?" he asked his wife when he reached home. She said, "No;" but he did not answer her question as to where he had been and with whom he had spoken. His wife's curiosity and idle questioning were disagreeable to him. She saw that he did not value her love and care, but she was patient. For she thought she was not wise and clever enough for him, and resolved to be very careful in everything she did or said. But in the goodness of her heart, the very next moment, she tried to talk to him and cheer him, and that annoyed him. For it showed that the past was still in her thoughts; and that he did not like. She took special pains with his supper, and said: "Eat heartily, now that you are at home again."

"It does no good to wish that," he replied, "if it doesn't taste good of itself."

He waited and waited for a kind word from Thoma, but her strict and cruel truthfulness forbade her to give him one. She was dissatisfied that her father, in his weariness, and the humility which he had gained by a violent effort, should be so indulgent with Peter. Day after day she saw him taking upon himself the sole control of affairs, and her father permitting it. Yes, he even worked like a servant, and seemed to take satisfaction in being tyrannized over by his son. Everything was transformed and changed.

CHAPTER XLIV

The determined, steadfast Landolin had become a coward. He despised himself for it, but that did not mend matters. His lips were always tightly compressed, and their bitter expression became habitual. Often he would stop suddenly while walking along. He felt that he must draw his breath: he was almost smothered by the thoughts that lay so heavy upon him. Then he looked around beseechingly, and went on his way. How rich he had been before! He had had an outstanding capital of honor with every one; and now, when he wanted to draw upon it, it was no longer there. Strictly speaking, he had thought neither well nor ill of other people, he was indifferent to them; but now things had changed. His power of thought had lain fallow; and now upon this fallow land all manner of weeds, whose seeds had lain unsuspected in the ground, made their appearance. He had lived and had had an acute mind, especially when an advantage for himself was to be gained. But now, it seemed as though he were half asleep. Stop! What are men to you? What do you care for this one and that one? What does one gain in life, after all? Plowing, sowing, and reaping. The forest trees grow, long after the man who planted them has become a clod of earth. Is it for this that a man gives himself so much trouble and thought? Yes-gives thought. That is what is hard for a man who, until now, has not had it to do.

When the soul comes to a spot where harshness, and selfishness pass step by step before its eyes, then it is difficult for it to turn back and take another path. It seems as if irresistible forces drive it along the path of grief and bitterness, and yet all the while a longing to meet with friendship and responsive love grows stronger and warmer within it.

Landolin felt something of this emotion, although he probably could not have given it utterance. But in the soul there is much that is unutterable, even for a far more thoughtful and meditative nature than Landolin's.

The man who was formerly strong as iron, had become unnerved, and one could conceive of nothing which could happen to renew his strength. Perhaps Thoma's love could have accomplished it. Perhaps! Certainly, he said to himself. There were even times when he not only mourned that this love was denied him, but was yet more deeply grieved to see his child, his proud, beautiful child, bent with sorrow, and her life left waste and bleak. He had nurtured a pride and severity in her, which now threatened her destruction. In his distress he groaned aloud, and submitted to Peter's dominion as if to a penance; indeed, though Peter's boldness was so serious an offense, it often extorted his admiration.

"He will some day be the man to trample the whole world under foot, and laugh as he does it. He will be more powerful than Titus himself."

Landolin resolved to dissemble and play the hypocrite; to act as if he mistook people's malice for good will, and to retaliate secretly. But his pride was incompatible with success in hypocrisy. He was annoyed at his own lack of courage, he very candidly called it cowardice, but still that did not help him to regain the old fearlessness-the old pride. Yes, he had become over-sensitive.

His walk had now brought him to the forest, with its overhanging branches. In other times how little he had cared for the noxious insects of the woods. He had not grown up with gloved hands, but now he shuddered at the caterpillars that hung in the air by their slender threads, as though they were waiting to drop down upon him. These caterpillars can be shaken off, but the world's malicious thoughts, that like caterpillars hang everywhere by invisible threads, cannot.

Landolin was sitting on an old tree-stump, when the game-keeper approached, and addressed him in a friendly manner, expressing his sorrow that Landolin had had to undergo so much trouble. Landolin complained that in the short time, he had grown twenty years older, and suffered with a constant palpitation of the heart.

Suddenly he paused, for he became aware that he was begging for sympathy. And from whom? But the game-keeper responded,

"I know myself how a man feels the half hour that the jury are out, and he is waiting for the verdict of life or death."

"How do you know about it?"

"Have you forgotten my shooting the poacher? He had his piece leveled at me from behind a tree. Crack-crack. It is self-defense! There you lie," said the game-keeper, with a crafty smile.

Landolin went home fortified. "It was self-defense. The court has acknowledged that it was, and it was so. I must learn to keep that in mind. I must."