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CHAPTER VIII

THE STRANGE FLOWER AND THE BEAUTIFUL GIRL

The sun was still high in the heavens. The Hunter felt no particular inclination to return to the Oberhof so early in the day, so he stepped up to one of the highest hedges to obtain a general view of the region. From there he saw rising, a short distance away, the bushy summits of a group of hills, through which he thought he could probably make his way and get back to his quarters before late in the evening.

His foot trod the fresh, damp green of a meadow bordered by bushes, under which a stream of clear water was flowing. Not far away appeared some small rocks, over which ran a narrow slippery path. He walked across, climbed down between the cliffs, tucked up his sleeves, and put his arm in the water; it sent a pleasant thrill through him and cooled his hot blood. Thus, half kneeling, half sitting in the damp, dark, rock-begirt spot, he glanced aside into the open. There his eyes were fascinated by a glorious sight. Some old tree stumps had rotted in the grass, and their black forms protruded from the surrounding vivid green. One of them was entirely hollowed out, and inside of it the rotted wood had formed a deposit of brown earth. Out of this earth and out of the stump, as from a crater, a most beautiful flower was growing. Above a crown of soft, round leaves rose a long, slender stalk which bore large cups of an indescribably beautiful red. Deep down in the cups of the flower was a spot of soft, gleaming white which ran out to the edge of the petals in tiny light-green veins. It was evidently not a native flower, but an exotic, whose seed some chance—who knows what?—had deposited here in this little garden-bed, prepared by the putrefactive powers of Nature, and which a friendly summer sun had caused to grow and blossom.

The Hunter refreshed his eye in this charming sight. Intoxicated by the magic of Nature, he leaned back and closed his eyes in sweet reveries. When he opened them again the scene had changed.

A beautiful girl in simple attire, her straw hat hung over her arm, was kneeling by the flower, gently embracing its stalk as if it were her sweetheart's neck, and gazing into its red calyx with the sweetest look of joyful surprise. She must have approached quietly while the Hunter was lying back, half asleep. She did not see him, for the cliffs hid him from her sight; and he was careful not to make any motion that might frighten the vision away. But after a while, as she looked up from the flower with a sigh, her sidewise glance fell upon the water, and she caught sight of a man's shadow! The Hunter saw her color pale, saw the flower drop from her hands—otherwise she remained motionless on her knees. He half arose between the cliffs, and four young eyes met! But only for a moment! The girl, with fire in her face, quickly got up, tossed her straw hat on her head, and with three swift steps disappeared into the bushes.

The Hunter now came out from among the cliffs and stretched out his arm toward the bushes. Had the spirit of the flower become alive? He looked at it again—it did not seem as beautiful as it had a few minutes before.

"An amaryllis," he said, coldly. "I recognize it now—I have it in my green-house."

Should he follow the girl? He wanted to—but a mysterious shyness shackled his feet. He grasped his forehead. He had not been dreaming—he was sure of that. "And the occurrence," he cried at last with something like an effort, "is not so extraordinary that it must necessarily have been a dream. A pretty girl, who happened along this way, was enjoying a pretty flower—that is all!"

He wandered about among unknown mountains, valleys and tracts of country, as long as his feet would carry him. Finally it became necessary for him to think of returning.

Late, in the dark, and only through the help of a guide whom he came across by accident, he reached the Oberhof. Here the cows were lowing, and the Justice was sitting at the table in the entrance-hall with his daughter, men and maids, about to begin his moral talks. But it was impossible for the Hunter to enter into them—everything seemed different to him, coarse and inappropriate. He repaired immediately to his room, wondering how he could pass away any more time here without knowing what was going to happen. A letter which he found there from his friend Ernst in the Black Forest added to his discomfort. In this state of mind, which robbed him of part of his night's sleep and even the following morning had not yet left him, he was glad indeed when the Pastor sent a wagonette to bring him to the city.

Even from a distance, towers, high walls and bulwarks made it evident that the city, once a mighty member of the Hanseatic League, had seen its great days of defensive fighting. The deep moat was still extant, although now devoted to trees and vegetables. His vehicle, after it had passed under the dark Gothic gate, moved along somewhat heavily on the rough stone pavement, and finally drew up in front of a comfortable-looking house, on the threshold of which the Pastor was standing ready to receive him. He entered a cheerful and cosy household, which was animated by a sprightly, pretty wife and a couple of lively boys whom she had presented to her husband.

After breakfast they went for a walk through the city. In the course of it the Hunter told his friend about his adventure in the woods.

"To judge by your description," said the latter, "it was the blond Lisbeth whom you saw. The dear child wanders around the country getting money for her old foster-father. She was at my home a few days ago, but would not tarry with us. The girl is a most charming Cinderella, and I only hope that she may find the Prince who will fall in love with her little shoe."

CHAPTER IX

THE HUNTER SHOOTS AND HITS THE MARK

After a sojourn of several days in the city the Hunter returned to the Oberhof, and found the Justice repairing a barn door. The Hunter informed him that he was going to depart soon, and the old man replied:

"I am rather glad of it; the little woman who had the room before you sent word to me that she would be back today or tomorrow; you would have to give way to her and I couldn't make you comfortable anywhere else."

The entire estate was swimming in the red light of evening. A pure summer warmth pervaded the air, which was uncharged with any exhalations. It was quite deserted around the buildings; all the men and maids must have been still busy in the fields. Even in the house he saw nobody when he went to his room. There he picked up and arranged what he had from time to time written down during his stay, packed up his few belongings, and then looked around for his gun. After a short search he discovered it behind a large cabinet where the peasant had concealed it. He loaded it, and in two steps he was out of the house and headed for the "Open Tribunal," bent on shooting the restlessly heaving visions out of his soul. By the time he was traversing the fragrant, golden oak grove he had recovered his high spirits.

When he reached the Freemen's Tribunal up on the hill he felt quite cheerful. The ears of grain, heavy and plentiful, were nodding and rustling, the large red disk of the full moon was rising over the eastern horizon, and the reflection of the sun, which had already sunk in the west, was still lighting up the sky. The atmosphere was so clear that this reflected light shone a yellowish green.

The Hunter felt his youth, his health, his hopes. He took his position behind a large tree on the edge of the forest.

"Today," he said, "I will see whether fate can be bent. I'll fire only when something comes within three paces of the muzzle, and then if I should miss it, there would needs be magic in it."

Behind him was the forest, before him the low ground of the "Freemen's Tribunal," with its large stones and trees, and over opposite the solitary spot was shut in by yellow corn fields. In the tree-tops above him the turtle-doves were cooing now and then a faint note, and through the branches of the trees by the "Freemen's Tribunal" the wild hawk-moths were beginning to whir with their red-green wings. Gradually the ground in the forest also began to show signs of life. A hedgehog crept sleepily through the underbrush; a little weasel dragged his supple body forth from a crevice in the rocks no broader than a quill. Little hares darted with cautious leaps out from the bushes, stopping in front of each to crouch down and lay their ears back, until finally, growing more brave, they mounted the ridge by the cornfield and danced and played together, using their fore paws to strike one another in sport. The Hunter took care not to disturb these little animals. Finally a slender roe stepped out of the forest. Shrewdly thrusting its nose into the wind and glancing around to the right and left out of its big brown eyes, it stalked along on its delicate feet with an easy grace. The gentle, wild, fleet animal now reached a point just opposite the hidden Hunter's gun, and so close to him that he could hardly fail to hit it. He was just about to pull the trigger when the deer took fright, faced about in a different direction, and made a leap straight for the tree behind which the Hunter was standing. His gun cracked, and the animal, unwounded, made off with a series of mighty leaps into the forest. But from amid the corn he heard a loud cry, and a few moments afterwards a woman's form staggered out of the fields on a narrow path which lay in the line of his aim. The Hunter threw down the gun and rushed toward the form; when he saw who it was he nearly collapsed.

It was the beautiful girl of the flower scene in the woods. He had hit her instead of the roe! She was holding one hand over the region between her shoulder and left breast, where the blood was gushing out copiously beneath her kerchief. Her face was pale, and somewhat drawn, though not distorted, by pain. She drew a deep breath three times and then said with a soft, weak voice:

"God be praised! The wound can't be very dangerous, for I can draw breath, even though it hurts me. I will try," she continued, "to reach the Oberhof, whither I was bound on this short-cut when I had to go and meet with this accident. Give me your arm."

He had supported her only a few steps down the hill when she collapsed and said:

"It won't do—the pain is too severe—I might faint on the way. We must wait here in this place until somebody comes along who can fetch a stretcher."

In spite of the pain of her wound she was clutching tightly in her left hand a small package; this she now handed to him and said:

"Keep it for me—it is the money that I have collected for the baron—I might lose it. We must prepare ourselves," she continued, "to remain here for some little time. If it were only possible for you to make a place for me to lie down and to give me something warm, so that the cold won't penetrate to the wound!"

Thus she had presence of mind both for herself and him. He stood speechless, pale and immovable, like a statue. Utter dismay filled his heart and let not a single word escape from his lips.

Her appeal now put new life into him; he hurried to the tree behind which he had hidden his hunting-bag. There he saw, lying on the ground, the unfortunate gun. He seized it furiously and brought it down on a stone with such strength that the stock was shattered to pieces, both barrels bent, and the lock wrenched from the screws. He cursed the day, himself, and his hand. Then, rushing back to the girl, who had sat down on a stone in the "Open Tribunal," he fell at her feet, kissed the hem of her dress, and with passionate tears flowing from his eyes in a torrent, besought her forgiveness. She merely begged him to please arise; he couldn't help doing it, the wound was surely of no significance, and the thing for him to do now was to help.

He now fitted up a seat for her by laying his bag on the stone, bound his handkerchief around her neck, and gently and loosely laid his coat over her shoulders. She sat down on the stone. He took a seat beside her and invited her to rest her head, for relief, against his breast. She did so.

The moon, in its full clarity, had risen high in the heavens, and now shone down with almost daytime brightness on the couple, whom a rude accident had thus brought so close together. In the most intimate proximity the strange man sat by the strange girl; she uttered low moans of pain on his breast, while down his cheeks the tears ran irrepressibly. Round about them the silent solitude of night was slowly gathering.

Finally Fortune so willed it that a late wanderer passed through the cornfields. The Hunter's call reached his ears; he hurried to the spot and was dispatched at once to the Oberhof. Soon afterwards footsteps were heard coming up the hill; the men were bringing a sedan chair with cushions. The Hunter gently lifted the wounded girl into it, and thus, late at night, she reached the sheltering roof of her old friend, who was, to be sure, greatly astonished to see his expected guest arrive in such a condition.

CHAPTER X

THE WEDDING

On a clear morning in August there were so many cooking fires burning at the Oberhof that it seemed as if they might be expecting the entire population of all the surrounding towns to dinner. Over the hearth fire, built up to unusual size with great logs and fagots, there was hanging on a notched iron hook the very largest kettle that the household possessed. Six or seven iron pots stood round these fires with their contents boiling and bubbling. In the space before the house, toward the oak grove, there were crackling, if history reports the truth, nine fires, and an equal number, or at the most one less, in the yard near the lindens. Over all these cooking-places jacks or roasters had been erected, on which frying-pans were resting, or on which kettles of no small size were hanging, although none of them could compare in capacity with the one which was doing duty over the hearth fire.

The maids of the Oberhof were briskly hurrying back and forth with skimming-spoons or forks between the various cooking-places. If the guests were to find the food palatable, there could not be any dawdling over the skimming and turning. For in the large kettle over the hearth eight hens lent strength to the soup, and in the other twenty-three or-four pots, kettles, and pans there were boiling or roasting six hams, three turkeys, and five pigs, besides a corresponding number of hens.

While the maids were exerting themselves, the men too were industriously attending to their part of the work. The one with the black eyes was building an immense, long table with stands, blocks, and boards, in the orchard among the flower-beds, having already completed a similar construction in the entrance-hall. The fat, slow one was decorating with green birch twigs the gates of the house, the walls of the entrance-hall, and the doors of the two rooms in which the Pastor and his Sexton had once eaten. He sighed deeply over this delightful green work, and the heat, too, seemed to oppress him greatly. Nevertheless an easier task had fallen to him than to his fellow-partner, the gruff, red-haired man. For the former had only flexible May twigs to deal with, whereas it fell to the latter to decorate the cattle for the festivity. The red-haired man was, accordingly, gilding with gold tinsel the horns of the cows and bullocks, which were standing on one side of the entrance-hall behind their mangers, or else was tying bright-colored bows and tassels around them. This was, in fact, a provoking task, especially for an irascible man. For many of the cows and an occasional bullock would have absolutely nothing to do with the festival, but shook their heads and butted sideways with their horns, as often as the red-haired fellow came anywhere near them with the tinsel and brush. For a long time he suppressed his natural instinct, and merely grumbled softly once in a while when a horn knocked the brush or the tinsel out of his hand. These grumbles, however, scarcely interrupted the general silence in which all the busily occupied people were attending to their work. But when, finally, the pride of the stable, a large white-spotted cow, with which he had been struggling in vain for more than a quarter of an hour, became positively malicious and tried to give the red-haired fellow a dangerous thrust, he lost all patience. Springing aside, he seized that fence-pole with which he had once restrained himself from striking Peter of the Bandkotten, and which happened by chance to be handy, and gave the obstinate beast such a mighty blow on the groins with the heavy end of it that the cow bellowed with pain, her sides began to quiver, and her nostrils to snort.

The slow, fat fellow dropped the twigs which he had in his hand, the first maid looked up from the kettle, and both cried out simultaneously:

"Heaven help us! What are you doing?" "When a worthless brute like this refuses to listen to reason and will not be decent and let itself be gilded, it ought to have its confounded bones smashed!"

He then wrenched the cow's head around and decorated her even more beautifully than her mates. For the animal, having in her pain become more tractable, now stood perfectly still and permitted the rough artist to do anything he wanted to with her.

While the preparations for the wedding were being carried on below in this energetic manner, the Justice was upstairs in the room where he kept the sword of Charles the Great, putting on his best finery. The chief factor in the festive attire which the peasants of that region wear is the number of vests that they put on under their coats. The richer a peasant is, the more vests he wears on extraordinary occasions. The Justice had nine, and all of them were destined by him to be assembled around his body on this day. He kept them hung up in a row on wooden pegs behind a seed-cloth, which partitioned off one part of the room from the other like a curtain. First the under ones of silver-gray or red woolen damask, adorned with flowers, and then the outside ones of brown, yellow and green cloth. These were all adorned with heavy silver buttons.

Behind this seed-cloth the Justice was dressing. He had neatly combed his white hair, and his yellow, freshly-washed face shone forth under it like a rape-field over which the snow has fallen in May. The expression of natural dignity, which was peculiar to these features, was today greatly intensified; he was the father of the bride, and felt it. His movements were even slower and more measured than on the day when he bargained with the horse-dealer. He examined each vest carefully before he removed it from its peg, and then deliberately put them on, one after the other, without over-hurrying himself in the process of buttoning them up.

When the Justice was ready he slowly descended the stairs. In the entrance-hall he surveyed the preparations—the fires, the kettles, the pots, the green twigs, the ribboned and gilded horns of his cattle. He seemed to be satisfied with everything, for several times he nodded his head approvingly. He walked through the entrance-hall to the yard, then toward the side of the oak grove, looked at the fires which were burning there, and gave similar signs of approval, although always with a certain dignity. When the white sand, with which the entire entrance-hall and the space in front of the house was thickly sprinkled, grated and crunched in a lively manner under his feet, this seemed to afford him a special pleasure.

A maid was asked to put a chair for him in front of the house; he sat down there, opposite the oak grove, and, with his legs stretched out in front of him, his hat and cane in his hand, he awaited in sturdy silence the continuation of the proceedings, while the golden sunlight shone brightly down on him.

In the meantime two bridesmaids were adorning the bride in her room. All around her were standing chests and linen bags, gaily painted with flowers, which contained her dowry of cloth, bedding, yarn, linen and flax. Even in the door-way and far out into the hall all the space was occupied. In the midst of all these riches sat the bride in front of a small mirror, very red and serious. The first bridesmaid put on her blue stockings with the red clocks, the second threw over her a skirt of fine black cloth, and on top of this a bodice of the same material and color. Thereupon both occupied themselves with her hair, which was combed back and braided behind into a sort of wheel.

During these preparations the bride never once said a word, while her friends were all the more talkative. They praised her finery, extolled her piled-up treasures, and every now and then a furtive sigh led one to suspect that they would rather have been the adorned than the adorning.

Finally both girls, with solemn mien, came bringing in the bride's crown; for the girls in that region do not wear a wreath on their wedding-day, but a crown of gold and silver tinsel. The merchant who provides their adornment merely rents the crown, and after the wedding-day takes it back. Thus it wanders from one bride's head to another.

The bride lowered her head a little while her friends were putting on the crown, and her face, when she felt the light weight of it on her hair, became, if possible, even redder than before. In her hair, which, strange enough, was black, although she lived among a blond people, the gold and silver tinsel glittered gaily. She straightened herself up, supported by her friends, and the two broad, gold bands which belonged to the crown hung far down her back.

The men were already standing in front of the door ready to carry her dotal belongings down into the entrance-hall. The bridesmaids seized their friend by the hand, and one of them picked up the spinning-wheel, which likewise had a definite function to perform in the coming ceremony. And thus the three girls went slowly down the stairs to the bride's father, while the men seized the chests and bags and started to carry them down into the entrance-hall.

Then the bride, escorted by both bridesmaids, entered the door, holding her head stiff and firm under the quivering gold crown, as if she were afraid of losing the ornament. She offered her hand to her father, and, without looking up, bade him a good morning. The old man, without any show of feeling, replied "Thank you," and assumed his previous posture. The bride sat down at the other side of the door, put her spinning-wheel in front of her and began to spin industriously, an occupation which custom required her to continue until the moment the bridegroom arrived and conducted her to the bridal carriage.

In the distance faint notes of music were heard, which announced the approach of the bridal carriage. But even this sign that the decisive moment was at hand, the moment which separates a child from the parental house and shoves the father into the background so far as his child's dependence is concerned, did not produce any commotion at all among the people, who, like models of old usages, were sitting on either side of the door. The daughter, very red, but with a look of unconcern, spun away unwearyingly; the father looked steadily ahead of him, and neither of them, bride or father, said a word to the other.

The first bridesmaid, in the meanwhile, was out in the orchard gathering a bouquet for the bridegroom. She selected late roses, fire-lilies, orange-yellow starworts—a flower which in that locality they call "The-Longer-the-Prettier" and in other places "The Jesus Flowerlet"—and sage. The bouquet finally grew to such proportions that it could have sufficed for three bridegrooms of high rank—for peasants must always do things on a large scale. But all together it did not smell any too sweet, for the sage emitted a strange odor, and the starworts a positively bad one. On the other hand, neither of them, especially the sage, could be left out, if the bouquet was to possess the traditional completeness. When she had it ready, the girl held it out before her with proud enjoyment, and tied it together with a broad, dark-red ribbon. She then went to take her place beside the bride.