Part 24

Almost every Sunday Crescence was compelled, with cruel maltreatment, to go with her father and meet the geometer in Muehl or at the half-way house in Eglesthal. She was then gay and sprightly against her will; and, after she had carried on this hypocrisy long enough, the wine would come to her aid and really elevate her spirits,--so that the geometer always ended with thinking that she was still really fond of him.

But in the evening she always contrived to meet Florian; and, when she returned home, new maltreatment awaited her. Thus poor Crescence led a wretched life,--though, fortunately for her, she was so much inured to deceit and untruth that she was not aware of the full extent of its depravity.

6. FLORIAN IN CLOVER.

Florian tried to earn some money here and there, but rarely succeeded. He would only work at his trade or at some other agreeable occupation. Field-labor was beneath his dignity; and he would rather have starved than break stone on the highroad,--the usual resource of men without capital. Like many others, he would only work at what he liked,--a principle upon which very few men indeed ever manage to prosper. But a time came for him to obtain some funds and a plentiful supply of that glory which he so much craved. The bel-wether dance was approaching, and great preparations were being made for it. Mine host of the Eagle had made his peace with Florian and his friends; for he understood his position too well to keep up a feud with his neighbors in the quarrel of a customer who had left. Florian now slaughtered for Caspar a heifer and a hog. The latter ceremony was performed in the street, so that everybody stopped to watch the active functionary, whom it was indeed a pleasure to see in the labor of his trade. The muscles of his bare arms were so strong and smooth that the life and death of the poor beasts seemed indeed to lie in his hand. With three strokes upon the steel he whetted his knife so sharp that he could cut a hair loose at one end. But the greatest crowd of idlers always assembled when he began to chop the sausage-meat. He handled his cleavers as lightly as a drummer his sticks, whistling a waltz the meanwhile to keep himself in time. A particular flourish consisted in throwing one of the cleavers into the air while he chopped on uninterruptedly with the other, snapping the fingers of the empty hand, catching the cleaver again, and chopping on without getting out of the time. At this achievement all lifted up their hands in astonishment.

The old butcher was present also, mainly to assist in consuming the kettle-meat, fresh from the fire; after which the renown of his son afforded an excellent dessert. He strolled to George the blacksmith's door, and found him in deep lamentation. "All my subjects refuse to obey me," he said. "They leave me sitting here all alone and run to watch Florian. I'd give three creutzers if he'd come and do his killing here."

"Yes," added the old butcher, rubbing his hands, "the court-butcher at Stuttgard can't come up to my Florian. He once made a bet with his friends in Strasbourg to get four calves and two hogs into marketing-order without bringing a speck on his clothes; and he did it, and his apron and his shirt were as white as the driven snow."

Florian now received so many orders that he found no rest by day or night, and when the day of the bel-wether dance came he overslept the morning service.

Crescence had promised the geometer an interview at Eglesthal; but Florian easily succeeded in inducing her to break her word.

The close of the afternoon service was the signal of rejoicings throughout the village. In the yard of the manor-house a number of stakes were put up in a ring, with a rope around them. In the middle stood a fine wether, decorated with a red ribbon, while a glittering bowl of pewter was on a little table beside him. The band of musicians headed the procession, followed by the boys and girls in couples, hand in hand.

At the gate of the yard a clock had been fastened so that it could not be seen. At the stroke of two the "free dance" began. A march was played, and the couples walked around the rope in strict order. An old-fashioned sabre had been stuck into one of the stakes; and whenever a couple came up to it the man pulled it out and thrust it into the next stake to which they came. When Florian and Crescence reached the sword, the former balanced it on his teeth, and thus carried it in safety to the next station. A general "Look a' there!" was his reward. Corpse Kitty prophesied that he would win the wether. Thus they all went round and round, laughing and talking. When Florian took the sword for the second time, the clock suddenly struck three. A hurrah resounded on all sides. The rope was torn away, and the wether, the ribbon, and the bowl were brought to Florian. The girls came up, wished Crescence joy, and wound the ribbon into her hair. "It's all right now," said Melchior's Lenore: "you're bound to have each other before the year's out." Crescence was weeping, however, for her father stood before her, clenching his fist.

They now followed the band to the inn, where Florian and Crescence opened the dance.

Buchmaier, the new squire, had revived an ancient custom. Instead of ordering the beadle or a _gens d'armes_ to keep order during the dance, he had summoned all the boys who had passed their eighteenth year to meet on the preceding evening for the purpose of electing two "dance-boys." Constantine, and Valentine the carpenter's son Xavier, received the greatest number of votes: the winner of the wether was to be the third, the squire only stipulating the right of nominating him in case this good fortune should befall one of the two who had been elected. Florian now entered upon this office, and was marked, like his colleagues, with a white ribbon tied round his arm. These three were made responsible for any disturbances; but no disturbance occurred,--for people are always easily governed by rulers of their own selection.

Crescence was overflowing with happiness, and forgot all about the geometer. None--not even George--could dance like Florian: he clapped his feet together at every bar of the music, so that all eyes were directed to his glistening boots. Sometimes, in the middle of the dance, he would cry, "Sing out!" Not his feet, but all his body and soul, rose and sunk in accordance with the music: he was a dancer all over. He would not stand still for an instant; and, when the musicians stopped to rest a while, he said to the clarionet, "Make your old bones rattle." "Pour something in to make it swell," was the answer. Florian threw six creutzers on the table.

Late at night the "barber's dance" was executed, in which Florian appeared in all his glory. A man was brought in, looking as white as milk, with a hump before and behind, and bandaged from head to foot with white sheets and kerchiefs. You would hardly have recognised the College Chap. The band played the air of the song,--

"Oh, my! I feel so bad! Bring me the barber's lad."

A chair was placed in the middle of the room, and the patient deposited upon it. The expected man of simples came, hung round about with knives, with a huge pinch nose, and a wig of tow. It was Florian who thus entered, amid roars of laughter.

With comical gestures, he skipped around the patient, opened the bandage on his arm, bled him, and finally stuck a knife into the hump and left it there. The sick man fell dead, and a funeral-march was played. The unlucky surgeon rushed around the room in an agony of despair, pulled his wig out by handfuls, and threw them into the faces of the company. The music died away. At last, laying his hand upon his forehead, he collected his scattered wits, and cried, "Music!" Notes of mourning responded. He knelt down beside the dead man, opened his mouth, and drew out yards on yards of white tape, but without producing any relief. Then, taking a quart-tumbler, he filled it to the brim with wine, placed it on his forehead, and lay down on his back beside the sick man, moving in time to the music. All held their breath in expectation of a crash; but the feat was successfully performed. The entire contents of the glass were now poured down the patient's throat. He struck about him and threw off his disguise. Florian did the same: the band struck up a gallop: the old squire's Babbett ran up and danced with Constantine, Crescence and Florian followed suit, and all were once more in motion. The fictitious misfortunes with which they had amused themselves gave an additional zest to the return of pleasure.

Some hours later, when they were all seated at table, drinking and singing, Florian favored the company with a new song which he had picked up on his travels:--

"In Strasbourg on the rampart, She loved me much indeed: She always brought my breakfast And a letter for to read.

"I always got the letter: The breakfast never came: And in it there was written, 'Winter has come again.'

"Winter has come, as usual; The bosses are feeling good: They say to the poor journeymen, 'Go out and split some wood.

"'And mind you make it small enough, And make it not too small; And you shall be my journeymen, As you have been this fall.'

"And winter is past and over; The jours are full of pluck: They come to the boss's table And tell him what's o'clock.

"'Come, boss; its time to settle: Bring out your little bill: You gave us beans this winter, And we have had our fill.'

"'Oh, if the bread's not white enough, I'll get another kind, And if your bed's not soft enough----'"

At the lines which followed, sad to say, Crescence did not blush, nor did any of the other girls; but all received the production with unmingled merriment.

Who could doubt, after this, that Florian was the leading young man in the village?

But when Crescence came home she had to expiate her glory with bitter sufferings: her mother was sick, and her father, for the time-being, reigned supreme. But she bore all without a murmur, knowing that Florian would be hers; for hadn't they won the wether?

7. DOWN HILL.

With the jollification the importance of Florian came to an end. He was pushed into a corner, like a bass-fiddle in working-time: people went about their business, and thought little of the fun-makers. Florian alone had no business to go about: he hung around the taverns until he ceased to be welcome even there.

In a village it is very difficult to keep up appearances on fictitious capital. Baden had joined the "Zollverein," and the old butcher's occupation was gone likewise. Nevertheless, Florian continued to walk about, erect and proud, in the fine clothes he had purchased in his best days. He was always neatly brushed; and, though his boots were soleless, the upper leathers shone as heretofore.

"They can look at my clothes, but not into my stomach," was his motto.

The watch with the silver seals he wore on Sunday only, having received this privilege when he left it with old Gudel.

The fair at Horb brought another holiday for half the village. At daybreak the old butcher was seen standing at Jacob's Well, while all the farmers who passed on the road with their cattle asked him what they weighed. He was delighted with this occupation, for it made him feel as if he could buy them all himself; and, besides, he hoped that one or the other would invite him to go to town. In this he was disappointed, however,--poor fellow! He had handled so much fine meat in his time, and for two weeks he had been compelled to put up with a vegetable diet! Finding all his trouble in vain, he sighed heavily, wiped the sweat from his forehead, went home to get his stick and walk over to the fair on speculation, to look out for something to turn up.

Florian ran distractedly up and down the village. He met Crescence, who was going to the fair with her father, but ran past them without stopping to talk: he had not a copper, in his pocket. Whenever he met a young man, he meditated asking him for a loan, but would stop himself with "Oh, he won't give me any thing," or, "He hasn't much to spare, and then I'd only have the shame of it." Thus he suffered one and another to pass by. "What should I go to market for? They're not selling me out there, and there's a great many not going besides myself; but then that is because they don't want to, and I don't go because I can't." It now seemed to him as if a joy never to be replaced would be lost if he remained at home: he must go: every thing depended upon it. With a flushed face and flashing eyes, he walked along the village, constantly talking to himself. "There lives Jack the blacksmith. I treated him ever so often at the bel-wether dance; but he won't give me any thing, for all that. There's Koch the carpenter: he's been abroad like myself. I'll go to him: it's the first time I'm so familiar with him; but it can't be helped."

He found Koch the carpenter untying a heifer from the crib, complaining bitterly of hard times. He went away without mentioning the object of his visit. The College Chap had left home already, and Florian made up his mind to go to the Eagle and say that the College Chap had sent him to ask for a loan of six dollars: he scorned to ask for a trifle. Mine host of the Eagle answered, "I won't lend any thing to anybody: it only sets the best of friends by the ears." "Just what I said myself," said Florian, laughing bitterly, as he turned away.

With a feeling of utter desolation, he walked about, thinking, "Without money a man's a stranger in his own house." Suffused with perspiration, he ran up one street and down another: it seemed as if every minute wasted was a loss not to be retrieved. He now bethought himself of the aristocratic expedient of borrowing from a Jew. Like the noble lords and ladies who first invented this practice, he had no reason to fear the reproving looks of these people in his further extravagances and vain-glory. "Jews' claims are no disgrace," he said to himself, and applied to Mendle's son Meyer, who was going to market with a belt full of money, for the loan of some ducats at a high rate of interest. The offer was rejected.

At last it occurred to him to go straight to Horb and pretend that he had lost or forgotten his money. Vexed with himself for not having thought of this before, he set out immediately. He passed George the blacksmith, sitting at his front door as usual, and in the best of spirits,--for the marketers afforded him plenty of entertainment.

"Where bound so fast, Florian? You look as if you could buy the world out."

Florian stared, and stood still. He forgot that it was George's peculiar delight, when people passed with a heavy burden, a sack of corn, or a bundle of clover, to hold them fast with questions. Many were caught in this trap; and then the old gossip would rejoice that he could sit there doing nothing while others toiled and struggled. He was equally fond of laying hands on such as had heavy loads upon their hearts; for it was just at such times that they were likely to be most communicative. All this escaped Florian; and he inquired,--

"How do you know that?"

"Can't you tell by looking at a stocking when the leg's out of it? I know all about it. Crescence went up just now, with her mother's husband, going to market, too."

"Never fear."

"I know all about it. They say you're well tied up with her." Florian smiled and passed on, glad to know that the truth was not suspected.

In the hollow Florian saw Schlunkel,--an outcast of a fellow, who had been to the penitentiary twice, sitting by the roadside and counting money. At another time he would not have honored such a wretch with a look; but now he could not help addressing him with, "Shall I help you count?" The fellow looked at him without answering.

Florian sat down beside him and at last asked him for a florin. Schlunkel grinned, tightened the strings of his purse, passed his finger across his mouth, and whistled. Florian held his arm convulsively.

"You wouldn't take the money from _me_, would you?" asked Schlunkel. "What do you want so much money for?"

"I want to buy something."

"Well, I'll go to Horb with you."

Florian would rather have perished on the spot than to have been seen walking with Schlunkel in broad daylight. "Give me six creutzers," he said: "I'll meet you in the 'Knight' in an hour, and pay you."

Schlunkel gave him the money, and Florian ran away with the speed of lightning, often putting his hand into his pocket to make quite sure of how much he had. He squeezed the four coins through his fingers one by one, as if to make each one bring forth another. He went whistling through the cattle-fair, to reach the fancy fair in the upper part of the town.

8. FLORIAN LOSES MONEY AND WINS CRESCENCE.

He was brought to a pause by the sight of a gaming-table. He passed on, and inspected the tobacco-pipes in the next booth. Turning back, he resolved merely to look at the others who were playing. One was particularly fortunate with No. 8. Putting his hand in his pocket, he set a three-creutzer piece on the same number, and lost it. He tried again, and again he lost. He bit his lips until they bled, but immediately looked around with a smile, to conceal his vexation. He lost again. He felt his knees knocking, and his intestines boiled. With hot, trembling hand, he threw down his last coin, and looked another way. He won back all the money he had lost. He seized it hastily, thinking, "There! so much for playing with edged tools. I'll hold on to you now, my darling!" Yet he remained rooted to the spot. It would not do to let people see how glad he was to walk off without being fleeced.

Then again he reflected that he must, somehow, raise money to pay Schlunkel. He would try one piece, and put the rest of his money into his right pocket, where he never put his hand.

He played: he did put his hand into his right pocket; and he walked away with empty pockets. With inexpressible grief and self-accusation, he now ran about the market: thousands of things were offered for sale, but he could not stretch forth his hand to take them. A terrible curse against the world rose to his lips: he longed to turn every thing topsy-turvy.

We might be tempted to ask, "What reason has a man like Florian to rave at the world? The world has done him no harm: he is himself the cause of his own distress." But then people like Florian--whether they belong to the class of society which wears gloves, or to that which wears them not--are never ready to think: when in bad luck they scold.

His only comfort was that he was firmly resolved never to touch a die again as long as he lived. To-be-sure, it was easy to shut the stable-door after the horse was stolen: still, there was some comfort in a virtuous resolution.

He met his father looking very happy. "Have you any money, father?" said Florian, running up to him.

"Yes: I've earned three six-creutzer pieces, selling some oxen. See!"

"Give me two of them."

Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared with the money. He now walked up and down among the booths in good spirits, sustained by the consciousness of possession. He no longer cast a look upon the gambling-tables.

But soon he began to think that he had been very stupid in skipping about from one number to another: how could he help losing them? Should the rascally sweat-cloth fellows have the satisfaction of keeping it? But then he had sworn never to touch a die again! Well, he would keep his vow: he would go where the croupier made the die roll through the coils of a snake, and where he might play without touching any thing.

At first he played for creutzers, like the others. He used great circumspection, taking care to remember the numbers which had won frequently, and betting upon the others. For some time he neither lost nor won. Finding this tedious, he staked larger pieces, and tried several numbers at a time, and with success. Seeing some of his acquaintances, he beckoned to them to come up and join him.

But the tide soon turned, and Florian lost. He now wandered about the board, passed every number, and changed his bet before the throw fell. When, at such times, the deserted number proved the winning one, he laughed aloud. Fortune frowned more and more, though he returned to his old system of remaining true to certain numbers. Taking his last groat, he laid it upon the table with such force as to make the table quiver,--and lost.

Florian continued to regard the board intently, with breath almost suppressed, though a tempest of emotion was raging within him. Having stayed long enough to prevent his acquaintances from suspecting the true state of the case, he stole away. Now he had neither vows nor curses, neither good nor evil intentions: he wandered from place to place like a body without a soul, without thoughts, without will, dull, hollow, and ruined.

The sound of music awakened him from his trance, and he found himself before the Rose Inn. The French simpleton, who was standing at the door and waiting for somebody to treat him, cried, "_Drenda marioin_," and made a sign of thirst; but Florian pushed him aside and went up into the dancing-hall.

Every one treated him: he only sipped at the glass and offered to set it down again. "It's in good hands," was the cry,--meaning, "Drink it all." "High up behind, they say at the Rhine," he would then say, and drain the glass at a draught.

The frequent repetition of this ceremony infused new life into him: the various kinds of wine had the same effect, and he wiped his forehead. At length Peter came up to him, saying, "Have you seen Crescence? She is sitting at the Knight with the geometer."

Florian hardly stayed to drain his friend's glass. An object had appeared upon which to vent his wrath: he had an excuse for committing a crime, for destroying himself and others. Through lanes and alleys, passing the little apothecary-shop where the crowd never came, he made his way to the Knight, and bounded up-stairs, taking three steps at a time.

Oh that men would run to do good with half the impetuosity which wafts them on the road to evil! How often do they scorn wind and weather, distance and darkness, in the gratification of their baser passions! but, when a duty is to be done, every breath is too rude, and every pebble an insurmountable hindrance.

As he entered the room, panting and out of breath, Crescence ran to meet him with beaming eyes, and, taking his trembling hand in hers, she said, "God be praised, you are mine again, and I am all yours now: I've just sent the geometer about his business for good and all. It's been boiling in me a long time, and at last it ran over. Oh, I'm so glad! I don't know what to do. I know whom I belong to now, and I belong to you, and will belong to you, no matter what happens. What makes you look so cross? A'n't you glad, too, that there's an end of this lying?"