Debit and Credit Part 63

"And I fear, too, that his earnings are but small. At first I sent him a few trifles to which he is accustomed, such as tea and cigars, but in his last letter he told me he was going to be economical, and to leave them off. He must have very little money," continued Baumann, shaking his head; "not more than two hundred dollars."

"He is in want," cried the cousin; "actually he is. Poor Wohlfart! When you next write, we will send him a chest of the Pekoe tea, and a couple of our hams."

"Hams to the country! I fancy there are more swine there than any thing else."

"But they don't belong to him," cried she. "Listen to me, Mr. Baumann; it is your Christian duty to write to him at once, and tell him to return. The business wants him. I have the best reasons to know how much my cousin Schroter is silently feeling the loss of his best coadjutors, and how much he would rejoice to see Wohlfart back again."

This was a pious fraud of the good lady's.

"It does not appear so to me," interpolated Baumann.

"It was only to-day that my cousin Sabine said to her brother how dear Wohlfart had been to us all, and how great a loss he was. If he has duties yonder, he has duties here too, and these are the oldest."

"I will write to him," said Mr. Baumann; "but I fear, honored lady, that it will be to no purpose, for, now that he himself is a loser by it, he will never look back from the plow to which, for the sake of others, he has put his hand."

"He does not belong to the plow, but to the pen," cried the cousin, irritably, "and his place lies here. And because he gets a good name here, and drinks his tea comfortably, he does his duty none the less.

And I tell you, too, Mr. Baumann, that I beg never to hear again of your African notions."

Baumann smiled proudly. However, as soon as the cousin had left the room, he obediently sat down and wrote off the whole conversation to Anton.

The snow had melted away from the Polish estate; the brook had swollen to a flood, the landscape still lay silent and colorless, but the sap began to circulate in the branches, and the buds on the bushes to appear. The ruinous bridge had been carried away by the winter torrents, and Anton was now superintending the building of a new one. Lenore sat opposite him, and watched his measurements. "The winter is over," cried she; "spring is coming. I can already picture to myself green gra.s.s and trees, and even the gloomy castle will look more cheerful in the bright spring sunshine than it does now. But I will sketch it for you just as it is, and it shall remind you of the first winter that we spent here under your protection."

And Anton looked with shining eyes at the beautiful girl before him, and, with the pencil in his hand, sketched her profile on a new board.

"You won't succeed," said Lenore; "you always make my mouth too large and my eyes too small. Give me the pencil; I can do better. Stand still. Look! that is your face--your good, true face; I know it by heart. Hurrah! the postman!" cried she, throwing away the pencil and hurrying to the castle. Anton followed her; for the postman and his heavy bag were to the castle as a ship steering through the sandy deep, and bringing the world's good things to the dwellers on a lonely island.

The man was soon relieved from his burden. Lenore gladly caught up the drawing-paper that she had ordered from Rosmin. "Come, Wohlfart, we will look out the best place for sketching the castle, and you shall hang up the picture in your room instead of the old one, which saddens me whenever I see it. Once you sketched our home, now I will sketch it for you. I will take great pains, and you shall see what I can do."

She had spoken joyously, but Anton had not heard a word she said. He had torn open Baumann's letter, and as he read it his face reddened with emotion. Slowly, thoughtfully, he turned away, went up to his room, and came down no more. Lenore s.n.a.t.c.hed up the envelope, which he had dropped. "Another letter from his friend in the firm!" said she, sadly; "whenever he hears from him, he becomes gloomy and cold toward me." She threw away the envelope, and hurried to the stable to saddle her trusty friend the pony.

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

It was the weekly market in the little town of Rosmin. From time immemorial this had been an important festival to the country people around.

For five days of the week the peasant had to cultivate his plot, of ground, or to render feudal service to his landlord, and on Sunday his heart was divided between the worship of the Virgin, his family, and the public house; but the market-day led him beyond the narrow confines of his fields into the busy world. There, amid strangers, he could feel and show himself a shrewd man in buying and selling; he greeted acquaintances whom else he would never have met; saw new things and strange people, and heard the news of other towns and districts. So it had been even when the Slavonic race alone possessed the soil. Then the site where Rosmin now stands was an open field, with perhaps a chapel or a few old trees, and the house of some sagacious landed proprietor, who saw farther than the rest of his long-bearded countrymen. At that time the German peddler used to cross the border with his wagon and his attendants, and to display his stores under the protection of a crucifix or of a drawn Slavonic sword. These stores consisted of gay handkerchiefs, stockings, necklaces of gla.s.s and coral, pictures of saints and ecclesiastical decorations, which were given in exchange for the produce of the district--wolf-skins, honey, cattle, and corn. In course of time the handicraftsman followed the peddler, the German shoemaker, the tinsmith, and the saddler established themselves; the tents changed into strongly-built houses that stood around the market-place. The foreign settlers bought land, bought privileges from the original lords of the soil, and copied in their statutes those of German towns in general. In the woods and on the commons round, it was told with wonder how rapidly those men of a foreign tongue had grown up into a large community, and how every peasant who pa.s.sed through their gate must pay toll; nay, that even the n.o.bleman, all-powerful as he was, must pay it as well. Several of the Poles around joined lots with the citizens, and settled among them as mechanics or shopkeepers. This had been the origin of Rosmin, as of many other German towns on foreign soil, and these have remained what at first they were, the markets of the great plains, where Polish produce is still exchanged for the inventions of German industry, and the poor field-laborer brought into contact with other men, with culture, liberty, and a civilized state.

As we have before said, the market-day at Rosmin is a great day still.

From early dawn hundreds of basket-carriages, filled with field-produce, move on toward the town, but the serf no longer whips on the used-up chargers of his master, but his own st.u.r.dy horse of German breed. And when the light carriage of a n.o.bleman rolls by, the peasant urges his horse to a sharper trot, and only slightly touches his hat. Every where they are moving on toward the town: the children are driving their geese thither, and the women carrying their b.u.t.ter, fruit, and mushrooms, and, carefully concealed, a hare or two that has fallen a victim to their husbands' guns. Numbers of carts stand at the door of every inn, and crowds are pushing in and out of every drinking-shop. In the market-place the corn-wagons are closely ranged, and the whole wide s.p.a.ce covered with well-filled sacks, and horses of every size and color; and a few brokers are winding their way, like so many eels, among the crowd, with samples of grain in each pocket, asking and answering in two languages at once. Amid the white smock frocks of the Poles, and their hats adorned with a peac.o.c.k's feather, the dark blue of the German colonists appears, together with soldiers from the next garrison, townspeople, agriculturists, and fine youths, sons of the n.o.bility. You may see the gendarme yonder at the corner of the square, towering high on his tall horse; he, too, is excited to-day, and his voice sounds authoritatively above all the confusion of the carts that have stopped up the way. Every where the shops are opened wide, and small dealers spread out their wares on tables and barrels in front of the houses; there the bargains are deliberately made, and the enjoyment of shopping is keenly felt. The last purchase over, the next move is into the tavern. There, cheeks get redder, gestures more animated, voices louder, friends embrace, or old foes try hard to pick a quarrel. Meanwhile men of business have to make the most of this day, when actions are brought and taxes paid. Now it is that Mr. Lowenberg drives his best bargains, not only in swine, but in cows and wool; besides which, he lends money, and is the trusted agent of many a landed proprietor. So pa.s.ses the market-day, in ceaseless talking and enjoyment, earning and spending, rolling of carts and galloping of horses, till evening closes in, and the housewife pulls her husband by the coat, remembering that the earthen mugs he carries are easily broken, and that the little children at home are beginning to cry out for their mother. Such has ever been the weekly market in the town of Rosmin.

During the last winter the numbers attending it had not decreased, but there was a degree of restlessness to be observed in many, particularly in the gentry of the district. Strangers of military appearance often entered the princ.i.p.al wine-shop, and went into the back room, of which the door was at once shut. Youths wearing square red caps, and peculiarly attired, walked in and out among the crowd, tapping one peasant on the shoulder, calling another by name, and taking them into a corner apart.

Wherever a soldier appeared, he was looked at as a character in a masquerade; many avoided him; many, Germans and Poles alike, made more of him than ever. In the taverns, the people from the German villages sat apart, and the Poles on Herr von Tarow's estate drank and bought more than they were wont to do. The tenant of the new farm had been unable, last market-day, to find a new scythe any where in the town, and the forester had complained to Anton that he could not in any shop get powder enough to last him more than a week. Something was in the wind, but no one would say what it was.

It was market-day again at Rosmin, and Anton drove thither, accompanied by a servant. It was one of the first spring days, and the sun shone brightly, reminding him how gay the gardens must now be with early flowers, and that he and the ladies in the castle would see none this year, save a few, perhaps, from the little farm garden behind the barn.

But, indeed, it was no time to care much for flowers; everywhere men's hearts were restless and excited, and much that had stood firm for years now seemed to totter. A political hurricane was blowing over wide districts; every day the newspapers related something unexpected and alarming; a time of commotion and universal insecurity seemed impending.

Anton thought of the baron's circ.u.mstances, and what a misfortune it would be to him should land fall in value, and money rise. He thought of the firm, of the place in the office which he secretly still considered his own, and of the letter written by Mr. Baumann, telling him how gloomy the princ.i.p.al looked, and how quarrelsome the clerks had become.

He was roused out of his sorrowful reverie by a noise on the road. A number of gentlemen's carriages drove past him, Herr von Tarowski occupying the first, and politely bowing as he pa.s.sed. Anton was surprised to see that his huntsman sat on the box as if they were going to the chase. Three other carriages followed, heavily laden with gentlemen; and behind came a whole troop of mounted men, Von Tarow's German steward among them.

"Jasch," cried Anton to the servant who drove him, "what was it that the gentlemen in the second carriage were so careful to hide as they drove by?"

"Guns," said Jasch, shaking his head.

This sunny day, after so long a period of snow and rain, naturally attracted people from all sides of the town. Parties of them hurried forward, but few women were among them, and there was a degree of excitement and animation prevailing that was in general only displayed when returning in the evening. Anton halted at the first public house on the way, and told the driver to remain there with the horses.

He himself walked rapidly on through the gate. The town was so crowded that the carts of grain could hardly make their way along. When Anton reached the market-place he was struck with the scene before him. On all sides heated faces, eager gestures, not a few in hunting costume, and a strange c.o.c.kade on numerous caps. The crowd was densest before the wine-merchant's store; there the people trode on one another, staring up at the windows, from whence hung gayly-colored flags, the Polish colors above the rest. While Anton was looking with disquietude at the front of the house, the door was opened, and Herr von Tarow came out upon the stone steps, accompanied by a stranger with a scarf bound round him, in whom Anton recognized the same Pole who had once threatened him with a court-martial, and who had been inquiring for the steward a few months ago. A young man sprang out of the crowd on to the lowest step, saying something in Polish, and waving his hat. A loud shout rose in return, and then came a profound silence, during which Von Tarow spoke a few words, the import of which Anton could not catch, owing to the noise of carts and the pushing of the crowd. Next, the gentleman with the scarf made a long oration, during which he was often interrupted by loud applause. At the end of it, a deafening tumult arose. The house door was thrown wide open, and the crowd swayed to and fro like the waves of the sea, some rushing off in another direction, and others running into the house, whence they hurried back with c.o.c.kades on their caps and scythes in their hands. The number of the armed went on rapidly increasing, and small detachments of scythe-bearers, headed by men with guns, proceeded to invest the market-place.

Hearing the word of command given behind him, Anton turned, and saw a few men mounted and armed, who were ordering all the wagons to be removed from the market-place. The noise and confusion increased, the peasants dragging off their horses in all haste, the traders flying into the houses with their stores, the shops being gradually closed. The market-place soon presented an ominous appearance. Anton was now swept off by the crowd to its opposite side, where the custom-house stood, made conspicuous from afar by the national escutcheon suspended near the windows. That was now the point of attraction, and Anton saw from a distance a man plant a ladder against the wall, and hack away at the escutcheon till, amid profound silence, it fell to the ground. Soon, however a drunken rabble fell upon it with wild yells, and, tying a rope about it, ignominiously dragged it through the gutter and over the stones.

Anton was beside himself. "Wretches!" cried he, running toward the offenders. But a strong arm was thrown around him, and a broken voice said, "Stop, Mr. Wohlfart, this is their day; to-morrow will be ours."

Dashing away the unwelcome restraint, Anton saw the portly form of the Neudorf bailiff, and found himself surrounded by a number of dark-looking figures. These were the blue-coated German farmers, their faces full of grief and anger. "Let me go!" cried Anton, in a phrensy.

But again the heavy hand of the bailiff was laid on his shoulder, and tears were in the man's eyes as he said, "Spare your life, Mr. Wohlfart; it is all in vain; we have nothing but our fists, and we are the minority." And, on the other side, his hand was grasped as if in a vice by the old forester, who stood there groaning and sobbing: "That ever I should live to see this day! Oh, the shame, the shame!" Again there rose a yell nearer them, and a voice cried, "Search the Germans; take their arms from them; let no one leave the market-place!" Anton looked round him hastily. "This we will not stand, friends, to be trapped here in a German town, and to have our escutcheon outraged by those miscreants."

A drum was heard at a distance. "It is the drum of the guard," cried the bailiff; "the town militia are a.s.sembling: they have arms."

"Perhaps all may not be lost yet," cried Anton; "I know a few men who are to be relied upon. Compose yourself, old friend," said he to the forester. "The Germans from the country must be enlisted; no one knows yet what we can do. We will, at all events, disperse in different directions, and rea.s.semble at the fountain here. Let each go and call his acquaintances together. No time is to be lost. You go in that direction, bailiff; you, smith of Kunau, come with me." They divided; and Anton, followed by the forester and the smith, went once more round the market-place. Wherever they met a German there was a glance, a hurried hand-clasp, a whispered word--"The Germans a.s.semble at the fountain;" and these spirited up the irresolute to join their countrymen.

Anton and his companions paused for a moment in the midst of the dense crowd around the wine-merchant's. About fifty men with scythes stood before the house, near them a dozen more with guns; the doors were still open, and people were still going in to get arms. Some young gentlemen were addressing the crowd, but Anton remarked that the Polish peasants did not keep their ranks, and looked doubtfully at each other.

While the forester and the smith were giving the sign to the Germans, of whom many were a.s.sembled, Anton rushed up to a little man in working garments, and, seizing him by the arm, said, "Locksmith Grobesch, you standing here? Why do you not hasten to our meeting-place? You a citizen and one of the militia, will you put up with this insult?"

"Alas! Mr. Agent," said the locksmith, taking Anton apart, "what a misfortune! Only think, I was hammering away in my workshop, and heard nothing of what was going on. One can't hear much at our work. Then my wife ran in--"

"Are you going to put up with this insult?" cried Anton, shaking him violently.

"G.o.d forbid, Mr. Wohlfart; I head a band of militia. While my wife looked out my coat, I just ran over the way to see how many of them there were. You are taller than I; how many are there carrying arms?"

"I count fifty scythes," replied Anton, hurriedly.

"It is not the scythes; they are a cowardly set; how many guns are there?"

"A dozen before the door, and perhaps as many more in the house."

"We have about thirty rifles," said the little man, anxiously, "but we can't count upon them all to-day."

"Can you get us arms?" asked Anton.

"But few," said the locksmith, shaking his head.

"There is a band of us Germans from the country," said Anton, rapidly; "we will fight our way into the suburb as far as the Red Deer Inn, and there I will keep the people together, and, for G.o.d's sake, send us a patrol to report the state of things, and the number of arms you can procure. If we can eject the n.o.bles, the others will run away at once."

"But then the revenge these Poles will take!" said the locksmith. "The town will have to pay for it."

"No such thing, my man. The military can be sent for to-morrow, if you but help to eject these madmen to-day. Off with you; each moment increases the danger."

He drove the little man away, and hurried back to the fountain. There the Germans were a.s.sembled in small groups, and the Neudorf bailiff came to meet him, crying, "There's no time to lose; the others are beginning to notice us; there is a party of scythes forming yonder against us."