Erick and Sally - Johanna Spyri
When she was again out of the room the father said, looking at his wife:
"There will be a thunder storm, sure signs are visible." Then turning to
his sons he continued: "But what do boys deserve, who come so late to
table and from pure bad conscience almost knock it over?"
Ritz looked crestfallen into his plate, and from there in a somewhat
roundabout way past his mother's plate, slyly across to his aunt, to see
whether it looked like an order to go to bed at once. And it was so
beautiful today, how beautiful the running about this evening after
school would be!
There was no order, for the general attention was claimed by 'Lizebeth,
who with the same signs of snorting anger threw more than placed the
rest of the meal on the table and then grumbled herself out again.
As soon as dinner was over the father put on his little velvet cap and
went in perfect silence out into the garden. For the storms in the house
were more unpleasant to him than those that come from the sky. As soon
as he had left the room 'Lizebeth stood in the doorway, both arms akimbo
and looking quite warlike; she said: "I should think it would make no
difference if I were to make a call on Marianne. I should think it is
fully four years since I went to see her in the Middle Lot."
The pastor's wife had listened with astonishment to this speech, which
sounded very reproachful. Now she said soothingly: "But, 'Lizebeth, I
should hope that you do not think that I would oppose your going to
Marianne or anywhere else; or that I ever have done so. Do go as soon as
you feel like it."
"Just as if nothing had to be done, and as if I were and had been on a
visit in the parsonage at Upper Wood for fifty years and more," was the
answer. "No, no, I know what has to be done if no one else does. I can
wait until Sunday afternoon; that is a time when the likes of me may go
out, and if it suits the lady then, then I go, and shall not stay away
very long. Why? I know why if no one else knows it."
"Of course that suits me, too," the lady pacified again, "do just what
you think best." She did not say more for she had already noticed that a
fire of anger was kindled in 'Lizebeth which would blaze up if another
word fell in it. She could not imagine what had struck 'Lizebeth, but
she found it more advisable not to touch on it. So 'Lizebeth grumbled
for a little while, then she went away, since no further chance for
outbreaks was offered. But there was no peace during the whole week; all
noticed that, and each went carefully by 'Lizebeth as if she were a
powder magazine which, at a careless touch, might fly up in the air at
any moment. At last Sunday came. 'Lizebeth, after dinner, rushed about
the kitchen with such a great noise, one could notice that many thoughts
were working in her which she tried to give vent to. But she went into
her room only after everything was bright and in its place.
She dressed herself in her Sunday-best and entered the sitting-room to
take leave, just as though she was going on a long journey, for it was
an event for 'Lizebeth to leave the parsonage for several hours. Now she
wandered with slow steps along the road and looked to the right and left
on the way to see what was growing in the field belonging to this or
that neighbor. But her thoughts began again to work in her; one could
see that, for she began to walk quicker and quicker and to talk half
aloud to herself. Now she had arrived. Marianne had seen her from her
little window and was surprised that this time 'Lizebeth was so soon
keeping her promise. For years she had promised, had sent the messages
that she would soon come; but she had never come and now she was there
after the message had been brought only three days ago. Marianne went to
meet her friend with a pleasant smile and welcomed her near the hedge
before the cottage; then she conducted her guest around the cottage and
up the narrow, wooden stairs. 'Lizebeth did not like this way and before
she had reached the top of the stairs she had to speak out.
"Listen, Marianne," she said, "formerly one dared to come in the front
door and through the kitchen, but now your oldest friends have to come
by the back way, which, no doubt, is on account of the strange people
whom you have taken into your house. I have heard much of them and now I
see for myself that they, from pure pride, do not know what to order
next, that you dare not go through your own house."
"Dear me, 'Lizebeth, what queer thoughts you do have," said Marianne,
quite frightened. "That is not true, no one has forbidden me anything.
And the people are so good and not a bit proud, and so friendly, and so
kind and humble."
"Catch your breath, Marianne," 'Lizebeth interrupted her; "with all your
excitement you cannot prove that white is black, and when such people
come along, no one knows whence, and take a living-room and a bedroom in
such a hut, so hidden as yours is, Marianne, where they pay next to
nothing, and the woman struts about in a silk skirt and her little son
in velvet; then there is something behind it all, and if she has silk
skirts then she must have other things too, and she must know why she
hides all these things in a hut which really does not look larger than a
large henhouse. I wanted only to warn you, Marianne; you surely will be
the loser with such a crowd."
"'Lizebeth," Marianne said now more emphatically than she had ever been
known to speak, "it would be well, if all people were as this woman is,
and you and I could thank God if we were like her. I have never in this
world seen a better and a more patient and a more amiable human being.
And in regard to the silk skirt, please be still and do not talk about
it, 'Lizebeth; many a thing looks different to what it really is, and it
would be better for you, if you would not load your conscience with
wrong against a suffering woman on whom God has His eye."
Marianne did not wish to tell what she knew, that the lady had only the
one skirt and no other whatsoever, and so, of course, was obliged to
wear it. She did not want to tell that to 'Lizebeth now she heard how
the latter judged.
"I do not think of loading my conscience with anything," 'Lizebeth
continued, "and that much is not as it looks, that I know; but when a
little boy of whom no one knows from where he came, wears velvet pants
on bright week-days and even a velvet jacket, then they are velvet pants
and do not only look so, that is certain. There is something behind that
and it will come out and it will not look the best. Yes indeed, wearing
velvet pants, such a little tramp of whom no one knows from where he
comes, yes indeed."
"Do not sin against the dear boy," Marianne said seriously. "Look at him
and you will see that he looks like a little angel, and he is one."
"So, that too," 'Lizebeth continued, "and pray when did you see an
angel, Marianne, that you know he looks just like them? I should like to
know! But I have served over fifty years in a respectable house, and I
have helped to bring up the old parson, and the present one and his two
sons; but we have never known anything of velvet pants, no, never, and
we were, I should think, different people from these. That is what I
wanted to tell you, Marianne, and that is the main reason why I came to
you, so that you should know what one is forced to think. And with
regard to the angels, I can tell you that we have a little boy that
looks exactly like the angels that blow the trumpets in the picture;
such fat, firm, red cheeks has our Moritzli, like painted, and such
round arms and legs."
"Yes, it is true, little Ritz was always a splendid little fellow, I
should like to see him again," Marianne answered good-naturedly.
This reconciled 'Lizebeth a little; in a much friendlier tone she said:
"Then come again to Upper Wood, you will have time, more than I. Then
you can look at the other, too, and can see what a pretty, straight nose
he has, that no angel could have a prettier one, and in the whole school
he is by far the brightest,--that the teacher himself says of Eduardi."
'Lizebeth always called the boys by their full names, for the shortening
of the names, Ritz and Edi, seemed to her a degrading of their names and
an injustice to her favorites.
"Yes, yes, I believe you. What a delight it must be to see such a
well-ordered household and all so happy together and so joyous,"
Marianne said with a sigh, and she threw a glance at the room of the
stranger, and now 'Lizebeth was completely pacified, for she felt the
parsonage again on the top.
"What is the matter with the people?" she asked with compassion.
"I do not know what to say," was the answer, "I do not understand it all
myself."
"I thought as much, with such strangers one is never secure."
"No, no, I did not mean anything like that," Marianne opposed. "I tell
you they are the best people one could find. I would do anything for the
woman."
Marianne did not like to tell her friend what she knew and to consult
with her about things she could not comprehend, for 'Lizebeth had
evidently no love for the two and was full of distrust, and Marianne had
taken them both into her heart so that she could not bear sharp remarks
about them even from her good friend. She therefore was silent and
'Lizebeth could get nothing more out of her concerning her lodgers.
During this long talk a good deal of time had passed. 'Lizebeth rose
from the wooden bench behind the table where she and Marianne had been
sitting and was about to bid good-bye. But Marianne would not allow
that, for the friend must first drink a cup of coffee; then she was
going to walk with her. So they did, and as the two friends wandered
together through the evening, they had much to tell each other and were
very talkative; only when 'Lizebeth began to talk about the strangers in
Marianne's house, was the latter silent and hardly spoke. Where the road
went into the woods, they parted, and Marianne had to promise to return
the call as soon as possible. Then 'Lizebeth stepped out vigorously and
arrived at home in such good spirits that the parson's wife resolved to
send her often to Marianne on a visit.
When Marianne on her return came near her cottage, she heard lovely
singing; she well knew the song. Every evening at twilight the stranger
sat down at the piano and sang, and she sang so beautifully and with a
voice that came from such depths that it touched Marianne's heart so
that she could not tear herself away when she heard the song, until it
was ended. But there was one song in particular which Marianne loved to
hear and which the woman sang every day, either at the beginning or the
end of her songs. It always seemed as if a great joy came into her voice
and as if she wanted to make this joy appeal to all who listened. And
yet this song touched Marianne's heart so deeply that she wept every
time she heard it. So it happened this evening. There was a log lying
before the house-door which served her for a resting-place when, in the
evening, she wanted to get a little fresh air. She rolled it under the
window so that she might look for a moment into the room. There sat the
lady, and her large blue eyes looked up to the evening sky so seriously
and sorrowfully, and yet there was something which sounded again like a
great joy in the beautiful song she was singing. The little boy sat on a
footstool beside her and looked at his mother with his joyful, bright
eyes, and listened to the singing.
Marianne could not look long. A strange feeling came over her, and she
stepped down from the log, put her apron to her eyes and wept and wept,
until the singing had died away.
CHAPTER IV
The Same Night in Two Houses
When on this evening Edi and Ritz were lying in their bed and Mother had
finished saying evening prayer with them and had closed the door after
her, Edi began: "Have you noticed, Ritz, that Father is almost like God?
He already knows the thing before one has told half of it."
"No, I have never noticed that," Ritz replied. "But it is all right, for
then he can do everything he wants to and also make fine weather."
"Oh, Ritz, you only look at the profit! but just look at the other
side." Here Edi rose up in bed from pure zeal and continued: "Do you
remember, not long ago I recited our songs, which we made about the
others, to Papa; then he knew at once that we were preparing a big fight
and has forbidden us to take part in it. And this evening they all have
talked it over that I should lead the boys of Upper Wood into battle,
and I have thought it all over and prepared ahead. Then I would be
Fabius Cunctator, and would lead my troops above on the hill round and
round it and would not attack, for you must know that is much safer, and
so Hannibal could do nothing and could not attack me."
"Is Hannibal still living then?" asked Ritz serenely.
"Oh, Ritz, how indescribably ignorant you are!" Edi remarked
compassionately. "He died more than a thousand years ago. But big Churi,
the leader of the Middle Lotters, our enemies, is Hannibal. But you see,
I just remember something: Churi is not a real Hannibal, for he was a
great and noble general, and Churi cannot represent him; but do you know
what, we can take the strange boy Erick, for Hannibal!--he looks quite
different from Churi,--shall we?"
"That is all the same to me since we cannot be in the fight," remarked
Ritz.
"That is true, we dare not, I had quite forgotten that," lamented Edi.
"If I only knew what we could do to be in this fight and yet not do
anything that is forbidden."
"Don't you know an example in the world's history?" asked Ritz, to whom
his brother presented so often, in cases of need, examples out of this
rich fountain.
"No. If we only lived like the old Greeks," Edi answered with a deep
sigh. "When they wanted to know anything of which no one knew the
answer, they quickly drove to Delphi to the oracle and asked advice.
Then there was an answer at once and they knew what was to be done. But
now there are no more oracles, not even in Greece. Isn't that too bad?"
"Yes, that is too bad," said Ritz rather sleepily, "but I am sure you
will think of another example."
Edi began at once to think, but however much he thought, and groped in
his memory and upheaved what he had stored away in his brain, he could
not find in the whole history of the world one single case where some
one had carried out something that the father had forbidden, and yet
stood afterwards with honor before him. For that was what Edi was trying
to find; and he was sitting straight up in his bed in the dark, and in
spite of all his endeavors he could find no way out. And when he now
heard the deep breathing of the sweetly sleeping Ritz, he became too
discouraged to try any more. He lay down on his pillow and was soon
dreaming about the uniform of Fabius Cunctator.
Soon after this Marianne too lay down on her couch, but for a long time
sleep would not come. The singing of the lady downstairs had made her
very, very sad; this voice had never before touched her so deeply as it
had done this evening, and she still heard the sound of weeping and
rejoicing in confusion. So Marianne heard the old clock on the wall
strike eleven, then twelve, and yet she could not go to sleep. Now it
seemed to her as if she heard a gentle knocking below in the house. Who
could want anything of her so late in the night? She must be mistaken,
she said to herself. But no, she now heard it quite plainly, somebody
was knocking somewhere. She quickly dressed herself and hastened down to
the kitchen. She opened the front door--no one was there. But the
knocking came again and now Marianne thought that it came from the
sleeping room of her boarders. Softly she opened the door of the room.
Within the pale lady sat on her bed, but she was much paler than usual,
so that Marianne stepped quickly into the room, and much frightened, she
exclaimed: "Dear me! What is the matter? Oh how bad you do look!"
"Yes, I feel very ill, my good Marianne," the lady answered with her
friendly voice. "I am so sorry that I frightened you so in the middle of
the night; but I had no rest, I was obliged to call you. I have a few
things to tell you and it might have been too late."
"Dear, dear! what do you mean?" lamented Marianne. "I will get the
doctor at once from Lower Wood,--he is the nearest."
"No, Marianne, I thank you, I know my condition," said the sick woman
soothingly, "it is a cramp in my heart, which often comes and this time
more terribly than usual, and so, my good Marianne, I wanted to tell you
that if I am no longer here tomorrow, will you give this," (and she gave
a small paper to Marianne), "to him who has to prepare for my last
resting-place. It is the only thing that I leave, and which I have saved
for a long time, so that I need not be buried in a pauper's grave. That
must not be, for my father's sake," she added, very softly.
"Dear, dear Lord!" Marianne lamented, "grant that it may not be that! Do
think of the dear little boy! Dear Mrs. Dorn, do not take it amiss, I
have never before asked anything at all, but if you leave nothing, what
have I to do with the dear boy? Has he no relatives? Has he no father?"
The mother looked at the sleeping Erick, who, with his golden curls
encircling his rosy face, lay there so peacefully and so carefree. She
put her hand on his forehead--for his narrow bed stood quite close to
hers--and said softly: "On earth you have no father any more, my child,
but above in heaven there lives a Father who will not forsake you. I
have given you long since to Him. I know He will care for you and
protect you, so I can go quietly and joyfully. Yes, my good Marianne,"
she turned again to the latter, "I have done a great wrong; I have hurt
deeply the best of fathers through disobedience and selfishness. For
that I have suffered much; but in my suffering it was permitted me to
learn how great the love and compassion of our Father in heaven is for
His children, and since then a song of deepest gratitude sounds ever and
ever in my heart:
"'I lay in heaviest fetters,
Thou com'st and set'st me free;
I stood in shame and sorrow,
Thou callest me to Thee;
And lift'st me up to honor
And giv'st me heavenly joys
Which cannot be diminished
By earthly scorn and noise.'"
The sick woman had folded her hands while she spoke, and in her eyes
there was a wonderful light; but now she sank back on her pillows,
exhausted and pale. Marianne stood there quietly and now and then had to
wipe her eyes.
"But now I must run to the doctor,--it is high time," she said,
frightened. "Mrs. Dorn, can I give you anything?"
"No, I thank you," the sick woman answered softly. "I thank you for
everything, my good Marianne."
The latter now hastily left the house and ran as fast as she could
through the silent night toward Lower Wood. From time to time she had to
stop to get her breath. Then she looked up to the bright star-covered
sky and prayed: "Dear God, help us all." She had great difficulty in
awakening the doctor in Lower Wood at two o'clock in the night; but at
last he heard her knocking and followed her soon after on the road to
her house. When they entered together the room of the sick woman, the
light had burned down and threw a faint light on the quiet, pale face.
The mother had stretched out her arm upon the bed of her child. The boy
had encircled her slender, white hand with both his plump hands, and
held it firmly. The doctor approached and looked closer at the sleeper;
he bent over her for some moments.
"Marianne," he said, "loosen the hand out of the little boy's. The woman
is sleeping her eternal sleep, she will nevermore awaken on this earth.
She must have died suddenly from heart failure, while you were away to
fetch me."
The doctor left the quiet house at once, and Marianne did as he had told
her. She folded the hands of the departed one on her breast, then she
sat down on Erick's bed, looking now at the serious face of the dead
mother, now at the care-free sleeping boy, and wept quietly, until the
rays of the morning sun fell into the quiet room and roused Marianne to
the consciousness that a new, sad day had begun--a day on which Erick
had to be told that he never again on this earth could take hold of the
loving hand of his mother.
CHAPTER V
Disturbance in School and Home
Never before had the schoolmaster of Upper Wood had such hard work with
his schoolchildren as on the morning after this night. Of course there
were times that some were more restless and more dense than usual; but
there were usually a good many with whom he could work successfully. But
today it seemed as though a crowd of excited spirits had taken
possession of the children. All the boys cast uncanny, warlike glances
at each other, even suppressed threatenings were thrust hither and
thither, and when the teacher turned his back such threatening gestures
were made to those who faced him, that they, one and all, rolled their
eyes with wrath and gave the most ridiculous answers. They all were so
eager for the battle, that they could no longer distinguish between
friend and foe, and each shook his clenched fist at the other.
Sally and Kaetheli, those model scholars, kept putting their heads
together and whispered continuously like the ripple of a brook. Yes,
indeed, Kaetheli was so brim full of news that she even kept on
whispering to Sally while the latter had to answer questions in
arithmetic and of course got into the most inexplicable confusion. Even
Edi, the very best scholar, forgot his studies and was staring sadly
before him. For just now had come before his mind's eye, during the
rest-period, the great bravery of his troops who, from want of a real
enemy, had put each other in a sorry shape. And he was not allowed to
lead these courageous soldiers against the boasting Churi, and to show
this fellow how a great general does his work! The teacher was just
standing before him and called on him, continuing in the geography
lesson: "Edi, will you tell me the most important productions of Upper
Italy?"
Italy! At the sound of that name, the whole war operation stood before
Edi's eyes, for he had studied the minutest details of that region where
the Romans had met their enemies, and Churi, as Hannibal, stood
triumphant before him. Edi, heaving a deep sigh, answered nothing for
the present.
"Edi," the master said when no answer came, "I cannot understand what
sadness can be found in our topic, nor what can burden your mind, but
one thing I can see, that today you all are like a herd of thoughtless
sheep with whom nothing can be done. Kaetheli, you magpie, can you stop
a moment and listen to what I am saying? You all are going home. I have
had enough, and everyone--do you understand?--everyone takes home some
home-work for punishment. As you go out, come to my desk, one after the
other, and each will receive his special task."
So it was done, and at once the whole crowd rushed with joyous hearts
into the open. For the home-work did not at all suppress the joy that
school had closed a whole half-hour early. Outside on the playground,
the groups who had common interests at once crowded together. The
largest throng pressed around Edi, to listen with much shouting and
noise to his battle plans.
At once after leaving the schoolroom Kaetheli took Sally by the hand and
said: "I will go with you for a while, then I can finish telling you
what Marianne told Mother this morning." With this Kaetheli continued
her story, which she had begun in school, and told Sally everything that
had happened last night in Marianne's cottage. Sally listened very
quietly and never said a word. When they arrived at the garden, Kaetheli
had just finished her sad tale; she stood still for a moment and was
surprised that Sally did not say anything; then she said, "Good-bye!"
and ran away.
At the noon meal Ritz related faithfully all that had happened in
school: for now, since Sally and even Edi had received home-tasks, he
found that to be more remarkable than sorrowful. Edi seemed somewhat
dejected. When now the small, golden, roasted apples were placed on the
table, Ritz stopped his report and applied himself thoroughly to the
work of eating them. When he had cleared his plate, which was done very
quickly, he looked slyly at the plates of his brother and sister, for he
knew that the second supply of the things on the table came only after
all three had finished their first. When he looked at Sally, his eyes
stayed on her, and after he had watched her attentively for some time,
he said: "Sally, you keep on swallowing as much as you can, but you see,
nothing can go down, because you have put nothing into your mouth, and
your plate stays filled."
Now Sally could not restrain her tears longer, for she had with great
difficulty swallowed them, and had been very quiet. Now she burst out
into loud sobbing and said through her tears: "Poor Erick, too, cannot
eat today. Now he has neither father nor mother and is all alone in the
world."