Joseph in the Snow, and The Clockmaker Volume I Part 1

Joseph in the Snow, and The Clockmaker.

by Berthold Auerbach.

Vol. I.

EPITAPH.

"Here lies a little child, lost in the forest deeps.-- At midnight from the slumbering fold he strayed; But the lost lamb was found by One who never sleeps, And to his everlasting Father's fold conveyed."

These lines are written on a small cross, in the churchyard of the village where the scene of the following simple story is laid. This mournful inscription would have been applicable once more, if a merciful Providence had not watched over Joseph. He retained however through life the appellation of "Joseph in the Snow," for being lost in the storm was the cause of his eventual good fortune, and of his rescue from dest.i.tution and misery.

JOSEPH IN THE SNOW.

CHAPTER I.

IS IT NOT YET MORNING?

"Mother, is it morning yet?" asked the child, sitting up in bed.

"No, not nearly--why do you ask? Lie still, and go to sleep."

The child was quiet for a short time, but then repeated in a low voice:--

"Mother, is it morning yet?"

"What is the matter, Joseph? do be quiet--don't disturb me, and go to sleep. Say your prayers again, and then you will fall asleep."

The mother repeated the child's night prayers along with him, and then said, "Now, good night, Joseph."

The boy was silent for a while; but on hearing his mother turn in bed, he called to her in a whisper, "Mother!"

No answer.

"Mother! mother! mother!"

"What is it? what do you want?"

"Mother, is it not daylight yet?"

"You are a naughty child; very naughty; why do you persist in disturbing my night's rest? I am weary enough, for I have been three times in the forest to-day. If you wake me up again, the Holy Child will bring you nothing to-morrow but a birch rod."

The boy sighed deeply, and said, "Good-night, then, till to-morrow,"

and wrapped himself up in the bed-clothes.

The room where this dialogue took place, was small and dark; an attic under a thatched roof. The panes of gla.s.s in the little window were frozen over, so that the bright moonlight could not penetrate through them. The mother rose, and bent over the child; he was sleeping sound, and lying quiet. The mother, however, could not go to sleep again, though she had once more laid down and closed her eyes; for we can hear her saying distinctly, "Even if he some day asks me to share his home--and in spite of everything I firmly believe he will one day do so--he cannot do otherwise--he must--but even then, how cruelly he has slighted both me and our child! The years that are pa.s.sed come no more: we can have them but once in life. Oh! if I could but begin life again; if I could only awake, and feel that it was not true, and that I had never sinned so heavily! but the weight of one sin is a burden for ever; no one can bear it for another. Can it be true that I was once so gay and happy as people say? What could the child mean by calling out three times, Is it morning yet? What is to happen in the course of this day? Oh, Adam! Adam! you don't know all I suffer; if you did, you could not sleep either."

The stream that ran past the house was frozen over, but in the silence of the night, the gurgling of the water was heard, under the covering of ice.

The thoughts of the wakeful woman followed the current of the brook, in its distant flow, when, after traversing pathless valleys and deep ravines, its course was checked by the forest mill; the waters rus.h.i.+ng, and foaming, and revolving over the mill wheels, just as the thoughts of this watchful mother revolved dizzily on her sorrows at dead of night. For within that mill dwells the dreaded object on whom the eyes of Adam's parents were fixed. The forest miller's Tony had always been thought a good-hearted, excellent girl, and yet now she seemed so cruel:--what has the forest miller's daughter Tony to do with you? you have no claim on her--but on him? on Adam? The sleepless girl clenched her hands convulsively; she felt a stab in her heart, and said, in a voice of anguish, "Can he ever be faithless to me? No, he could not; but if he dared to desert me, I would not suffer it; I would go to church with my little Joseph--but no--I would not take him with me--I would go alone, and call out Adam's name. I could not endure it, and then we should see if the clergyman would marry them."

The brook once more flows tranquilly through a quiet meadow; on its banks some oaks and beeches droop their branches; but the hills are covered thickly with lofty pines; the stream rushes again over rocks into deep ravines: now it runs rapidly along. There lies the boundary stone. "Now we are at home," had Adam once said, and yet this stone is fully two miles from the Rottmannshof. In the Otterzw.a.n.ger wood belonging to it, lies a peaceful nook beside the river, overshadowed by a spreading beech. The girl pa.s.ses her cold hand over her feverish cheek. There, under that leafy beech, she had first been noticed by Adam. No one in the world would have believed that he could be so merry and talkative, so kind and so gentle. It was a lovely summer's day: on the previous evening there had been a violent storm; the thunder and lightning had been so tremendous, that it seemed as if no tree in the forest could escape scatheless. Just so is it here below: without in the woods, and within in the houses, noise, strife, and wrangling, till even murder seems not improbable; and yet the very next day everything is as peaceful as before. It is indeed a charming summer morning that we allude to; streams are flowing in their various channels with a merry noise, hurrying on their course, as if knowing that they have only a day to live, and are to be seen no more on the morrow. The birds are singing cheerfully, and the girl was.h.i.+ng at the brook can't help doing the same; she must sing also, and why not? She is still quite young, and free from care. She knows a variety of songs; she learned them from her father, who was once the best and sweetest singer in the village. Some men are descending the stream, as there is now water enough to float a raft; and see, how skilfully they manage it! here is Adam, the only son of the Rottmanns, on a solitary raft, which whirls round and round with the current; but Adam knows what he is about, and stands firm and erect; and when he comes close to the girl was.h.i.+ng her linen in the brook, he lets the raft swim away alone, and, placing the oar firmly in the bed of the stream, he raises himself into the air, and jumps on sh.o.r.e by one bold spring. The girl laughs, when she sees the tall, powerful young man, with his high fisherman's boots, dangling in the air, and yet her heart quails, when he alights close beside her.

"I have long wished to tell you how much I feel obliged to you," said Adam.

"Why? for what?"

"For staying so long with my mother, and enduring so much."

"I am a servant, and receive wages, so I ought in return to bear a good deal, and your mother has her own burden to bear, for she is angry with our Heavenly Father, because your brother was killed by a falling tree.

She has no love either for G.o.d or her fellow-creatures, but she only makes herself miserable."

Adam looked at her kindly; but suddenly he lifted up his oar abruptly, exclaiming, "I must be off: good bye!" He sprang into the brook, making the water splash above his head, pus.h.i.+ng the raft, which had been stopped by a bend in the stream, vigorously forward into the centre of the current. Martina looked after him in astonishment. What is the matter with Adam? He is quickly out of sight, and is presently heard shouting at a distance, with the other bargemen, and then all is still again.

For weeks Adam never spoke one word to Martina, indeed he scarcely seemed to notice her--but in autumn--both cows and oxen pasture at that season in the meadows--Martina was pa.s.sing along, and descending the hill--there being no spring close to the house on the level ground, the water for drinking must be fetched from half way down the hill--when, suddenly, she saw a bull erect its head and begin to paw the ground. It was a fine sight to see the heavy animal tossing its horns, but the herdboy called out, "Save yourself, Martina, or you will be tossed by the bull."

Martina uttered a shrill scream, and turned to run away, hiding her face, but fell down. She could hear the snorting animal close to her, when, all at once, he lay stretched on the ground, bellowing. Adam had rushed up, seized the animal by the horns, and held down his head, till some of the farm-servants came up, and helped to bind him.

Martina is saved, but Adam only said, "The next time that you go through the meadow, don't wear a scarlet handkerchief on your head."

Adam was covered with blood, and Martina asked, "For heaven's sake tell me, have you been hurt by the bull?"

"Oh, pray make no fuss, it is nothing; the bull was bleeding at the mouth, and so he sprinkled me with blood. Go now, and fetch the water;"

so saying, he turned away, and went to a pond to wash off the blood.

Not till she had reached the well did Martina become fully alive to the danger she had escaped. She felt the deadly peril she had been in, and from which Adam had rescued her. As she wept, admiration mingled with her tears, and heartfelt grat.i.tude to the bold and intrepid young man.

At dinner-time she heard his mother say to Adam, "You are the most silly, good-for-nothing creature in the world, to go and risk your life, to save that of a stupid maid."

"I'll never do it again," answered Adam.

"I rather think," said his father, with a smile, "that you are not likely to do such a thing twice, as to hold down a bull by the horns and yet to escape alive; it's a pity no one saw you, for it is a feat the whole neighbourhood would have talked about."

From this period Adam always noticed Martina by a kind nod, but never spoke a single word to her. He seemed only to be pleased, that she had given him an opportunity to perform a genuine Rottmann's exploit.

Shortly after, Martina was again was.h.i.+ng at the brook, when Adam once more stood before her: "Are you quite recovered from your fright?" said he.