Chapter III The New-Fashioned Nurse
“Have you not made a mistake, neighbour?” asked Anne Maria, the peasant into whose house Kummas had gone very early in the morning. “The tavern is lower down the village, and I keep no brandy.”
For the first time for many years, Kummas felt his face grow red. “I wish to buy a can of milk,” he replied.
“Milk!” exclaimed the peasant, astonished. “This must be before your end! I have certainly heard that milk-drinkers may become brandy-drinkers; but never the reverse.”
Kummas patiently endured the rebuke of the good woman, as a punishment for his former mode of life. He then continued, “If you could give me the milk new from the cow, and still warm, I would like it better. I have got a guest. The stork last night brought me a little child; and, as you have children, I wish you to tell me how it must be treated and nursed.”
“Go away!” said the woman angrily; “I have no time for your foolish jests.”
“Well!” answered Kummas, “if you will not believe my words, you will, perhaps, believe your own eyes.”
It may be imagined how great was the astonishment of the peasant, when, in a few minutes, Kummas returned with the infant in his arms. When her surprise at the unexpected appearance had somewhat abated, she said to Kummas, at the same time laying her hand on his shoulder, “Neighbour, you are really better than I gave you credit for, and are an honest man. That is a splendid child. God bless it! Stout and strong as a young lion. Now he opens his pretty blue eyes. So you would like something to drink, my fine fellow? Eh! Haste, Hannah, and bring us some milk from the cow,” she said, turning to a young girl who was beside her; “and now, let me see if you are rightly dressed. There, neighbour, hold the young rascal, until I bring something else to put on him. He is so strong that you may hold him upright already.”
Kummas knew not how to hold the half-naked child; and from pure terror, lest he might hurt it, allowed it almost to fall out of his arms. He paid particular attention to what the peasant did as she dressed it again, and gave it the warm milk, which it seemed to like very much.
“And how sensible it is!” began again the good woman. “Does it not drink out of the cup just like one of ourselves? Hark ye, neighbour, you must just leave the youngster with me.”
“No! no!” replied Kummas most decidedly.
“I will give you a bottle of brandy for him,” again said the peasant.
“I will not give him for a whole cask!” exclaimed the musician.
“Indeed! that from you says much. But what will come of the child when you go out to play at night?” asked the kind woman.
“I do not mean to play any longer,” answered Kummas.
“Are you in earnest?” said Anne Maria. “If so, heaven be praised! for truly the beer-fiddling is a wretched sort of life,—a way of living that makes weak legs and red faces. I have seen all such persons die in poverty and misery; for they almost all took to brandy drinking; and you were far on the road yourself.”
Once more Kummas felt ashamed at the truthful words of his neighbour, who kindly, however, added, “Don’t take amiss what I say. I mean well to you. Every morning I will give you milk for the foundling, and will look after its clothes. And I have nothing to say against your playing at a respectable marriage, or on a feast-day, when I will take good care of your youngster in your absence. But what do you call him?”
“He has no doubt been baptised,” answered Kummas; “however, as I know not his right name, I will just call him Christlieb Fundus.”
Had the poor child been forcibly thrust upon the village in which Kummas lived for maintenance, in all likelihood the inhabitants would have resisted doing anything for it. As the case stood, it was quite the reverse. A blessing seemed to have come along with the foundling. Everybody was curious to see the new-fashioned cradle; and no one came empty-handed; so that Kummas saw himself in possession of different articles of food, clothes for the child, and other things,—all unlooked for, and most unexpected; while he himself rose in the estimation of the villagers,—an advantage which formerly he had neither known nor prized.
Some weeks had passed away, when one morning Kummas received a visit from one of his former companions, in the shape of Schubert, the flute-player.
The interior of the small apartment presented to the visitor, at his entrance, a singular enough appearance. His eye fell first on the well-known large violin, which, still without its back, had its two sides supported by rounded pieces of wood,—such as cradles usually have. On the soft bedding, which filled the hollow space, lay a sleeping infant, whose rosy cheeks told of health and plenty. A few steps from this sat Kummas at a low table, which was covered with wire, small pieces of wood, and various kinds of implements. On the floor were scattered about sauce-pans, pots, and all sorts of broken earthenware, waiting to be mended by the hands of the late musician, who, at that moment, was occupied repairing an old bird-cage. A string was fastened to his right foot, the other end of which, being attached to the violincello-cradle, served as a means for setting it in motion whenever the little sleeper showed symptoms of restlessness.
“It is true, then, what I heard, but would not believe!” exclaimed Schubert, in a scornful voice. “So you have become an old woman!—a nurse! Are you mad, or”——
“I wish you good morning,” said Kummas coolly, thus reminding his comrade of the omitted salutation. “You ask how I am? and I answer quite well. Never was better in my life.”
“That shows me you are a fool!” replied Schubert. “Have I not children myself; and do I not know how I am tormented at nights by their squalling and screaming, not to speak of the thousand things my wife has to do for them?”
“It is true,” said Kummas, “that Master Fundus there sometimes makes a noise during the night, especially just now, when he is getting his teeth, and I am obliged to creep out of my warm bed, although ever so tired, take him in my arms, walk about with him, and sing until my throat is sore, and my arms aching.”
“Am I not right, then?” said Schubert.
“My back too is like to break,” continued Kummas, “when I put the rogue on his feet, and let him totter up and down the room.”
“And so does my wife complain,” added Schubert. “Teaching them to walk must be a perfect martyrdom.”
Kummas nodded assent, and went on,—“Neither am I any longer my own master. I cannot go where I will, or remain as long away as I please. The youngster is as a chain round my leg, which I must drag about. Besides, I must work hard, as my Christlieb needs many odds and ends, though the people in the village are very kind, and often send us presents. Afterwards will come the numerous diseases of children,—scarlet fever, measles, hooping-cough, &c., and then farewell to sleep; and all my earnings must go to the doctor and apothecary.”
“That is precisely my case!” exclaimed Schubert in a loud tone.
“Softly! softly!” said Kummas, “or you will wake up my little rogue. Yes, I assure you, a whole night’s playing on the violincello is a mere joke, compared with the watching all night by the bed of a sick child. I now see how much a mother has to do for her children, and how well founded are her claims to their gratitude.”
“Therefore you are an old ass,” said Schubert, quite angrily. “Shake yourself free of the child again.”
“No!” answered Kummas firmly. “Some one must act the part of a mother to the poor thing, or it would perish, and that would be a sin. But after all, I must say, that my cares, my self-denial, and watchings are over-balanced by the pleasure I find in the child. When the little rascal smiles in my face, pinches my cheeks, or plays with my hair, all my trouble is forgotten. Nothing delights him so much as when I play a tune on the violin. Then is he all life; beats with his feet and claps his hands. He must be a musician, but a proper one. Not a miserable beer-fiddler, like you and me.”
“I beg to decline the compliment,” said the flute-player displeased. “You have become a fool about the child. I have only now to ask whether you are coming to play on Sunday along with us?”
“Since I know, from experience,” replied Kummas, “how great is the trouble of bringing up a child, I cannot lend my aid by playing at dances, to destroy, perhaps, in one night the many years incessant labour of conscientious parents.”
“What have we to do with that?” asked Schubert.
“Much, as I now perceive,” replied the old man. “Yet I will not promise never to play again, were it only for the sake of Christlieb. But as long as I find some other kind of employment, and until the child is older, I will not.”
“Do as you like, you old fool!” said Schubert in a passion, and went away.
Kummas comforted himself with the knowledge that he was doing right. “What! you young monkey; are you awake, and smiling? Oh! yes, I see you want your meat. So come away, and you shall have it directly.”