Chapter VI The Undeserved Punishment
The bird-catcher put his threat into execution, and our Christlieb was really taken to the dungeon in the prison. The poor boy had been a long day, and a still longer night, in the damp dismal place, when, early on the second morning, he heard a well-known voice calling to him through the bars of the narrow window. Christlieb left his miserable straw pallet, and quickly approaching the window, said in a cheerful voice, “Is that you, father?”
“How are you, my boy?” asked Kummas in a pitying tone. “I fear bread and water will not taste well here?”
“Oh! that is the least of it,” answered Christlieb. “I would not mind that, were it not so dismally cold; and I weary, having nothing to do.”
“Have you nothing else to plague you?—No evil conscience?” said the old man, somewhat sadly.
The boy burst into a flood of tears, and said, amidst sobs, “Father, do not make me more unhappy in my trouble! Indeed, I am not guilty.”
“I believe you, my son,” said Kummas with a lighter heart, “although appearances are certainly very much against you. But if we are innocent, we may be happy even in a dungeon. Think of the good Joseph, who was in prison for many years, while you are to be only three days in this black hole.”
“That is nothing, father; but I cannot bear to think of the shame, and of being pointed at by all the villagers.
“Let them point at you as they like,” said Kummas, comforting him; “so long as you are not guilty, it does not matter. And who knows why God has sent you this cross? For a wise purpose, be assured. Look here! I have brought you a drop of warm beer, if I only knew how to get it down to you without spilling it.” He fastened a piece of string to the small can, and the vessel, with its smoking contents, reached Christlieb in safety.
“Does it taste well?” asked Kummas when he saw its arrival safely below. “I cooked it myself.”
“Yes!” answered Christlieb, thanking him; “but you have put in such a quantity of pepper, that it has almost burnt my throat.”
“Aye!” replied the pleased warm-beer-brewer, “I did that purposely, to keep out the cold. Now, would you like anything else?”
“I should like to play on the violin,” said Christlieb eagerly.
“Perhaps that would not be permitted,” answered Kummas, “even if we could get the violin through the bars. The jailor might be angry if he heard a noise in the prison, so you would need to play quite pianissimo. We shall see about it; and in the meantime, good bye.”
“Do not forget to feed the starling,” cried Christlieb, as Kummas went away.
Scarcely was the old man gone, when Christlieb, who had lain down again in his corner, heard some one else call out softly, “Christlieb, Christlieb! Hear me, and don’t be angry at me.”
“I will not speak to you,” said Christlieb. “You are a serpent!”
“Ah! dear Christlieb, do hear me!” said Malchen, for it was she who had come to comfort her playmate. But Christlieb would not move from his place in the corner of the dingy prison.
“Christlieb!” continued the young girl, weeping, “can you deny that I saw you when you pulled the nets in pieces?”
“I tell you I will not speak to you,” reiterated Christlieb in an angry tone.
“Could I help confessing the truth to my grandfather when he called me as a witness? I have not slept all night thinking of you, and have ran here at the risk of being scolded. Forgive me, Christlieb, for having seen you destroy the nets the day before yesterday, and for being the means of bringing you into this place.”
“So you still maintain that you really saw me, and that I was the person who did the mischief! Have I not always bought the birds, and honestly paid for them? Have I ever all my life let even a sparrow escape from you?”
Malchen could not make any answer to this reproach; but only entreated the more earnestly to be forgiven, saying, “Do let us be friends again, Christlieb!”
“Whenever I come out of this place,” answered Christlieb proudly, “I will go far away from you all, to Turin, or to some other distant town; and there become a Paganini, and earn eight hundred dollars every night by playing on my violin; then, when I am rich, I will come back with a carriage and four horses, and take my foster-father, who believes that I did not destroy the nets, away with me. But you and your grandfather, I will neither look at nor speak to.”
“You will do no such thing,” answered Malchen confidently.
“But I will!” maintained Christlieb resolutely.
“No, no!” answered his little companion; “I know you better than to believe it. And now, since you have spoken to me, I am sure you are no longer angry with me.”
“You are mistaken,” said Christlieb; but in rather a smoother voice.
“Shall I come again to see you here?” asked Malchen.
Christlieb made no reply; and the kind-hearted little maiden again asked the question.
“Shall I come back again? If you do not answer me when I have counted three, then I will remain away. Once, twice, thrice. Shall I, or shall I not come?”
“Yes, you may come,” cried Christlieb, as he saw Malchen leaving the window. A piece of paper with something wrapped in it, was thrown down to him, which he quickly opened, and found a nice little cake, brought by Malchen, who was now out of sight. This mark of sympathy cheered him; and his imprisonment became less unbearable.
The accident which had brought him into disgrace was not without weighty consequences. Butter was irreconcileable, and prohibited his little granddaughter from speaking to our hero. The children of the village teased him, and the elder persons looked at him with suspicion. These circumstances induced Kummas to try and find some other quarters for his foster-son, as soon as the latter was confirmed. In this the old musician succeeded, by means of a friend in a neighbouring small town, from whom Christlieb had received some lessons. This person procured for him the situation of a pupil with the principal bandmaster of a large town at a considerable distance from the village where he now was.
“Trust in God, do what is right, and fear no man,” said Kummas to his weeping Christlieb, as, laden like a camel, the poor boy stood ready for his journey; “‘and then the sky will be full of music,’ as we are accustomed to say. You must become a clever fellow. I do not say this for your sake alone, but also for my own; as I must, in your absence, live very sparingly; but this I will gladly do, believing that a time of plenty will follow, which I hope through you to see. Remember, that as long as God gives you sound limbs, it is in your own power to keep sorrow from yourself, cares from me, and to drive away wrinkles from my brow; therefore, beat the drum, sound the trumpet, blow the horn, and play on the violin, with all your heart; for music is a lady, and, you know, all ladies wish to be admired. Should death, with his bony hand and ruthless scythe mow me down before you come back as a master in your art, then the villagers, as they walk over my grave, will not scornfully say, ‘Here lies a poor fiddler;’ but they will add, ‘he, at least, did one good action when he——’” Here the old man stopped, not able, from emotion, to proceed; and, ashamed of his tears, he hid his face on Christlieb’s shoulder, upon whose head the pet starling had perched itself.
Lifting down the bird, Christlieb said, “Perhaps you would not like to keep the bird, father?”
“No, my son,” answered the latter; “I might, perhaps, forget to feed it, and it might die of hunger, or of thirst.”
“Then farewell, father.” They embraced each other, and Christlieb went away. Shunning the houses of the villagers, of whom he had already taken leave, Christlieb took the road to the wood. When he reached his favourite spot, taking the starling from his shoulder, he said to it, “Go now, my little bird, to your companions among the trees!” He threw it up into the air; but after a short flight it came back, and again alighted on the shoulder of its master. “What! wilt thou not go?” he said, much affected. “Poor bird, I cannot keep thee.” He threw it again from him, and again the little creature came back. Upon this he went straight to the house of the bird-catcher, and luckily saw Malchen standing at the door cleaning some utensils. She became pale at the sight of Christlieb, and said quickly, “What do you want here? My grandfather is sitting at the window.”
“Malchen,” said Christlieb hastily, “you must do me a favour. Here is my starling, who will not leave me. You must keep it, or afterwards set it at liberty.”
The young girl took the bird, and went into the house with it. Christlieb went close to the window where the old man sat reading.
“Father Butter,” he began firmly, “you have ordered me never to come within your door. Give me your hand, then, out at the window, and say, at parting, that you will not any longer be angry with me.”
Butter looked up, and shook his head at the boy.
“Father!” repeated Christlieb entreatingly, “you have let many suns set on your wrath; give me your hand.”
“If you will confess your fault,” said the old man, relenting a little.
“Let us say no more about that,” answered Christlieb. “I may or I may not have done it. You know we are all sinners.”
At length the bird-catcher yielded, put his hand out at the window, and said, “I forgive you! Go in peace.”
“A thousand thanks, father,” answered Christlieb, well pleased. “Farewell!” and he was speedily out of sight; while Malchen, with tears in her eyes, looked after her playmate.