6 Florian in Clover
Florian tried to earn some money here and there, but rarely succeeded. He would only work at his trade or at some other agreeable occupation. Field-labor was beneath his dignity; and he would rather have starved than break stone on the highroad,—the usual resource of men without capital. Like many others, he would only work at what he liked,—a principle upon which very few men indeed ever manage to prosper. But a time came for him to obtain some funds and a plentiful supply of that glory which he so much craved. The bel-wether dance was approaching, and great preparations were being made for it. Mine host of the Eagle had made his peace with Florian and his friends; for he understood his position too well to keep up a feud with his neighbors in the quarrel of a customer who had left. Florian now slaughtered for Caspar a heifer and a hog. The latter ceremony was performed in the street, so that everybody stopped to watch the active functionary, whom it was indeed a pleasure to see in the labor of his trade. The muscles of his bare arms were so strong and smooth that the life and death of the poor beasts seemed indeed to lie in his hand. With three strokes upon the steel he whetted his knife so sharp that he could cut a hair loose at one end. But the greatest crowd of idlers always assembled when he began to chop the sausage-meat. He handled his cleavers as lightly as a drummer his sticks, whistling a waltz the meanwhile to keep himself in time. A particular flourish consisted in throwing one of the cleavers into the air while he chopped on uninterruptedly with the other, snapping the fingers of the empty hand, catching the cleaver again, and chopping on without getting out of the time. At this achievement all lifted up their hands in astonishment.
The old butcher was present also, mainly to assist in consuming the kettle-meat, fresh from the fire; after which the renown of his son afforded an excellent dessert. He strolled to George the blacksmith’s door, and found him in deep lamentation. “All my subjects refuse to obey me,” he said. “They leave me sitting here all alone and run to watch Florian. I’d give three creutzers if he’d come and do his killing here.”
“Yes,” added the old butcher, rubbing his hands, “the court-butcher at Stuttgard can’t come up to my Florian. He once made a bet with his friends in Strasbourg to get four calves and two hogs into marketing-order without bringing a speck on his clothes; and he did it, and his apron and his shirt were as white as the driven snow.”
Florian now received so many orders that he found no rest by day or night, and when the day of the bel-wether dance came he overslept the morning service.
Crescence had promised the geometer an interview at Eglesthal; but Florian easily succeeded in inducing her to break her word.
The close of the afternoon service was the signal of rejoicings throughout the village. In the yard of the manor-house a number of stakes were put up in a ring, with a rope around them. In the middle stood a fine wether, decorated with a red ribbon, while a glittering bowl of pewter was on a little table beside him. The band of musicians headed the procession, The boys and girls in couples, hand in hand.followed by the boys and girls in couples, hand in hand.
At the gate of the yard a clock had been fastened so that it could not be seen. At the stroke of two the “free dance” began. A march was played, and the couples walked around the rope in strict order. An old-fashioned sabre had been stuck into one of the stakes; and whenever a couple came up to it the man pulled it out and thrust it into the next stake to which they came. When Florian and Crescence reached the sword, the former balanced it on his teeth, and thus carried it in safety to the next station. A general “Look a’ there!” was his reward. Corpse Kitty prophesied that he would win the wether. Thus they all went round and round, laughing and talking. When Florian took the sword for the second time, the clock suddenly struck three. A hurrah resounded on all sides. The rope was torn away, and the wether, the ribbon, and the bowl were brought to Florian. The girls came up, wished Crescence joy, and wound the ribbon into her hair. “It’s all right now,” said Melchior’s Lenore: “you’re bound to have each other before the year’s out.” Crescence was weeping, however, for her father stood before her, clenching his fist.
They now followed the band to the inn, where Florian and Crescence opened the dance.
Buchmaier, the new squire, had revived an ancient custom. Instead of ordering the beadle or a gens d’armes to keep order during the dance, he had summoned all the boys who had passed their eighteenth year to meet on the preceding evening for the purpose of electing two “dance-boys.” Constantine, and Valentine the carpenter’s son Xavier, received the greatest number of votes: the winner of the wether was to be the third, the squire only stipulating the right of nominating him in case this good fortune should befall one of the two who had been elected. Florian now entered upon this office, and was marked, like his colleagues, with a white ribbon tied round his arm. These three were made responsible for any disturbances; but no disturbance occurred,—for people are always easily governed by rulers of their own selection.
Crescence was overflowing with happiness, and forgot all about the geometer. None—not even George—could dance like Florian: he clapped his feet together at every bar of the music, so that all eyes were directed to his glistening boots. Sometimes, in the middle of the dance, he would cry, “Sing out!” Not his feet, but all his body and soul, rose and sunk in accordance with the music: he was a dancer all over. He would not stand still for an instant; and, when the musicians stopped to rest a while, he said to the clarionet, “Make your old bones rattle.” “Pour something in to make it swell,” was the answer. Florian threw six creutzers on the table.
Late at night the “barber’s dance” was executed, in which Florian appeared in all his glory. A man was brought in, looking as white as milk, with a hump before and behind, and bandaged from head to foot with white sheets and kerchiefs. You would hardly have recognised the College Chap. The band played the air of the song,—
“Oh, my! I feel so bad!
Bring me the barber’s lad.”
A chair was placed in the middle of the room, and the patient deposited upon it. The expected man of simples came, hung round about with knives, with a huge pinch nose, and a wig of tow. It was Florian who thus entered, amid roars of laughter.
With comical gestures, he skipped around the patient, opened the bandage on his arm, bled him, and finally stuck a knife into the hump and left it there. The sick man fell dead, and a funeral-march was played. The unlucky surgeon rushed around the room in an agony of despair, pulled his wig out by handfuls, and threw them into the faces of the company. The music died away. At last, laying his hand upon his forehead, he collected his scattered wits, and cried, “Music!” Notes of mourning responded. He knelt down beside the dead man, opened his mouth, and drew out yards on yards of white tape, but without producing any relief. Then, taking a quart-tumbler, he filled it to the brim with wine, placed it on his forehead, and lay down on his back beside the sick man, moving in time to the music. All held their breath in expectation of a crash; but the feat was successfully performed. The entire contents of the glass were now poured down the patient’s throat. He struck about him and threw off his disguise. Florian did the same: the band struck up a gallop: the old squire’s Babbett ran up and danced with Constantine, Crescence and Florian followed suit, and all were once more in motion. The fictitious misfortunes with which they had amused themselves gave an additional zest to the return of pleasure.
Some hours later, when they were all seated at table, drinking and singing, Florian favored the company with a new song which he had picked up on his travels:—
“In Strasbourg on the rampart,
She loved me much indeed:
She always brought my breakfast
And a letter for to read.
“I always got the letter:
The breakfast never came:
And in it there was written,
‘Winter has come again.’
“Winter has come, as usual;
The bosses are feeling good:
They say to the poor journeymen,
‘Go out and split some wood.
“’And mind you make it small enough,
And make it not too small;
And you shall be my journeymen,
As you have been this fall.’
“And winter is past and over;
The jours are full of pluck:
They come to the boss’s table
And tell him what’s o’clock.
“‘Come, boss; its time to settle:
Bring out your little bill:
You gave us beans this winter,
And we have had our fill.’
“‘Oh, if the bread’s not white enough,
I’ll get another kind,
And if your bed’s not soft enough——’”
At the lines which followed, sad to say, Crescence did not blush, nor did any of the other girls; but all received the production with unmingled merriment.
Who could doubt, after this, that Florian was the leading young man in the village?
But when Crescence came home she had to expiate her glory with bitter sufferings: her mother was sick, and her father, for the time-being, reigned supreme. But she bore all without a murmur, knowing that Florian would be hers; for hadn’t they won the wether?