15 A Child Lost and a Father Found
In Braunsbach by the Kocher, opposite Maerxle’s house, is a linden-tree, toward which a strolling family might have been seen making their way one Sunday afternoon. The fatherFlorian and his family.—a powerful man, in a blue smock and gray felt hat numerously indented—was drawing a cart which contained a whetstone and some household-utensils. A gaunt, brown dog, of middle size, was his yokefellow. The woman assisted in helping the cart forward by pushing from behind. The two children followed, carrying some dry sticks gathered along the road. Arrived at the tree, the man took off the strap by which he was harnessed, threw his hat on the ground, wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and sat down with his back resting against the tree. Though much altered, we cannot but recognise Florian and his family.
The dog had lain down beside him, resting his head on his fore-paws. The boy caressed him.
“Leave Schlunkel alone now, Freddie,” said Florian. “Go and help your mother.”
The boy obeyed quickly: he knew that his father was out of humor by his calling the dog “Schlunkel,”—for whenever Florian was ill at ease he tortured himself by giving to the sharer of his burden the name of the man who had first made him unhappy.
Crescence, meantime, had taken the stand and the kettle from the cart, had made a fire and placed the kettle filled with water upon it.
“Go and got us some potatoes,” said she to Freddie. He took a pot and went up to a house which looked down upon their resting-place. The beams of the framework in the walls—visible, as is always the case in that part of the country—were painted a bright red. An elderly man was looking out of the window.
“Won’t you be so kind,” asked Freddie, “as to give us some potatoes? God reward you!”
“Where are you from?” asked the man, who looked as if he had eaten a good dinner.
“My father always says, ‘From the place where people are hungry too.’”
“Is that your father down there?”
“Yes: but don’t be too long about it if you want to give us any thing, for our wood’s all burning away.”
The man came down and opened the door: the neighbors wondered how Peter Mike came to open his house to a beggar.
Freddie soon came out again with a potfull of potatoes and a little lard in a bowl. Soon the boiled potatoes became a porridge, and after all the family had dined the dog received permission to lick the plates.
Florian arose, and passed through the village, crying, “Scissor-grinder from Paris!” Freddie went from house to house to get work, promising the best of Parisian edge. And, without doubt, Florian was perfectly master of his new trade.
Peter Mike spent the afternoon in following the scissor-grinder from place to place. It gave him pleasure to follow his agile motions and hear the pretty tunes he whistled. He also chatted a little with the woman and the children. At dark he even tendered them his barn as a night’s lodging. All the village cried, “A judgment! a judgment! Stingy Peter Mike is getting kind!” And yet this was but a trifle compared with what followed. Peter Mike sat down with them in the barn, and said, “Let me keep this boy of yours. I’ll do well by him. What do you say to it?”
Seeing them look at each other in astonishment, he went on:—“Sleep on it, and tell me what you think of it in the morning.”
Florian and Crescence talked for half the night without coming to any conclusion. The mother, much as her inclination protested against it, was ready to give up her child, in order to give it a prospect in life, and the hope, at least, of an ordinary education.
Florian said little, but looked at the boy as he slept in the moonlight, looking very beautiful.
“He’ll be a rouser some day,” he said at last, turned over on his side, and fell asleep.
It may seem strange that Peter Mike, with such a reputation for avarice, should suddenly offer to adopt the child of a stroller; nor was charity his only motive. He was alone and childless,—had rented out his fields, and lived upon his income. His brother’s children—the only kindred he had—had offended him in someway; and he wished to mark his displeasure by the adoption of a stranger’s child. Besides, the boy with the clear blue eyes had inspired him with an unaccountable affection.
At daybreak Peter Mike was at the barn-door, and asked whether they were awake. Being answered in the affirmative, he requested Florian and Crescence to come up to his room, in order to discuss the question. They complied.
“Well, how is it? Have you made up your minds?” he asked.
“Why,” said Florian, “the plain English of it is, we should like to give up the boy very well, because he would be in good hands with you and could learn something; but it won’t do: will it, Crescence?”
“Why won’t it do?”
“Because we want the boy in our business; and we must live too, you know,—and our little girl.”
“See here,” said Peter Mike: “I’ll show you that I mean you well. I’ll give you a hundred florins,—not for the boy, but so that you can go about some other business,—a trade in dishes, or something of that kind. A hundred florins is something. What do you say?”
The parents looked at each other sorrowfully.
“Crescence, do you talk. I’ve nothing more to say: whatever you do, I’m satisfied.”
“Why, I don’t think the boy’ll want to stay and leave us. You mean well, I know that; but the child might die of home-sickness.”
“I’ll ask him,” said Peter Mike, leaving the parents more astonished than ever; for habitual poverty deprives people of the power of forming resolutions, and makes them surprised to find this faculty in others. Neither spoke: they dreaded the forthcoming answer, whatever it might be.
Peter Mike returned, leading Freddie by the hand. He nodded significantly, and Freddie cried, “Yes, I’ll stay with cousin: he’s going to give me a whip and a horse.”
Crescence wept; but Florian said, “Well, then, let’s go; what must be, the sooner it’s done the better.”
He went down-stairs, packed the cart, and hitched the dog. Peter Mike brought him the money.
When all was ready, Crescence kissed her son once more, and said, weeping, “Be a good boy, and mind your cousin: go to school and learn your lessons. Perhaps we shall come back in winter.”
Florian turned his head away when his son took his hand, and tightened the strap by which he pulled the cart. Freddie put his arms round the dog’s head and took leave of him.
Not a word was spoken until they reached Kochersteinfeld: each mentally upbraided the other for having made so little opposition. Here they rested, and Florian called for a pint of wine to cheer their spirits. Taking a long draught, Florian pushed the glass over to Crescence.he pushed the glass over to Crescence, bidding her do the same. She raised the glass to her lips, but set it down again and cried, weeping aloud, “I can’t drink: it seems as if I had to drink the blood of my darling Freddie.”
“Don’t get up such a woman’s fuss now: you ought to ’ve said that before. Let’s sleep over it: we shall feel better tomorrow.”
As if to escape from their own thoughts, they never stopped till they got to Kuenzelsau. On the way they held counsel as to the best investment of their money, and agreed to act upon the advice of Peter Mike.
Next day they set out for Oehringen; but suddenly Florian stopped and said, “Crescence, what do you say to turning round and going back for Freddie?”
“Yes, yes, yes! come.”
In a moment the cart was headed the other way, and the dog leaped up Florian’s side, as if he knew what was going on. But suddenly Crescence cried, “Oh, mercy, mercy! He’ll never let us have him: there’s a whole florin gone,—the night’s lodging; and I’ve bought Lizzie a dress!”
“O women and vanity!” groaned Florian. “Well, we must try it, anyhow. I’m bound to have my Freddie back.”
The dog barked assent
It was noonday again when the caravan reached the linden-tree. Freddie ran to meet them, crying, “Is it winter?”
His mother went up to Peter Mike, laid down the money, begged him to overlook the florin which was gone, and demanded her child.
The parson was in Peter Mike’s room, and had almost succeeded in persuading him to be reconciled to his brother’s children and to give the adopted child but a small portion of his property. At sight of Crescence he rose, without knowing why, and raised his hands. He tried to induce the woman not to give her child away; and, when she answered, the sound of her voice was like a reminiscence of something long unthought of.
Peter Mike had called Florian. When the latter saw the parson, he rushed up to him, seized him by the collar, and cried, “Ha, old fellow! I’ve caught you again at last.” Crescence and Peter Mike interfered. The parson, with a husky voice, begged the latter to retire, as he had important communications to make to the strangers. Peter Mike complied.
“Is your name Crescence?” asked the parson.
“Yes.”
“My child! my child!” said the parson, hoarsely, falling on her neck.
For a time all wept in silence. The parson passed his hand over her face, and then made them both swear never to reveal the relation in which they stood to him. He would give them a house and set them up in business. Crescence was to be regarded as his sister’s child.
Thus the vagrant family settled in the village. Florian has returned to the active use of his faithful knife.
The wife of the Protestant minister, who is very religious, claims to have discovered beyond a doubt that Crescence is not the parson’s niece, but his daughter; but people don’t believe it.
The dog, who is also in the butchering-line, has exchanged his name of Schlunkel for the honest one of Bless. The gloomy recollections of the past are buried in oblivion.