greatly needed as a restorative, after such a long journey and so much sorrow; for nothing makes a man more hungry and thirsty than the exhaustion of grief. At that time, too, it was the schoolmaster who pronounced the funeral exhortation, and if he was sometimes a little lengthy, what did it matter? Now this is all done away with, and I am so hungry, and so weary, that I can scarcely move from the spot."
"And I too!" "And I!" resounded on all sides; and Schilder-David continued: – "And what are we to do when we get home? our day is gone – of course we are glad to give it up, for the sake of paying proper respect to any one we liked; but in former times it was far better arranged, for we did not get home till night, and then we had no occasion to think about work."
"I suspect you had little capability of thinking at all," shrewdly observed young Faller, in his sonorous voice. He was the second bass singer in the choral society, and carried his music books under his arm. His mode of walking, and his general bearing, showed that he had been a soldier. "A funeral feast," he continued, "would have been quite contrary to the wishes of Lenz's mother. 'Everything in its due season – joy and mourning,' was her motto. I was apprenticed to old Lenz for five years and three quarters, and at school with young Lenz."
"I suppose you could have talked as glibly as the schoolmaster, and have given us the funeral oration;" said Schilder-David, muttering something of conceited singers, who imagined the world only began when they sang from notes.
"Indeed I could," rejoined the young man, who either did not hear these last words, or, at all events, affected not to do so. "I could have pronounced as great a eulogium on the deceased; and, when so good a person has just been laid in the grave, I think it is more fitting and congenial not so immediately to discuss other matters, and all kinds of worldly pleasures and occupations.
"My old master, Lenz, was a person, who if all men were like him, there would be no more need for either judges, soldiers, prisons, or houses of correction, in the world. Our old master was severe, and would allow no apprentice to exchange his file for the turning lathe, till he could polish an octagon with a free hand, so that it looked as if it had been in the turning-machine; and we were all obliged to learn how to make small clocks, for a workman who can finish small things properly is sure not to fail in larger ones. No clocks or watches were ever sent out of his house in which there was the smallest defect, for he said, 'It is both for my honour and that of our district, that our good name should remain untarnished.' I will only give you one instance, to enable you to judge of the influence he exercised over us young people. When young Lenz and I became journeymen, we began to smoke. The old man said: 'Very well, if you choose to smoke I cannot prevent you, and I do not wish you to do it secretly. Unfortunately for me I also indulge in the bad habit of smoking, but I tell you fairly, that if you smoke I must give it up, whatever it may cost me; for it is not possible that we should all smoke.' After this, we, of course, gave up all idea of such a thing, for we would rather have had all our teeth drawn than caused our old master to give up his pipe.
"His excellent wife is now on the road to heaven, and her guardian angel is no doubt saying to her, 'You have been a worthy woman – few better in the world. Perhaps you have had your faults; you spoiled your son considerably, and prevented him travelling to other countries, which would have done him good, and made him less delicate; but your thousand good deeds, which no one knew but God, and your never listening to evil of others, making the best of everything, and reading the Bible to Petrowitsch, all that will not be forgotten now, and surely you will have your reward.' And if she is offered any recompense in heaves, I am sure she will say, 'Give it to my son; and, if there is any to spare, there is such and such a one who stands in grievous need of it – help them – I am weary of watching over others.' You could scarcely believe how little she ate; her husband often laughed at her for it, but it is sure and certain enough, that seeing others enjoy their food seemed to satisfy her, and the son is just as good hearted as the mother was. What a kind heart he has! I would gladly go to the death for him."
This was the way in which the clockmaker Faller talked, and his deep bass voice often trembled from emotion. The others, however, did not let him have all the praise of Lenz to himself. The Pröbler declared, that Lenz was the only one in the whole district, who understood something more than what had been known here from time immemorial, and Schilder-David added: "He passes no man without striving to serve him; every year he repairs the old organ of the blind man at Fuchsberg, and does it for nothing; he often spends an entire holiday mending it, and he has helped me too. He came one day to visit me, and saw how hard I was working to make my wheel revolve properly. He went straight to the miller, and talked to him, and settled it all, and then came and fetched me to an upper loft, where he arranged my workshop, and fastening my wheel to that of the mill, I found I could work three times as fast and with one half the trouble."
Every one was as eager to contribute his offering in praise of Lenz, as if he had been an almsbox.
The balancemaker said nothing for some time, but he nodded approvingly; but he is the wisest of them however, for at last he says, that all that has been stated is true, but that enough has not been said, and that he knows something more. "There is no workman better than Lenz to work for; everything must indeed be very neat and properly finished, but then you not only get your full wages, but kind and honest words into the bargain, which is best of all."
Faller now left the group, and turned along the mountain path to his house, and the others also dispersed in different directions, after each had taken a pinch out of the Pröbler's birch snuffbox. Schilder-David went on alone with his stout staff farther up the valley, for he lived a good way on the other side of the country, and was the only one of his parish who had crossed the valley to attend the funeral.
CHAPTER II.
THE MOURNER AND HIS COMPANION
A small footpath leads from the village to a solitary thatched house, which is not visible till after a good quarter of an hour's quick climbing. The path leads past the back of the church, at first between hedges, then through unenclosed green meadows, where the rustling of the fir plantation can be distinctly heard, that covers all the steep hill. Behind this hill – called Spannreute – others rise perpendicularly; the declivity is so steep, that, though cultivated, the crops on the table-land, even to this day, can only be conveyed down to the valley by means of sledges.
Two men were walking along singly on this footpath between the hedges: the one in front was a little old man, most respectably dressed; he had a staff in his hand, and, by way of precaution, had twisted the tassel of the handle round his wrist. The old man stepped along stoutly, and his face, which was a mass of wrinkles, moved up and down in a singular fashion, for he was chewing a lump of white sugar, and took a fresh piece from time to time out of his pocket. The sandy red eyebrows of the old man were coarse and bushy, and clear sharp blue eyes looked out from under them.
The young man walking behind his old companion was tall and slight; he wore a long blue coat, and had crape on his arm and his hat. He was looking down at the ground, and occasionally shaking his head mournfully. At last he raised his head, and a fresh coloured face, and a light beard became visible, but the eyelids of his blue eyes were red and swollen.
"Uncle," said he, standing still: his voice sounded hoarse.
The old man, still busily crunching sugar, turned round.
"Uncle, you have come far enough; I thank you much; the way is long, and I wish to go home alone."
"Why?"
"I don't know, but I feel that it must be so."
"No, you had far better, on the contrary, turn with me."
"I am sorry, uncle, that I cannot do so, but I cannot! I cannot go to the 'Golden Lion' today. I am neither hungry nor thirsty; indeed, at this moment, I feel as if I could never eat or drink again. I regret that you have had so long a walk on my account."
"No, no, I will go with you. I am not so hard hearted as your mother told you."
"My mother never said anything of the kind: all her life long she spoke well of her fellow creatures, and especially of relations; and she never could endure to hear illnatured gossip about them, from first one and then another: indeed she always quoted the proverb, 'Don't bite off your nose to spite your face.'"
"Yes,