Part 87 (1/2)
”Are they going to drive us away?” asked Frida, rising, very quietly and proudly, from her chair.
”No, no! dear, gracious Frau,” cried Korlin, throwing herself on the floor, and grasping her about the knees, while the tears started from her eyes, ”no, no! There is no talk of that, and my old father says, if any one should propose such a thing, he would beat out his brains with a shovel. They only say there is no use in speaking to the Herr, he breaks up their talk too shortly. They want lo speak to you, because they have confidence in you.”
”Where is Triddelsitz?”
”Dear heart! he is going round among them, but they won't listen to him, they say they have nothing to do with him, they want to speak to the gracious Frau.”
”Come!” said Frida, and went down.
”What do you want, good people?” asked the young Frau, as she stepped outside the door, before which the laborers were a.s.sembled. The wheelwright, Fritz Flegel, stepped up, and said:
”Gracious Frau, we have only come to you because we are all agreed,--and we told the Herr so before; but nothing came of it. And the Herr answered us harshly, and we have no real confidence in Herr Triddelsitz, for he is so thoughtless, and doesn't know yet how things should be managed, and we thought you might help us, if you would be so kind. We are not dissatisfied because we want more, we are contented with what we get, and we get what belongs to us;--but never at the right time; and poor people like us cannot stand that.”
”Yes,” interrupted Pasel, ”and last year, the famine year, the rye was all sold, and you see, gracious Frau, some of us get our pay in grain; and I was to have twelve bushels of rye, and live on it, and I got none, and they said we must be patient. Oh, patience! And all the potatoes bad! How can we live?”
”Gracious Frau,” said an old white-haired man, ”I will say nothing about the means of life, for we have never gone hungry; but for an old man like me to stand, all day long, bent over in the ditch, shoveling water,--and at evening I am too stiff to move, and cannot sleep at night for misery,--it isn't right. We didn't have such doing? when Herr Habermann was here; but now it is all commanding and commanding, and the commanders know nothing about the work.”
”Yes, gracious Frau,” said the wheelwright, stepping forward again, ”and so we wanted to ask you if we couldn't have a regular inspector again, if Herr Habermann will not come, then some other; but one that would treat us kindly, and listen when we have something to say, and not snap us up, and scold us when we haven't deserved it, or knock our children about with sticks, as Herr Triddelsitz used to.”
”That shall be put a stop to,” cried Frida.
”Yes, gracious Frau, he has broken off that habit; about six months ago I had a very serious talk with him about it, and since then he is much better behaved, and more considerate. And if our gracious Herr would be considerate too, and think of his own profit, he would get a capable inspector, for he himself understands nothing about farming, and then he need not have a whole field of wheat beaten down by the wind, as it was last year, and the people would not talk about him so. And, gracious Frau, people talk a great deal, and they say the Herr must sell the estate, and will sell it to the Herr Pomuchelskopp; but we will never take him for our master.”
”No!” cried one and another, ”we will never take him.” ”A fellow who has been driven off by his own laborers!” ”We can't put up with him!”
Blow after blow fell the words of the day-laborers upon Frida's heart.
The little love and respect which they professed for her husband, the knowledge of their embarra.s.sed situation, which was evident even to the common people, weighed heavily upon her, and it was with extreme difficulty that she controlled herself, and said:
”Be quiet, good people! The Herr must decide all these matters, when he comes home. Go quietly home, now, and don't come up to the house again in such a crowd. I will join in your pet.i.tion to the Herr, and I think I may safety promise you that there will be a change in the management by St. John's day,--in one way or another,” she added with a sigh, and paused a moment, as if to reflect, or perhaps to swallow something that rose in her throat. ”Yes, wait until St. John's Day, then there will be a change.”
”That is all right then.”
”That is good, so far.”
”And we are very much obliged to you.”
”Well, good-night, gracious Frau!”
So they went off.
Frida returned to her room. It was beginning to thunder and lighten, the wind blew in gusts over the court-yard, driving sand and straw against the window-panes. ”Yes,” she said, to herself, ”it must be decided by St. John's Day, I have not promised too much, there must be a change of some kind. What will it be?” and before her eyes rose the dreary picture which David had so coa.r.s.ely drawn; she saw herself condemned to live in a rented house in a small town, with her husband and child, with no occupation, and no brighter prospects for the future. She heard the neighborhood gossip; they had seen better days.
She saw her husband rising in the morning, going into the town, coming home to dinner, smoking on the sofa in the afternoon, going out again, and going to bed at night. And so on, day after day, with nothing in the world to do. She saw herself burdened with household cares, comfortless, friendless; she saw herself upon her death-bed, and her child standing beside her. Her child; from henceforth a poor, forsaken child! A poor, n.o.ble young lady! It is a hard thing to occupy a station in which one must keep up appearances, without the requisite means. A poor young gentleman may fight it through, he can become a soldier; but a poor young lady? And though the Lord should look down from heaven, and endow her with all the loveliness of an angel, and her parents should do for her all of which human love is capable, the world would pa.s.s her by, and the young Herrs would say, ”She is poor,” and the burghers, ”She is proud.” So Frida saw her child, who lay meanwhile in peaceful child-sleep, undisturbed by the storm and tempest without, or by the storm and tempest in her mother's breast.
Korlin Kegel brought a light, and the young Frau reached after the letter which lay upon the table, as a person will do, when he wishes to prevent another from noticing that he is deeply moved. She looked at the address, it was to herself, from her sister-in-law, Albertine; she tore open the envelope, and another letter fell into her hand, addressed to her husband.
”Put this letter on your master's writing-table,” she said to the girl.
Korlin went.