Berthold Auerbach

We often experience sadness and hesitancy in carrying out projects which have been wisely conceived and hopefully determined on. And thus it proved when the time came to set out for the shepherd's hut.

It was before daybreak. Irma stood at the open hearth in Walpurga's room, and shivered with the cold.

Although Irma had overcome all longings since her return from her short visit to the world, a new and deep feeling of homelessness had come over her, just as if this was the first day of her solitude. She often looked about her, as if she saw a figure approaching with a light bundle under its arm--and that figure was herself, but oh! how changed. She scarcely felt a desire for food or drink; nor did she care to speak. She lived entirely in and from herself. But, although silent, she was cheerful and kind toward every one.

The little pitchman was the first to note this change, and he was of the opinion that a summer spent on the mountain meadows would prove of great benefit to Irma, for he maintained that she was ill, although she always seemed well and was ever at work.

If everything had been specially arranged, Walpurga's purpose could not have been better served. Irma's wishes and the uncle's advice were in accord. Besides this, there was danger of discovery, on account of the king's visit to the neighboring village, and whatever danger lay in this, Walpurga meant to avert from Irma.

The morning found Walpurga gay and cheerful, as if after a hardly won victory. Her eyes often rested on Irma, who was looking fixedly at the open hearth-fire.

"You'll see," said she to her, "you'll be quite a different being up there. I can hear you singing already, and then we'll sing together again."

She went on humming to herself the air,

Oh! blissful is the tender tie

That binds me, love, to thee.

But Irma did not join in the song.

"I shall support life as long as it supports me," said Irma, as if speaking to herself, and holding her hands before the fire.

It was not long before the two women, who were thus standing quietly by the hearth, were called away to the stable outside. Everything was in readiness. The little pitchman, who was conversant with all such mysteries, had, on the previous day, arranged everything so that the cattle might be well and hearty in their new abode. He had brought a clod of earth and three ants from the meadow, and had mixed the earth with some sweet-scented clover, St. Johnswort, lavender and salt, into which mixture he dropped some oil of tar, and this was the last food given the cattle. The little pitchman had returned from the meadow during the night and, although he had not been asked to do so, had prepared the mysterious fodder in order to oblige Hansei, who was not yet quite familiar with the ways of this section of the country.

Now that the cattle had swallowed the magic potion, they were protected against all witchcraft and sickness, and would be as much at home on the meadows as if they had been born there. And now that day began to dawn, the cows became unmanageable. Peter sprinkled every one of them with holy water; but in spite of charms and holy water, these tame, domestic creatures seemed to have been converted into wild beasts. All was confusion within the enclosure that confined them, the cows were bellowing and running about wildly, and, in the midst of the din, was heard the shouting of the cowboys. The little pitchman bade them let the cows have their own way and at last they were quiet. Gundel put the wreath on the horns of the large brown bell-cow, and fastened the leader's bell around her neck. The other cows were also provided with bells. And now the leader was surrounded by the rest of the herd, who glared at her furiously; but she seemed so proud and scornful that none ventured to challenge her.

"And now let's be off, for God's sake!" cried the little pitchman, opening the gate. The procession started. Franz came last of all, holding the powerful red bull by its strong short horns and dragged by, rather than leading it. As soon as the bull was out of the stable, he stood still and looked about him with quite a dangerous air, and then, tossing up his head, stepped off alone, in quite a dignified manner. But as soon as he was outside of the gate, he bellowed loudly.

Although everything had been quietly arranged, there was yet hurrying at the end. Walpurga and Hansei accompanied Irma for a part of the way.

Irma was silent. Her step was firm, and yet it seemed to her as if her will had nothing to do with this, and as if she were urged onward by another.

"You look more cheerful already," said Hansei to Irma.

A nod was her only reply.

They soon overtook the herd which had gone ahead. The herdsman had waited for them, for it would not do to drive the cattle through the villages unless the sennerin⁵ were with them.

They might have taken the other road. It lay back of the village, and was somewhat shorter; but why should they not for once show themselves and their herds before they went into solitude? And so the cattle with their beautiful bells were driven through the village, while cheers and hurrahs resounded from all sides.

When they ascended the mountain on the other side of the village, and struck the forest road which Hansei had cut, he could not refrain from calling Irma's attention to what he had accomplished.

In the heart of the forest, where the royal arms were carved on the boundary-stone--for it was here that the royal preserves began--Hansei took leave of Irma. Walpurga, who had also said "good-by," still accompanied her for a short distance. There was so much that she wanted to tell Irma, and yet all she could say was: "Don't be afraid; I'll come to see you next Sunday. If you find it lonesome, come back to us again. Nobody forces you to stay up here; but if you can stay, you'll find it'll do you good."

Walpurga, whose heart was oppressed with her secret, bade Irma a hurried farewell and left her.

Hansei was sitting on the boundary-stone, waiting for his wife. After she had joined him, they walked on for some time in silence.

"It often seems to me as if it were all a dream," said he, at last. "We've been here four years this coming autumn, and she's been with us all the time. I can't tell you how much I like her, and still I don't know her; that is, I do know her, so to say, but I don't know her after all."

"Stop a minute, Hansei," said Walpurga.

He stood still. All was silent in the woods. A thick mist had veiled the mountains and the birds were mute. The only sound that broke upon the ear was that of the bells of the distant herd ascending the mountain. Walpurga drew a long breath.

"Hansei," said she at last, "you've stood a hard test. I never would have believed that any man could have done what you have. And now I think I must open the door to you, at last."

"Stop!" said Hansei, interrupting her, "not so fast. Did she tell you to do so, of her own accord? Say 'yes' or 'no'."

"No."

"Then I don't want to know anything about her. You hold her secret in trust, and no one has a right to touch it. Of course, to be honest with you, it has often puzzled me terribly. There's only one thing I want to know; I'm sure she hasn't injured any one and she hasn't stolen, has she? But no matter what she may have done, she's atoned for it all. Tell me only this: Has she any such trouble on her conscience?"

"God forbid! She's harmed no one on earth but herself."

"All right then; we'll say no more about it. Did you see how the deaf and dumb man in the village fell on his knees before her?"

"No."

"But I did; and I heard Babi, the root girl, say that the crazy woman from the farm would never come back again. Now Babi's crazy and Irmgard isn't, but still it frightened me. I don't know--but it seems to me that our home will seem empty, if we don't have Irmgard with us. She's become one of us."

When they had returned to the house and were sitting together in the front room, Hansei said:

"Don't you remember how she advised me to place the table differently, and how she helped to arrange everything, and told uncle to shorten the legs of the chairs, so that they might fit better to the table? I've never seen a farmer's room that looked so beautiful as ours; and she was a great help to you in everything."

Hansei had much to arrange about the house, and Walpurga would often come to him, with one of the children, and exchange a few words with him, while at work. She did not care to be alone. She missed Irma, and yet was happy to know that she was safe in her lonely retreat.