IN the midst of their chatter1 and laughter a blast of frozen air and a spray of driven snow struck like ice through the room, and reached them even in the warmth of the old wolf-skins and the great stove. It was the door which had opened and let in the cold; it was their father who had come home.
The younger children ran joyous2 to meet him. Dorothea pushed the one wooden arm-chair of the room to the stove, and August flew to set the jug3 of beer on a little round table, and fill a long clay pipe; for their father was good to them all, and seldom raised his voice in anger, and they had been trained by the mother they had loved to dutifulness and obedience4 and a watchful5 affection.
To-night Karl Strehla responded very wearily to the young ones’ welcome, and came to the wooden chair with a tired step and sat down heavily, not noticing either pipe or beer.
“Are you not well, dear father?” his daughter asked him.
“I am well enough,” he answered, dully, and sat there with his head bent6, letting the lighted pipe grow cold.[27]
“Take the children to bed,” he said, suddenly, at last, and Dorothea obeyed. August stayed behind, curled before the stove; at nine years old, and when one earns money in the summer from the farmers, one is not altogether a child any more, at least in one’s own estimation.
August did not heed8 his father’s silence: he was used to it. Karl Strehla was a man of few words, and, being of weakly health, was usually too tired at the end of the day to do more than drink his beer and sleep. August lay on the wolf-skin, dreamy and comfortable, looking up through his drooping9 eyelids10 at the golden coronets on the crest11 of the great stove, and wondering for the millionth time whom it had been made for, and what grand places and scenes it had known.
Dorothea came down from putting the little ones in their beds; the cuckoo-clock in the corner struck eight; she looked to her father and the untouched pipe, then sat down to her spinning, saying nothing. She thought he had been drinking in some tavern12; it had been often so with him of late.
There was a long silence; the cuckoo called[28] the quarter twice; August dropped asleep, his curls falling over his face; Dorothea’s wheel hummed like a cat.
Suddenly Karl Strehla struck his hand on the table, sending the pipe on the ground.
“I have sold Hirschvogel,” he said; and his voice was husky and ashamed in his throat. The spinning-wheel stopped. August sprang erect13 out of his sleep.
“Sold Hirschvogel!” If their father had dashed the holy crucifix on the floor at their feet and spat14 on it, they could not have shuddered15 under the horror of a greater blasphemy16.
“I have sold Hirschvogel!” said Karl Strehla, in the same husky, dogged voice. “I have sold it to a travelling trader in such things for two hundred florins. What would you?—I owe double that. He saw it this morning when you were all out. He will pack it and take it to Munich to-morrow.”
“Oh, father!—the children—in mid-winter!”
She turned white as the snow without; her words died away in her throat.
August stood, half blind with sleep, staring with dazed eyes as his cattle stared at the sun when they came out from their winter’s prison.[29]
“It is not true! It is not true!” he muttered. “You are jesting, father?”
“It is true. Would you like to know what is true too?—that the bread you eat, and the meat you put in this pot, and the roof you have over your heads, are none of them paid for, have been none of them paid for for months and months: if it had not been for your grandfather I should have been in prison all summer and autumn, and he is out of patience and will do no more now. There is no work to be had; the masters go to younger men: they say I work ill; it may be so. Who can keep his head above water with ten hungry children dragging him down? When your mother lived, it was different. Boy, you stare at me as if I were a mad dog! You have made a god of yon china thing. Well—it goes: goes to-morrow. Two hundred florins, that is something. It will keep me out of prison for a little, and with the spring things may turn——”
August stood like a creature paralyzed. His eyes were wide open, fastened on his father’s with terror and incredulous horror; his face had grown as white as his sister’s; his chest heaved with tearless sobs21.
“It is not true! It is not true!” he echoed,[30] stupidly. It seemed to him that the very skies must fall, and the earth perish, if they could take away Hirschvogel. They might as soon talk of tearing down God’s sun out of the heavens.
“You will find it true,” said his father, doggedly23, and angered because he was in his own soul bitterly ashamed to have bartered24 away the heirloom and treasure of his race and the comfort and health-giver of his young children. “You will find it true. The dealer26 has paid me half the money to-night, and will pay me the other half to-morrow when he packs it up and takes it away to Munich. No doubt it is worth a great deal more,—at least I suppose so, as he gives that,—but beggars cannot be choosers. The little black stove in the kitchen will warm you all just as well. Who would keep a gilded27, painted thing in a poor house like this, when one can make two hundred florins by it? Dorothea, you never sobbed28 more when your mother died. What is it, when all is said?—a bit of hardware much too grand-looking for such a room as this. If all the Strehlas had not been born fools it would have been sold a century ago, when it was dug up out of the ground. ’It is a stove for a museum,‘ the trader said when he saw it. To a museum let it go.”[31]
August gave a shrill shriek29 like a hare’s when it is caught for its death, and threw himself on his knees at his father’s feet.
“Oh, father, father!” he cried, convulsively, his hands closing on Strehla’s knees, and his uplifted face blanched30 and distorted with terror. “Oh, father, dear father, you cannot mean what you say? Send it away—our life, our sun, our joy, our comfort? We shall all die in the dark and cold. Sell me rather. Sell me to any trade or any pain you like; I will not mind. But Hirschvogel!—it is like selling the very cross off the altar! You must be in jest. You could not do such a thing—you could not!—you who have always been gentle and good, and who have sat in the warmth here year after year with our mother. It is not a piece of hardware, as you say; it is a living thing, for a great man’s thoughts and fancies have put life into it, and it loves us though we are only poor little children, and we love it with all our hearts and souls, and up in heaven I am sure the dead Hirschvogel knows! Oh, listen; I will go and try and get work to-morrow! I will ask them to let me cut ice or make the paths through the snow. There must be something I could do, and I will beg the people we owe money to to wait; they are all[32] neighbors, they will be patient. But sell Hirschvogel!—oh, never! never! never! Give the florins back to the vile31 man. Tell him it would be like selling the shroud32 out of mother’s coffin33, or the golden curls off Ermengilda’s head! Oh, father, dear father! do hear me, for pity’s sake!”
Strehla was moved by the boy’s anguish34. He loved his children, though he was often weary of them, and their pain was pain to him. But besides emotion, and stronger than emotion, was the anger that August roused in him: he hated and despised himself for the barter25 of the heirloom of his race, and every word of the child stung him with a stinging sense of shame.
“You are a little fool,” he said, harshly, as they had never heard him speak. “You rave17 like a play-actor. Get up and go to bed. The stove is sold. There is no more to be said. Children like you have nothing to do with such matters. The stove is sold, and goes to Munich to-morrow. What is it to you? Be thankful I can get bread for you. Get on your legs, I say, and go to bed.”
Strehla took up the jug of ale as he paused, and drained it slowly as a man who had no cares.[33]
August sprang to his feet and threw his hair back off his face; the blood rushed into his cheeks, making them scarlet37; his great soft eyes flamed alight with furious passion.
“You dare not!” he cried, aloud, “you dare not sell it, I say! It is not yours alone; it is ours——”
Strehla flung the emptied jug on the bricks with a force that shivered it to atoms, and, rising to his feet, struck his son a blow that felled him to the floor. It was the first time in all his life that he had ever raised his hand against any one of his children.
Then he took the oil-lamp that stood at his elbow and stumbled off to his own chamber38 with a cloud before his eyes.
“What has happened?” said August, a little while later, as he opened his eyes and saw Dorothea weeping above him on the wolf-skin before the stove. He had been struck backward, and his head had fallen on the hard bricks where the wolf-skin did not reach. He sat up a moment, with his face bent upon his hands.
“I remember now,” he said, very low, under his breath.
Dorothea showered kisses on him, while her tears fell like rain.[34]
“But, oh, dear, how could you speak so to father?” she murmured. “It was very wrong.”
“No, I was right,” said August, and his little mouth, that hitherto had only curled in laughter, curved downward with a fixed39 and bitter seriousness. “How dare he? How dare he?” he muttered, with his head sunk in his hands. “It is not his alone. It belongs to us all. It is as much yours and mine as it is his.”
Dorothea could only sob22 in answer. She was too frightened to speak. The authority of their parents in the house had never in her remembrance been questioned.
“Are you hurt by the fall, dear August?” she murmured, at length, for he looked to her so pale and strange.
“Yes—no. I do not know. What does it matter?”
He sat up upon the wolf-skin with passionate40 pain upon his face; all his soul was in rebellion, and he was only a child and was powerless.
“It is a sin; it is a theft; it is an infamy,” he said, slowly, his eyes fastened on the gilded feet of Hirschvogel.
“Oh, August, do not say such things of father!” sobbed his sister. “Whatever he does, we ought to think it right.”
August laughed aloud.
“Is it right that he should spend his money in drink?—that he should let orders lie unexecuted?—that he should do his work so ill that no one cares to employ him?—that he should live on grandfather’s charity, and then dare sell a thing that is ours every whit19 as much as it is his? To sell Hirschvogel! Oh, dear God! I would sooner sell my soul!”
“August!” cried Dorothea, with piteous entreaty41. He terrified her, she could not recognize her little, gay, gentle brother in those fierce and blasphemous42 words.
August laughed aloud again; then all at once his laughter broke down into bitterest weeping. He threw himself forward on the stove, covering it with kisses, and sobbing43 as though his heart would burst from his bosom44.
What could he do? Nothing, nothing, nothing!
“August, dear August,” whispered Dorothea, piteously, and trembling all over,—for she was a very gentle girl, and fierce feeling terrified her,—“August, do not lie there. Come to bed: it is quite late. In the morning you will be calmer. It is horrible indeed, and we shall die of cold, at least the little ones; but if it be father’s will——”[36]
“Let me alone,” said August, through his teeth, striving to still the storm of sobs that shook him from head to foot. “Let me alone. In the morning!—how can you speak of the morning?”
“Come to bed, dear,” sighed his sister. “Oh, August, do not lie and look like that! you frighten me. Do come to bed.”
“I shall stay here.”
“Here! all night!”
“They might take it in the night. Besides, to leave it now!”
“But it is cold! the fire is out.”
“It will never be warm any more, nor shall we.”
All his childhood had gone out of him, all his gleeful, careless, sunny temper had gone with it; he spoke sullenly45 and wearily, choking down the great sobs in his chest. To him it was as if the end of the world had come.
His sister lingered by him while striving to persuade him to go to his place in the little crowded bedchamber with Albrecht and Waldo and Christof. But it was in vain. “I shall stay here,” was all he answered her. And he stayed,—all the night long.
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1
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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2
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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3
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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4
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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5
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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6
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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7
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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8
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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9
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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10
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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11
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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12
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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13
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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14
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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15
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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16
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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17
rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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18
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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19
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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20
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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21
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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22
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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23
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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24
bartered
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| v.作物物交换，以货换货( barter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
barter
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| n.物物交换，以货易货，实物交易 | |
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26
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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27
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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28
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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29
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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30
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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31
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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32
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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33
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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34
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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35
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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36
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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37
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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38
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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39
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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40
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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41
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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42
blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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43
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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44
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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45
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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