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THE 
 
 CURSE or THE VILLAGE. 
 
 By Hendrik Conscience, 
 
 Author of "The Village Innkeeper," "The Happiness of Being Rich," "Veta,'' 
 
 "The Lion op Flanders," "Count Hugo of Craenhove," " Wooden Clara," 
 
 "Ricketicketack," "The Demon of Gold," "The Poor Gentleman," 
 
 "The Conscript," "Blind Rosa," "The Amulet," "The Miser," 
 
 "The FisHEftHAM '8 Daughter," ETC 
 
 ^xwnshttii (Kjtpresslg for t^is dbitio;:. 
 
 BALTIMORE: 
 
 Published by John Murphy & Co. 
 
 182 Baltimore Street, 
 Sold by Booksellers Generally. 
 
FTloUU 
 
 frffiite }0 i\t ^wmimx (^Viimi 
 
 The " Curse of the Village " is a bold descrip- 
 tion, of the ravages of intemperance, — that bane of 
 vilhiges in the Old World as well as the New. 
 This talc is one of his latest additions to the charm- 
 ing sketches of Flemish life, for which the author is 
 so celebrated. 
 
 We are not anxious to forestall public opinion of 
 M. Conscience ; but we must observe that both in 
 his subjects and style he unites many of the peculiari- 
 ties of Scott, Dickens, and Hans Christian Andersen. 
 His romances possess the varied interest, the rapid 
 narrative, and the bold grouping of the first of these 
 distinguished writers ; while his everyday stories 
 are full of the nature, simplicity, humor, and pathos 
 that have made Boz and Andersen, household names 
 throughout our country. A British writer has well 
 remarked that the characteristics of his works " are 
 a hearty, sincere appreciation and love of the simple 
 life of the poor in all its forms ; a genial sympathy 
 with its occupations, its joys and sorrows ; a recog- 
 nition of its dignity , and an earnest, reverent treat- 
 ment of all conditions." 
 
 102 
 
THE 
 
 CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was afternoon, and two peasants were slowly 
 wending their vray homeward from a neighbor- 
 ing town. Their path lay through one of the 
 loveliest landscapes of Ilageland.* It was near 
 the crest of a hill, and was hewn out of the brown 
 ironstone, and then it wound along in numberless 
 gentle curves over hills and through quiet dells to 
 their village, which lay below them in the dis- 
 tance, there where a little spire, surmounted by a 
 gilded cross, gleamed amidst the dusky foliage. 
 On one side of the way rose the massive wall of 
 ironstone, — its dark hue relieved and adorned 
 with the exquisite green and purple of brambles 
 
 * Hageland is a tract of Belgium, beginning at the foot of the 
 hills at Aerschot and Diest, and stretching away beyond S. Tron 
 ind Tirlemont, in the direction of the Limbourgeois. The mos> 
 beautiful part of it is above Aerschot. 
 
 9 
 
10 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 and thorns, and other climhing shrubs and flow- 
 ers. Above these, rose .stern and inaccessible 
 peaks of mountains, which shut in the view in 
 that direction; but at intervals the ground sank 
 down into a graceful valley, and then the eye of 
 the traveller could range unobstructed over the 
 whole landscape, and watch the low lines of dark 
 firs which marked the undulating ridge of the 
 distant hills, and, now expanding, now contract- 
 ing their masses of green, but ever quieter and 
 softer in tone, died away at length into the blue 
 mist which curtained the horizon. 
 
 On the other side of the road, the torrents 
 which rush down the mountain-side in Winter had 
 cloven for themselves a broad channel in the iron- 
 stone ; and beyond this noisy stream stretched a 
 vast expanse of cultivated land, the well-defined 
 patches of which ran up the sides of a farther 
 range of hills, and seemed to hang like variegated 
 tapestry from their rugged shoulders. 
 
 It was autumn. The sun of the waning year 
 shone with fervid glow in the clear blue sky, and 
 played in countless changeful tints among the 
 half-decayed foliage. Although its rays were yet 
 powerful, there lay beneath the distant woods the 
 purple hue which shows that the air is cooler than 
 the earth, and the mist of evening was creeping 
 slowly up the hill-side. 
 
 From the eminence to which their path had 
 conducted them, our two travellers might have 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 11 
 
 seen the whole country for leagues around, and 
 enjoyed the magnificent picture that nature, in 
 her peaceful autumn mood, had spread out before 
 them ; but they seemed to take but small notice 
 of it, and continued their journey in unbroken 
 silence. 
 
 The one was an old man with gray hair and a 
 countenance set wuth deep wrinkles. Although 
 his back was slightly bent by the pressure of 
 years, he stepped out lightly along the road, and 
 apparently did not lean upon the medlar-tree 
 staff, which was attached to his wrist by a thong 
 of leather. His eyes, too, were still clear and 
 bright, aild the calm, earnest expression of his 
 whole face betokened great courage and a firm 
 will. 
 
 An ample felt hat of antique fashion partially 
 concealed his w^hite hairs, while a brown cloak, 
 equally old-fashioned in shape, hung down almost 
 to his heels. These clothes the good man had 
 w^orn as he knelt before the altar when he and 
 his Elizabeth w^ere made one in holy wedlock. 
 He had kept them with scrupulous care, for they 
 had cost him much; — it was now six-and- twenty 
 years ago, and even yet they came to the light 
 only when he was going to church or betaking 
 himself to the town on business. 
 
 The companion who stepped out by his side 
 was a young fellow on whose merry face beamed 
 nealth and vigor. A gay cloth cap hung over his 
 left ear, and allowed his brown hair to fall in 
 
12 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 clustering curls upon his shoulders; the ends of a 
 variegated neckerchief fell gracefully on hia 
 breast over his fine blue blouse. His black ejeg 
 shone with quiet gladness; a sweet half-smik 
 played about his mouth; and the rapid glances 
 which he cast around him from time to time were 
 full of simple innocence and gentle trust in life. 
 A walking-stick, from which hung a well-filled 
 basket, rested on his right shoulder, and the hand 
 which grasped the stick was unusually broad and 
 strong; his fingers seemed hardened and stift' 
 with labor, and so this young peasant, though 
 scarcely a man growm, had already toiled and 
 slaved much. 
 
 For some time the old man walked on with his 
 bead sunk lower upon his breast than was his 
 wont. Apparently some profound emotion had 
 touched his heart, for his face changed its expres- 
 sion from moment to moment, and he seemed as 
 if he were trying to digest some cause of vexation 
 or anger. 
 
 His companion looked at him in silence, and 
 endeavored to read in his countenance the cause 
 of his disquietude; and there was in the look 
 which the youth kept fixed upon the face of 
 the old man, as they w^alked on, a quiet, modest 
 sympathy, which betokened deep respect and 
 veneration. 
 
 At length, as if the thoughts of the old man had 
 led him to some conclusion, he said, in an ener- 
 getic tone of voice — 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 13 
 
 "Yes, Luke, my son, it is just what our old 
 pastor says sometimes, with a smile: — when the 
 devil saw that he could no longer catch souls fast 
 enough, he turned himself into gin. And since 
 then, hell has been too small." 
 
 "Why do you say so, father?" asked the 3'outh, 
 in astonishment. 
 
 But the old man followed on undisturbed the 
 thread of his meditation, and continued, with a 
 contemptuous smile — 
 
 "What more despicable creature is there on 
 earth than a drunkard? Indolent and careless, 
 he leaves his fields unsown and overrun with 
 weeds; he sees, without a blush of shame, his 
 purse gradually waste, and consumes, like a silly 
 sot, the little that he has earned. His wife and 
 children live in sorrow and misery; they suffer 
 hunger, and see the bitterest wretchedness stand 
 threatening at their door. He, meanwhile, 
 dances, sings, shouts, and swears, to the scandal 
 of the whole village; he tries to stifle the 
 gnawing reproaches of his conscience by yet 
 wilder excesses, and he stifles nothing but his 
 soul and his common sense. And so he goes on, 
 from bad to worse; until he and his wretched 
 family are forced to go out and beg, perhaps at 
 the gate of the very farmyard which his father 
 had rendered productive with the bitter sweat of 
 his brow, in order to leave his thankless son in a 
 decent position. Look you: when I think of it, 
 my blood boils in my veins. Base spendthrifts!" 
 
14 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 Tlie youth looked up at him with an expressior. 
 of inquiring amazement. 
 
 "Look at my hands, look at my face and my 
 bent back!" continued the old man, with increas- 
 ing emotion. "I am old in years, and worn out 
 by fatigue. I was early left an orphan ; my pa- 
 rents perished in the flames which consumed their 
 dwelling. I had an uncle, and the worthy man 
 sent me to school until I was thirteen years old; 
 then he died. I became a servant at the great 
 farm behind the Crossberg. When I married 
 j'our good mother, we had nothing but one goat 
 and a few florins we had saved from our wages. 
 We have worked and slaved, and been thrifty and 
 saving. God always blesses honest labor. !N"ow 
 we have a horse, four cows, land enough for us to 
 cultivate, and, besides, a little bit of money laid 
 np for a rainy day. One day a humble cross will 
 stand over my grave in the churchyard — that is 
 in the course of nature : but, Luke, you will then 
 remember — won't you? — that all that I have saved 
 and scraped together for you, — that your little 
 inheritance is the sweat of your father's toil ; that* 
 he, that your mother, have sufi'ered want and have 
 worn themselves to death that they might not 
 leave you on the world? You will keep it to- 
 gether, you will increase it by your own labor, you 
 will treasure it as a memorial of our love, won't 
 you?" 
 
 The deep and unusually solemn tone of the old 
 man's words had affected the youth so much that 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 15 
 
 the tears glistened in his eyes. With sorrow, yet 
 with sweetness in his voice, he soLbed — 
 
 " Oh, father dear, what are you talking about ? 
 you are deceiving yourself. I drank only one 
 (jlass of Flemish beer in the town at Master An- 
 toon's house; one glass only, and no more." 
 
 Pressing his hand, the old man resumed : 
 
 "Oh, it is not about you, Luke, that I am 
 speaking; you are honest and hard-working. I 
 thank God that, in reward of all my toils, he has 
 enabled you to be good and virtuous. Whenever 
 you shall stoop under the weight of years, old and 
 worn out, then will you feel, my son, what a com- 
 fort it is to know that the fruit of your labors will 
 not be squandered after you are dead !" 
 
 "But, father, I don't understand you," said the 
 son; "there is something still upon your heart. 
 Why don't you explain your meaning to me ?" 
 
 "It would sadden you too much, Luke." 
 
 " Sadden me ! what can it be, then?" 
 
 " Come, you shall hear all about it at once. Do 
 you know what our landlord's lawyer told me in 
 the town ? Farmer Staers is to be turned out of 
 his farm by the bailiifs to-morrow, or the day after 
 to-morrow !" 
 
 " Good heavens ! and Clara?" cried the young 
 man. in a tone of grief. 
 
 "Yes, Clara, poor Clara!" answered the old 
 man. " She has not deserved this miserable lot ; 
 but she must follow her father wherever he goes." 
 
 "Farmer Staers turned out of his farm!" re- 
 
16 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 peated Luke, with a shudder; *'but it is impos- 
 eible, father; what reasons can there be for it?" 
 
 "It is because he has not paid his last year's 
 rent; we are now in October?" 
 
 "But he has still a good piece of land, all his 
 own?" 
 
 " That was mortgaged two years ago, and so 
 came to nothing," answered the old man. 
 
 "Buthe was'leftrieh?" 
 
 "iTot rich; tolerably well off: and if he had 
 taken care of things, he might perhaps have be- 
 come rich, for he has lived through many very 
 good years for farmers." 
 
 "I am quite bewildered. Where can the inherit- 
 ance of his father have gone? one man could 
 never waste so much as that in drink !" 
 
 "Do you think so, Luke? The throat of a 
 drunkard is a cask without a bottom, and it does 
 not take fifteen years to pour through it much 
 more than Farmer Staers ever possessed. I will 
 tell you the whole affair, how things have gone 
 with him ; it will shorten the road, and at the 
 same time it may be a useful lesson to you, my 
 son." 
 
 Luke, agitated by very different feelings, wanted 
 to make some further observations andinquines; 
 but his father beckoned him to be silent, and con- 
 tinued : 
 
 " Listen, and don't interrupt me. The parents 
 of Jan Staers were very comfortably off; they 
 farmed well, and were not afraid of hard work; 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 17 
 
 but tliey lived too high, and gave themselves more 
 airs than are becoming in country-people. Their 
 only son, they said, should never run behind the 
 plough ; he should live in the town and be Ilyii- 
 herr Staers, So thej^ sent him to a school where 
 lawyers and doctors are made ; but at the end of 
 two years Jan got tired of learning, and wished 
 to be a farmer; thinking, I suppose, that it was 
 much more comfortable to be master of a largo 
 farm than to have to seek an uncertain livelihood 
 in the wide world. So far, it might have been 
 worse ; but instead of accustoming their son to 
 work, his parents let him do just what he liked, 
 and gave him plenty of money in his pocket. 
 * Opportunity makes the thief,' says the proverb; 
 and 'Idleness is the fountain-head of all vice,* 
 says our old pastor. Jan did not know what to 
 do with himself the whole day long. He went to 
 the inn, at first to amuse himself, then from habit; 
 he drank first one dram, then two, then several. 
 The innkeeper treated him with great attention, 
 and flattered his pride ; the toadeaters, who, un- 
 happily, are everywhere to be found in our villages, 
 followed him w^herever he went, and praised every 
 thing he did or said, to get a drink at his expense. 
 In short, Jan Staers had become a drunkard be- 
 fore either he or his parents were aware of it. 
 About this time he struck up an acquaintance 
 with the daughter of the landlord of the Blind 
 Horse, a small inn which stood at that time be- 
 hind there on the bill. He was married the same 
 
 B 2* 
 
18 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 clay that I was, and that is the only time I ever 
 felt vexed at another's good fortune. The bride 
 of Staers was clothed in silk and velvet ; he had 
 got a fine new cloak made in the town, and his 
 hat quite shone against the light. They looked 
 like the lords of the village. And there stood I 
 by them, with the same clothes I have on now: 
 and my poor Betsy, your mother, so humble, with 
 her cotton jacket and striped frock, that we looked 
 just like the servant and the maid of Farmer Staers. 
 Then, before the altar, I vowed to God that I 
 would slave and work until my good Betsy too 
 should go to church in better clothes. And I 
 have kept my vow. But I am forgetting the 
 adventures of Jan Staei's. You see, Luke, when 
 once a man becomes the slave of drink, he has 
 made over his soul to the devil. Very few ever 
 get out of his clutches again. 
 
 "For a little while after his marriage, Jan be- 
 haved tolerably well, and worked in his fields by 
 fits and starts. Ever^^body thought, and I thought 
 too, that all his folly and wildness had vanished 
 with his youth ; but by degrees he was to be seen 
 again in the inn, and though he did not drink as 
 freely as he used to do, his cheeks were now and 
 then flushed, and his eyes wandering and blood- 
 shot. His father and mother died in the same, 
 year, very near together. Jan became tenant of 
 the stone farm-house, and because he found his 
 father's cofiers well lined, he thought himself 
 above toil and carefulness. From that time he 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 19 
 
 took to drinking more freely, and neglected his 
 work more and more. His poor wife — ^wliether 
 he treated her ill I don't know^, but somehow she 
 pined away visibly, and every one could guess that 
 it was not from happiness. Jan still went to church 
 now and then; and one Sunday the curd said 
 something in his sermon — a sort of parable — 
 about a clay cottage which had devoured up a 
 farm-house of stone. The cottage, said he, was 
 inhabited by an industrious man ; while the occu- 
 pant of the stone house was, on the contrary, a 
 drunkard. And because our house, which was at 
 that time built of clay, stood not far from his farm, 
 Jan Staen took it into his head that the pastor 
 had him and me in his mind's eye. This made 
 him so angry wdth me, that from that time he has 
 looked on me with an evil eye. Among his boon 
 companions he called me all manner of names 
 — scrape-farthing, hair-splitter, pin-collector, and 
 such like — but I only laughed at his silly jests; 
 and I think, indeed, that it is a bad thing to have 
 the good word of wicked people. 
 
 "But I am always running away from my story. 
 And so, Luke, I need not take long in telling you 
 what your own eyes have seen, in part at least. 
 When Jan Staers saw that his aifairs were going 
 down hill a little too fast, he tried to push them 
 up again by a few vigorous strokes. He tried to 
 do something as a dealer in grain ; but as he had 
 the glass in his hand a great deal oftener than the 
 pen, that all went wrong, and in a very little while 
 
20 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 he had made a clean sweep of liis fortune. In 
 about six years his wife died, and since then Jau 
 Staers has been running headlong to ruin. Man- 
 servant and maid must troop from the farm-house 
 one after another; the fields were left always 
 fallow, or just one half-starved lad hired to set in 
 the potatoes ; his cows were sold one after another, 
 so that he has only one left. His last horse has 
 gone the same way. Fancy — only one wretched 
 cow in a farmyard like that! You see, Luke, it 
 vexes me as if it were my own property that w^as 
 wasted in this way. We, who are toiling and dig- 
 ging our dry sandy patch of land from morning to 
 night to wring a moderate harvest out of it, w^e 
 must look on and see such rich heavy fields as 
 these devoured by weeds, and of no use to any- 
 body ! Ah, it is a shame, I say — a shame in the 
 sight of God and man. Well, now, Jan Staers has 
 not been able to make up his last year's rent; our 
 landlord, who has borne with him a long time out 
 of respect for the memory of his excellent father, — 
 our landlord, I say, has lost all patience with him. 
 He is going to make very short work with Jan 
 Staers ; for to-morrow morning the bailifis w^ill put 
 an execution into the farm, and sell every thing he 
 has, and turn the lazy scoundrel into the street. 
 So it goes with all drunkards, my son ; the begin- 
 ning is a little dram, but the end is the beggar's 
 wallet, or theft, or— or yet worse still." 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 21 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 The youth had listened to this long stoiy with 
 much sorrow and many distractions ; and, now the 
 old man had ceased speaking, he asked — 
 
 "Have you finished, father?" 
 
 "Yes, Luke, I have finished. !N"ow you will 
 understand what put me out of humor." 
 
 " But, father, does Farmer Staers know the mis- 
 fortune that threatens him?" 
 
 "To be sure he does; there has been a writ out 
 against him, and he was allowed till yesterday to 
 get the money together. Yesterday and the day 
 before he was reeling about from one public-house 
 to another, and turning the whole village upside 
 down. That is not the way to find money to pay 
 one's rent." 
 
 Both were now silent for some time, and walked 
 on, lost in thought. A little in advance, on the 
 top of a hill near the road, there was a stone cross, 
 just such as are set up in places where some foul 
 deed has been perpetrated. The father looked at 
 it, and said, in a kind of reverie, as if talking to 
 himself — 
 
 " On that cross it says that one Peter Darinckx 
 
22 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 was barbarously killed just here. The barLarous 
 murderer was — gin ! That happened before this 
 road was cut out of the hill-side. Down there, 
 there were great heaps of stones; in the inn 
 yonder behind the hill, Darinckx had been drink- 
 ing till he lost his senses, and in the darkness he 
 lost his footing and fell down this precipice, with 
 his forehead on the stones. God is merciful ; but 
 for all that, I fear for his poor soul." 
 
 The lad was walking on by his father's side, 
 with his head bent down on his breast, and with- 
 out seeming to be listening to what he said. The 
 old man saw that his heart was filled with bitter 
 sorrow, and looked at him with deep and tender 
 compassion. Suddenly raising his head, the young 
 peasant exclaimed, with suppressed energy, — 
 
 "But Clara, the poor helpless Clara, — what will 
 become of her?" 
 
 " I was thinking of her, too, my son ; but I see 
 nothing before the poor lass except misfortune and 
 sorrow." 
 
 "l^othingbut misfortune and sorrow !" repeated 
 Luke, in a dejected tone. "Oh, father, may I tell 
 you what is in my heart ? But you would bo so 
 angry that I dare not." 
 
 "I can well guess what it is; and it gives me 
 pain enough on your account, my poor Luke ; but 
 God has so decreed it, and you must bow meekly 
 beneath his wiU." 
 
 "You can guess it?" stammered the you'h. his 
 face suffused with a blush of modest shame ""N"?- 
 
THE CURSE OE THE VILLAGE. 23 
 
 body on earth knows it, nobody but — mother only, 
 and she did not scold me, but the contrary." 
 
 A few wrinkles began to throw their gloom over 
 the old man's forehead. 
 
 "E'o, father, don't vex yourself," said the youth, 
 imploringly. "It is a feeling that has grownup 
 in me so gradually, without my knowledge, with- 
 out my will. First of all, it was only pity and 
 sympathy; I could not bear to see that luckless 
 lamb, so tender and so beautiful, working alone in 
 the farmyard, hoeing and manuring the ground, 
 and from morning to night toiling ajid slaving so 
 hard that a man would break down under it. So, 
 when her father was away, and our own work was 
 slack, I helped her a little now and then, and did 
 some of the hardest of her work for her. But out 
 of her gratitude and my pity, another feeling 
 sprang up in both of us. I have kept it a secret 
 from everybody, except mother. But the thought 
 that they are going to drive Clara out of the farm* 
 house and turn her into the street, and that in all 
 probability she will have to beg her bread, oh, this 
 thought half kills me — it makes me beside myself 
 — it makes me bold enough to say to you now, 
 father, what otherwise would never have crossed 
 my lips." 
 
 And in a low voice, and with his head hung 
 down, he murmured, or rather allowed to escape, 
 as it were, on the breath of a deep-drawn sigh, tho 
 words — 
 
 "Father, Hove Clara!" 
 
24 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 After a little pause, the 'old man asked, as if Ins 
 thoughts were wandering — 
 
 "Have you ever told her this, Luke?" 
 
 "Oh, no, never!" said the youth. 
 
 "But how do you know, then, whether she has 
 any inclination toward you ?" 
 
 "I don't know it at all, father," answered Luke 
 with his eyes lixed on the ground, and a very visi 
 ble tremor; "but her eyes, her voice, something 
 that I can't explain, something mysterious, as if 
 our two souls were but one soul — " 
 
 "Don't worry yourself about it, Luke," said th*. 
 old man, with a tender voice; "I knew all thi? 
 long ago ; and if I had been displeased about it, ) 
 should have stopped it all at first. The weed, 1/ 
 weed it is, must be rooted out betimes, or else i'. 
 is not easy to get the upper hand of it." 
 
 "Ah, thank you, thank you, father, for youi 
 goodness !" cried the young man. "Xow you cac 
 well understand my grief, my anguish. Clara 
 turned out of doors — Clara driven to beg, like a 
 mere vagrant! But it cannot be,. father; and it 
 shall not be. It will make me ill ; — ^I shall pine 
 away, and most likely die outright!" 
 
 " ISTo, no, Luke, not quite so bad as that ; but 
 still, I feel your sorrow very deeply. Clara is a 
 good and industrious child, and if it were pos- 
 sible to do any thing for her, I, — the hair-splitter, 
 the screw, the lick-penny, — I would not let her 
 beg or starve ; she should have a few crowns out 
 of your mother's hoard ; but if I were to give her 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 25 
 
 money, her father would get hold of it and be oil' 
 with it to the public-house." 
 
 *'An alms to her!" sobbed the youth, in a tone 
 of despair. 
 
 "My toil, and the toil of your mother, shall 
 never go to pay for gin — never !" 
 
 "There is another plan, father." 
 
 "Another plan, Luke? let us hear it, then." 
 
 The young man was silent, and kept his eyes 
 fixed bashfully on the ground, and it seemed to 
 his father that his legs trembled as he walked, 
 and that he was suffering from some unwonted 
 perturbation. 
 
 "Is the plan, then, so very dreadful, my 
 son," asked he, "that you are afraid to tell it 
 tome?" 
 
 "Well, then, it must come out!" exclaimed the 
 young farmer, as though he had taken a desperate 
 resolution. He then relapsed a wdiile into silence, 
 and at length said, in a voice very low and tremu- 
 lous with emotion — 
 
 "Oh, do not be angry with me, father; I will 
 submit myself entirely to your wnll, even if ni}^ 
 obedience to you carries me to the churchyard. I 
 had a sort of dream — I dreamed — in the night — ■ 
 it was a month ago last night — I had dug a few 
 roods of land for Clara the evening before, and 
 my work had quite tired me out — " 
 
 " Come, come, don't go such a way round about. 
 What was it you dreamed ?" 
 
 " It was beautiful enough ! Methought I saw 
 
 3 
 
26 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 you, father, in tlie chimney-corner, with your pipe 
 in your mouth, sitting quite at your ease, laugliing 
 and making merry, just like a rich man ; and mo- 
 ther was singing at her wheel, 'Where can one 
 better be ^' It was so beautiful and so much like 
 heaven, that I should like to dream on so till — for- 
 ever ; but you, father, must be there, and mother 
 too, and — and — and Clara, too." 
 
 "Ho, ho! Clara was there, was she?" said the 
 old man, with a smile. "I had a notion she 
 would be." 
 
 His countenance assumed a more serious ex- 
 pression, and he remarked — 
 
 "But, Luke, my boy, take care what you say. 
 You would like to dream like that forever ; would 
 you really give up heaven for a dream ?" 
 
 " Oh, forgive me, father ; it is only a way of 
 speaking ; I don't mean that ; I mean to say only 
 that my dream was so very lovely — " 
 
 "]^ow, then, Luke," said the old man, impa- 
 tiently, " are you going on with your dream ? or, 
 rather, let us talk of something else." 
 
 "Ko, no, father, keep in a good temper," said 
 the youth, in a beseeching tone; "I will take 
 courage and out with all ; you may be angr^^ with 
 me, but I cannot help it now. Listen to what I 
 saw in my dream ; — We had eight cows and two 
 horses, ploughed land and meadow-land in abun- 
 dance. Methought I was as strong as a giant; 
 my hands had grown broad and thick ; I felt in 
 myself a continually increasing energy and a 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. • 27 
 
 wonderful courage. "W"e worked — I moan, I 
 worked — from break of day to the late evening. 
 My labor made me so happy, that I could have 
 nailed the suu fast in the sky, to have more hours 
 to work in. Every thing went well with ns; 
 God's blessing was on our dwelling ; our orchards 
 and our fields all looked bright w^ith beauty and 
 with abundance. You must not work any more, 
 father ; — yes, you have already slaved too much in 
 your life : is it not so ? But, however increased 
 our property was, yet the work was all too little 
 for us — for me, I mean. You, father, you sat in 
 the chimney smoking your pipe, or you just strolled 
 out into the fields to give me your advice. That 
 is just as it should be, for you know every thing 
 about farming from your long experience ; but 
 you must not work any more. And mother was 
 waited on, and tended, and cared for, by Clara, out 
 of pure love and affection — oh, we were all the 
 while so happy and blithe, — and Clara, too. And 
 you, father, and my good mother, you loved Clara 
 as if she had been your own child ; for she it was 
 who, by her sweet aficction, made our home a 
 heaven of peace and of love !" 
 
 The youth here paused, and watched for his 
 father's answer, with downcast look. 
 
 After a while, the old man asked drily — 
 
 " So, in your dream, Clara lived with us ; as a 
 servant, I suppose?" 
 
 Trembling in every limb, and with a deep sigh, 
 Luke whispered — 
 
28 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 "No, father, she was my wife !" 
 
 The old man gave his son a gentle slap on the 
 face, and said, good-humoredly — 
 
 *' Well, that beats all ! why, you ought to be a 
 lawyer, Luke. There is a horrible word to bring 
 out ! — jouv wife, indeed ! This is a serious mat- 
 ter, my lad ; let us talk it over soberly ; let us have 
 it out plainly and frankly, like two friends. I will 
 tell you something that will put you quite at your 
 ease. For more than five years your good mother 
 and I have had our dreams too, and we had a 
 notion that Clara would make you a very good 
 wife. It is quite as long as that, I fancy, Luke, 
 since you have taken to wander round about the 
 stone house whenever you found the v^ay clear ? 
 AYould you believe, Luke, that our slaving and 
 scraping together was not quite unconnected with 
 our wish to see you married to Clara? Her father 
 was, or seemed to be, a well-to-do tenant farmer, 
 and so he carried his head uncommonly high. He 
 would never have consented to his daughter's 
 marriage with the son of a poor cattle-driver, such 
 as I was at that time." 
 
 '* But now, father, now he v>dll give his consent 
 joyfully!" 
 
 "1 haven't a doubt of that! But that does not 
 make all square. Then he had plenty, now he 
 has little—" 
 
 Luke raised his hand with a deprecating gesture 
 toward his father, as though he would check the 
 chilling decision that was coming. 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 29 
 
 "That is to saj, now he has nothing left," con- 
 cluded the old man. 
 
 "Oh, father!" exclaimed the youth, "you your- 
 self have said that you had nothing when you 
 mariied my mother, and you have assured me that 
 you have always been quite contented with your 
 lot. Oh, do not render me miserable for the sake 
 of a little money." 
 
 "Money!" repeated the old man; "it is not tlio 
 money that makes the difficulty. They call me 
 scrape-farthing — they think I am a miser; but 
 money is worth nothing to me, except so far as 
 it is the fruit of my own labor. If anybody 
 w^ere to ofter me a treasure, I should not care to 
 take it, unless I thought that you, Luke, might 
 perhaps be the better for it. For myself, I 
 should not care for money that I did not earn; 
 I should not be able to eat or drink more than 
 before; and if I were to give up work, idleness 
 would soon make me ill, and I should pine 
 away." 
 
 " But, father, you are an extraordinary person ! 
 why won't you give your consent?" cried the 
 youth, in an agony of impatience; "or do you 
 think that I shall not follow your example? Be 
 very sure that my horny hands will not have time 
 to grow soft, any more than 3'ours have. Have 
 you ever heard me say of any work. It is difficult; 
 or, It is too much?" 
 
 " No, Luke ; it is right good blood that flows 
 in your veins, I know that. Bat 3'ou interrupt 
 
30 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 me, and 1 don't like it; it leads us away from 
 the matter in hand. There is something, my son, 
 which you have not taken into your calculation. 
 When farmer Staers w^as well off, if Clara had 
 ])ecome your wife she might have lived with us, 
 or you could have hired a little cottage; but now 
 her father has no home over his head, lie 
 would, of course, live with you, drink the pro- 
 duce of your toil, and perhaps help to bring you 
 to ruin." 
 
 The young man stood still a moment; a f^ud- 
 den thrill of anguish convulsed his heart, and, at 
 length, a cry of bitter disappointment relieved his 
 laboring breast. The father continued : 
 
 "It is a solemn duty — I think it even stands 
 written in the Law — that children should support 
 their parents whenever they are no longer able to 
 earn their own bread. To be a drunkard is a 
 much worse thing than to be a cripple or lame; 
 for a drunkard not only earns nothing, but he 
 w^astes and consumes every thing he can lay hands 
 on. Think for a moment, Luke; you will toil 
 like a slave; he will roam about, and be every- 
 where; he will defile your house with unseemly 
 words, with curses, and blasphemy; perhaps he 
 will ill-use your poor wife if she will not give 
 him money enough to satisfy his contemptible 
 craving. And then, God may grant you children; 
 they will have this example before their eyes from 
 their cradle ; they will hear cursing and swearing ; 
 they must say * grandfather' to a wretch who will 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 31 
 
 hear nothing of cliurcli or clergyman; and who, 
 with his eyes wide open, gives his soul to the 
 devil! No, my son, that can never be: you see, 
 now, it never can be, and you will bow in hu- 
 mility beneath the cross which God gives you to 
 bear. Is it not so, Luke? You will be good 
 find sensible, and not sacrifice your life and your 
 Nvell-being to a passion which, after a brief mo- 
 ment of anguish, will die away of itself?" 
 
 The young man spoke not a word ; only a dry, 
 hoarse sound was heard in his throat, and he in- 
 sensibly quickened his pace, as though urged on 
 by keen suiFering, or distracted by grief. He 
 pressed his arms in silence close to his body, and 
 his every muscle quivered with his agony. 
 
 His father fixed his eyes on him with pro- 
 found sympathy and compassion; after a while ho 
 said, in a sorrowful tone — 
 
 " Do not imagine, Luke, that I inflict this sor- 
 row on you without keen pain. I dare not ne- 
 glect my duty as a father. Oh, be sure, I would 
 give the half of ni}^ little possessions to be able to 
 gratify your wish; it is my own wish, too, and the 
 wish of your mother; but it must not be I" 
 
82 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 These last words of his father smote on iho 
 heart of the youth as an irrevocable decree of fate ; 
 a faint, shrill cry burst from his lips; he thrust his 
 hand into his bosom, and his fingers moved con- 
 vulsively, as though, in the extremity of his de- 
 spair, they were tearing his breast ; but he spoke 
 not a word. 
 
 The old man, too, walked on rapidly, without 
 uttering a word. After a while he turned his face 
 toward his son, and pressed his hand on his fore- 
 head. He was buried in deep meditation ; mak- 
 ing a violent effort to discover something to con- 
 sole his poor son. 
 
 And now they were drawing near their home — 
 at the end of an avenue of lofty pines they could 
 already see the houses at the entrance of their vil- 
 lage. 
 
 Suddenly the old man raised his head, a cry of 
 joy escaped him, and he said: "Ah! Luke, I have 
 found it!" 
 
 The youth stood still as a statue; his eyes, 
 suffused with tears, glistened with eager ex- 
 pectation ; trembling, and with both hands 
 stretched out toward his father, he looked 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 33 
 
 as if lie would see the words issue from his 
 mouth. 
 
 " IN'o, not so fast, Luke," said the old man, 
 moderating his own joy. "It is a serious pro- 
 ject, and I must sleep over it first." 
 
 " For God's sake, father, tell me, tell me, what 
 have you found?" implored the distracted youth. 
 
 The old man took his son's hand, and said, Avith 
 a restrained gladness of tone — 
 
 " Luke, suppose I were to go to Jan Staers, and 
 propose to him to take his lease, and to let him 
 remain still at the stone house with your mother 
 and me ? I would show you, old as I am, whether 
 the land would not, with some toil and sweat, 
 amply pay the yearly rent. The example of Jan 
 Staers cannot hurt me ; continual work has given 
 me a tolerably thick skin on my body. Then you 
 and Clara might go and live in our cottage ; we 
 should be able to. see one another every day, and 
 help each other — and you and your wife, and your 
 children, when the}^ come, you at least might live 
 in peace. If the night does not bring any change 
 of plan, I shall go over in the morning and break 
 the matter to Jan Staers." 
 
 Luke let his basket drop on the ground, threw 
 his arms round his father's neck, and, overpowered 
 by emotion, burst into tears on the old man's 
 breast, while he murmured, with a voice choked 
 and interrupted by sobs — 
 
 '' Father, you are too good ! May God recom- 
 pense you in his heaven — and I will never forget 
 
34 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 it as long as I live — ^I shall love you and honor 
 you — Oh, I don't know where I am — my brain is 
 reeling — Claia, the sweet Clara, she shall — " 
 
 '•Look, yonder comes Clara !" said his father. 
 
 Along a side-path between the pine-trees, and 
 at some little distance, the young maiden was 
 coming toward them; she was walking steadily 
 on, with her eyes bent on the ground, slowly, and 
 with an air of distraction. 
 
 At the first word of his father, the youth had 
 released himself from his embrace, and was about 
 to run toward the damsel, in the fulness of his joy, 
 when the old man detained him, and, with solemn 
 voice, charged him — 
 
 "Luke, not a word of this plan to Clara, do you 
 hear ? I must first sleep over it, and know what 
 her father thinks about it." 
 
 The young man made a sign with his head that 
 he would keep silence about the good news, and 
 then sprang forward to Clara, who had by this 
 time come several steps nearer to them. Luke 
 was so overjoyed that he threw his cap into the 
 air, and sang and danced like a child, and filled 
 the wood with cries of joy. But that he had any 
 good news to tell, and had good reason to be glad 
 — of this he said not a word. 
 
 He seized the maiden by the hand, and drew 
 her toward the spot from which his father was 
 watching him with a look of reproach. 
 
 " Come, Clara, come !" exclaimed the young 
 man, quite wild with joy. " Oh, if I could tell 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 85 
 
 you al I ! — Father won't let me — to-morrow ! to- 
 morrow ! — Come, Clara ; laugh, sing, be merry ; — 
 but I must not speak of it — I am ready to burst, 
 but I must not speak. I would give five francs — 
 that is, if I had them — if you could guess it your- 
 self. — It sticks like a great ball in my throat — • 
 Oh, it is so lovely — so lovely! — " 
 
 The old man had meanwhile advanced several 
 steps, and now seized his son's wrist in his still 
 powerful grasp. 
 
 "Luke, Luke," said he, reproachfully, "this is 
 not manly of you !" 
 
 As though the pressure of his father's hand, and 
 the severe tone of his voice, had aroused him from 
 a dream, the youth bowed his head in shame, but 
 soon raised it again boldly, and with a sweet smile 
 playing on his face. 
 
 " It was time, father," murmured he ; "I can't 
 help it; but it was on the tip of my tongue." 
 
 The damsel looked at them both with a quiet 
 astonishment, and seemed to ask what had hap- 
 pened, or what it was that they were so anxious 
 to conceal from her. Her features were beautiful, 
 and her figure slender and graceful; there was 
 something of earnestness and patient endurance in 
 the slow, cautious gaze of her dark eyes. Although 
 her cheeks, embrowned by exposure, betokened a 
 degree of thinness, continuous toil had made her 
 limbs firm and strong. She carried her head erect, 
 and there was an expression about her fine mouth 
 which might have been construed into pride, had 
 
36 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 not the whole village known that it was impossible 
 to find a damsel more tender-hearted and humble 
 than she was. Constant reflection and thought, the 
 bearing her melancholy burden withont hope, with- 
 out alleviation, had graven two deUcate Avrinkles 
 around. her lips. Although her clothes had well- 
 nigh lost their original color, and here and there 
 a patch or a seam showed that much care had 
 been expended to conceal the ravages of time, 
 they were so clean, and were worn with so becom- 
 ing a grace, that, at the first glance, she seemed 
 more richly dressed than other peasant girls. 
 
 After a few quiet words of greeting had passed 
 between her and the old man, the latter took the 
 basket on his shoulder, placed himself in the 
 middle between the two young people, and so all 
 three went on toward the village. 
 
 Luke began to talk of the beautiful weather, of 
 the approaching procession, and of the Kermes on 
 the Crossberg, and of all kinds of bright and joy- 
 ous things ; but, every now and then, he mixed with 
 his remarks some w^jrds of double meaning, which 
 more than once compelled his father to make him 
 a sign to remember the prohibition laid on him. 
 
 Clara seemed out of sympathy with all their 
 demonstrations of joy, and she walked on with a 
 downcast and melancholy look. 
 
 They were now only two or three bowshots 
 from the first house of the village, when Luke 
 addressed to Clara a direct question, which com- 
 pelled her to turn her face toward him. 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 37 
 
 " Clara, you are crying ! your tears are flow- 
 ing !" exclaimed he, suddenly leaving his father's 
 Bide and planting himself directly in front of the 
 maiden. " Oh, comfort yourself, comfort yourself 
 — there will be an end of all this; we will — oh, 
 no — ^you shall be so very happy — to-morrow you 
 shall—" 
 
 But a glance from his father cut short his revela- 
 tions. 
 
 " Oh, tell me, Clara, tell me, why you aro 
 weeping so bitterly !" asked he, in anguish ; and, 
 all of a sudden disenchanted, he raised his hand 
 to his eyes, and brushed away from each a pearly 
 tear. 
 
 "Oh, dear friend," sobbed Clara, "I have suf- 
 fered so much ! my heart is breaking in my bosom 
 Since the morning I have been wandering in the 
 wood, and w^eeping in solitude over my bitter lot. 
 I dare not return home ; it will be henceforward 
 so desert and lonely to me — " 
 
 " Good heavens ! has any misfortune happened ?" 
 groaned Luke. " Your father ? — " 
 
 " My father is gone to the town," answered the 
 maiden. 
 
 "But you distress me, Clara. Tell me, then, 
 why your tears are flowing." 
 
 With increased melancholy, the damsel replied : 
 
 "You know, well. Father Torfs, our cow — the 
 last of all — that Luke used to call 'white mammy.' 
 A.las! I have fed it and cared for it ever since it 
 vaa SL poor little calf — my only companion in the 
 
 4 
 
38 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 -woi'ld, my last possession on earth — to whom I 
 nsecl to tell every thing that made me suiFer and 
 feel sad. She had as much sense as a human 
 being; she could see in my eyes what I w^anted to 
 tell her. Whenever I was crying, and my tears 
 would fall as I rested my head on her neck, the 
 grateful beast would lick my hands to console 
 me. Yes, Luke, you might w^ell call her 'white 
 mammy,' for she has fed us a long time, and has 
 been my only resource. But for her, and but — 
 but for you, Luke, I should long ere this have been 
 laid to rest beneath the grass in the churchyard. 
 Oh, I did not know that a human being could ever 
 feel so much love for a beast ; but if I had a sister, 
 and she w^ere, unhappily, to die, it seems to me it 
 w^ould not pierce my heart more deeply. I shall 
 become quite ill with it. Oh, poor creature, poor 
 creature, my good beast !" 
 
 "Is the cow dead, Clara?" asked the old 
 man. 
 
 "Worse, worse than dead!" sobbed the poor 
 maiden; "father sold her this morning to our 
 
 neighbor, the butcher, Thomas ." And w^ith 
 
 a flood of tears she ended with the words — "And 
 I saw her white skin, all stained with blood, hang- 
 ing at his door. Oh, God ! it is enough to kill me 
 with grief!" 
 
 The old father, overcome by the tone of Clara's 
 voice, had covered his eyes with his hands; Luke 
 wept aloud; all three stood melted into tears over 
 the death of a cow ! Marvellous sentiment of grati- 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 39 
 
 tude, which retahis so deep and living a memory 
 of benefits, even when conferred on us by a beast 
 of the field! 
 
 The weeping of the aged father changed very 
 rapidly into anger; he stamped his foot on the 
 ground with vexation, and murmured between his 
 lips biting words, of which enough was heard to 
 show that Clara's father was their object. 
 
 "And why did your father sell the cow?" said 
 he; '^as usual, to — " 
 
 "To pay his arrears of rent," interposed the 
 dajiisel. 
 
 "Ah, he is gone to pay his rent!" exclaimed. 
 Luke, with joy. 
 
 "And do not blame my poor father," said Clara, 
 in a tone of entreaty; "you cannot know all; but 
 he is so unfortunate ! Oh, rather have a little 
 S3'mpathy with him, and pray God to look merci- 
 fully on him!" 
 
 The old man felt his eyes becoming moist again. 
 The last words of the maiden, spoken with a voice 
 so beseeching and so full of love, had deeply af- 
 fected him; and he looked at her thoughtfully and 
 with beaming eyes, as though he w^ere on the point 
 of saying something very important to her. 
 
 The young man divined what was working in 
 his father's mind, and with his hands upraised to 
 him he seemed to implore a favorable decision. 
 The old father seized Clara's hand wdth deep emo- 
 tion, and while he led her hastily toward the vil- 
 hfy/ le said — 
 
40 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 "Clara, I love you right well; you are a noble 
 child. But be of good comfort: the God above us 
 tries and proves even virtuous men ; but at length 
 ho rewards steadfastness in goodness, and patient 
 endurance in sufiering. Come, we will have some 
 coffee, and talk with mother about good things. 
 Be of good courage, my child; whatever may 
 happen, look you, in us you will always find 
 friends in need." 
 
 "Oh, father, tell her it now!" implored the 
 youth. "Tell it to her: all her grief will be sud 
 denly changed into gladness." 
 
 "I shall tell Clara in the house all that she ought 
 to know," answered the old man, in a tone of severe 
 rebuke. "If you will not obey me, and cannot 
 keep silence to-day, I shall cease henceforward to 
 tell you of my projects and intentions." 
 
 At this moment they turned a corner in the 
 village path, and stood before the humble dwelling 
 of old Torfs. 
 
 Clara pointed with her finger in the distance 
 toward the house of the butcher, before whose 
 door, sure enough, there hung the bloody hide of 
 a recently slaughtered beast. 
 
 "Poor mammy! Oh, my helpless cow!" sobbed 
 she. " Look ! look ! her skin ! all bedabbled with 
 blood!" 
 
 But Luke put an end to her lamentations, by 
 seizing her arm and pushing her before him into 
 the cottage. 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 41 
 
 CHAPTER W, 
 
 The morning after these occurrences, Clara was 
 sitting in a lower room of the stone farm-house. 
 On her lap lay a garment of her father's, and she 
 was trying, with needle and thread, to mend its 
 numerous rents. 
 
 All around her was unusually still and lonely; 
 not a noise, not a sound, either within or without, 
 broke the deep repose which brooded over the 
 spacious apartment. Even the pendulum of the 
 clock hung motionless ; and it was easy to see that 
 the wheels had been long doomed to inaction, for 
 both the hands had fallen by their own weight and 
 pointed to the number six. 
 
 Very little furniture adorned this best room of 
 the stone farm ; its scantiness revealed that poverty 
 had her dwelling here. From the wretched con- 
 dition of the few things that remained, one might 
 conjecture that decay and slow ruin had prevented 
 the inhabitants from replacing gradually w^hat was 
 worn out and mending what was broken. 
 
 Thus in the farther corner stood two chairs, but 
 their rush bottoms were broken and stuck up m 
 the air like the bristles of a hedge-hog; a little 
 farther off were two others, each with one or two 
 
 4* 
 
42 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 of its legs broken. Yes, one could see that the 
 leaf of the table and the corners of the great ward 
 robe had been injured by violence; for the miss- 
 ing pieces could not have been broken off except 
 by a great effort and on purpose. 
 
 On the dresser — where our farm-houses usually 
 make a very brilliant display of pewter plates, 
 dishes, and spoons — stood only two or three tin 
 trenchers, the crushed and bent edges of which 
 also indicated violence. The rest of the things 
 yvere nothing but fragments: plates with pieces 
 out of their rims, jugs without lip or handle, 
 spoons with broken handles, forks with their 
 prongs dislocated or wanting. 
 
 And yet, withal, every thing in this room was 
 neat and clean. The tin trenchers shone like 
 silver, not a speck dimmed the brightness of the 
 well-scoured plates, the woodwork of the chairs 
 was well washed, and on the floor of red tiles, 
 sadly injured here and there, glittering sand had 
 been sprinkled in fantastic patterns. No one 
 could doubt that in this house there was some 
 one who exerted every effort to conceal as far as 
 possible the tokens of approaching poverty. 
 
 Clara continued her work in silence, although 
 her countenance gave indication of manifold and 
 varied meditations. A smile of gentle gladness 
 played restlessly about her mouth, her dark eyes 
 glowed with a soft light, her bosom rose and fell 
 more quickly than usual, and her very lips kept 
 moving, as though she were whispering words of 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 43 
 
 hope to herself. From time to time she paused 
 and turned her head in the direction of a small 
 door, and hearkened whether any sound came 
 from behind it. 
 
 After having kept her eyes fixed for a long time 
 on her work, she raised her head and said, half 
 aloud, as if talking to herself: 
 
 "Ah, won't father be glad? — l^ow I know what 
 has made liim unhappy for so long a time. It 
 was the being forced to leave his farm ! It was 
 shame that was gnawing at his heart; it was to 
 
 drown his bitter grief that he wandered about 
 
 so dejectedly from morning to night. But now 
 Farmer Torfs will help us, and set us up again ; 
 the good man — ^lie says that he will raise my father 
 out of his poverty, and make his life calm and 
 peaceful. Oh, ray God ! may this come to pass ! 
 Perhaps then he will be cured of the horrid vice ; — 
 but what could Luke want to make me understand 
 with his extraordinary gestures and grimaces? 
 There is a secret I must not know. I am sure it 
 must be a merry secret, for Luke could scarcely 
 contain himself for joy. lie turned and wriggled 
 about on his chair, then he jumped up as if he had 
 something to tell me, then he sat down again in a 
 hurry, and looked deep into my eyes — I am quite 
 dying of curiosity. What can it be?" 
 
 The maiden bowed her head, and, while a quiet 
 Bmile lingered on her countenance, she tried to 
 guess what it could be that they were so anxious 
 to keep from her. At last her expression relapsed 
 
44 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAQE. 
 
 into its ordinary cast of seriousness, and, resunriing 
 the thread of her former musings, she said — 
 
 ^* Really, I do think father is a little hetter 
 now ! He went yesterday to pay off* a part of his 
 arrears of rent. This must have given him great 
 comfort, and he will rise this morning with a 
 lighter heart. Yes, yes, he will talk in a friendly 
 way with Farmer Torfs : my poor white mammy 
 will, after all, have helped to make us very happy 
 hy her death. But father stays too long in bed. 
 Eight o'clock already ! Anyhow, it was very late 
 when he came home. Perhaps he may he sick. 
 Ah, if he should have one of his wretched head- 
 aches, and be quite distracted with pain ! I v/ish 
 I could go into his room and see. 1:^0, no; he 
 would only be angry with me, perhaps. And 
 Farmer Torfs, who may come any moment — I don't 
 know — I am quite at a loss. Father cannot endure 
 old Torfs. Suppose he should begin to abuse him 
 or treat him ill!" 
 
 She raised her eyes beseechingly to heaven, and 
 her lips moved in deep though quiet prayer. 
 
 At this moment a man's head appeared at the 
 window which looked out into the street. It was 
 Luke, who, with his neck stretched out at full 
 length, and his face all smiles, was looking into 
 the room from the street. 
 
 But no sooner did his eye fall on the young 
 maiden, who with folded hands gazed steadfastly 
 toward heaven, than he was struck with wonder 
 and admiration ; an expression of surprise banished 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 45 
 
 the smile from his countenance, and he stood, with 
 his mouth open, gazing fixedly on the praying girl. 
 
 How charming did she now appear in his eyes, 
 now when her moistened eyes were uplifted in 
 trustful prayer to God, now that the glow of her 
 eager petition and the sw^eet smile of her entreaty 
 irradiated her graceful form w^ith a beauty super- 
 human ! 
 
 The young man might have lingered long in 
 utter forgetfulness of all but the lovely vision 
 before him ; but the maiden's prayer ceased, her 
 head had sunk on her bosom, and she had begun 
 again to talk aloud to herself, in a sort of half 
 distraction. 
 
 Luke suddenly disappeared from the window; 
 a moment after, Clara w^as surprised to hear a 
 gentle knock at the outer door. She turned round 
 and saw her friend Luke, who nodded to her and 
 gave her a sign that she should make no noise. 
 When the maiden had come near him, he asked, 
 in a low voice — 
 
 " Clara, is your father up yet?" 
 
 "No, he is still asleep," w^as the answer. 
 
 "Haven't you heard him stirring yet?" 
 
 "l^otyet." 
 
 " My father has sent me to see whether he can 
 come now to speak to Farmer Staers." 
 
 He then raised the damsel's hand, and with an 
 air of joyful mystery he drew her into the corner 
 near the door, and then he whispered — 
 
 " Clara, do you think you know what my father 
 
46 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 has to propose to yours? Ila! hai you know 
 nothing at all about it. It is the most beautiful, 
 altogether the most beautiful thing you could ever 
 imagine !" 
 
 " Oh, Luke," said the maiden, in a coaxing tone, 
 while her eyes glistened with eager curiosity, " do 
 tell me what it is ; I haven't slept all night long 
 for thinking about it; the secret was every mo- 
 ment before me ; I could not close my eyes : I can't 
 imagine what it can be." 
 
 "Ah, if you had known what it is, Clara, you 
 would have had better reason for lying awake. I 
 liaven't slept a wink all the night either — at least, 
 so far as I know. Oh, it is something, something 
 so — I can't tell you what — it is just the thing to 
 make you jump ten feet into the air for joy. I 
 have already cut more capers this morning than in 
 a whole Kermes day." 
 
 Clara looked at him with entreaty in her eyes, 
 and as if she would draw the reluctant words out 
 of his mouth, when he suddenly changed his tone, 
 and said — 
 
 " Oh, lassie, lassie, you would like to know what 
 it is ; wouldn't you, now? yes, I know that right 
 well. If you could only half guess what it is, you 
 might get me to tell you the rest, but that you 
 can't do. Father has forbidden me — and so you 
 see clearly, I can't tell you. Beautiful! and so 
 blissful ! this news ! when you hear it, and it can't 
 be more than two hours more, you won't know 
 what to do with yourself for joy." 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 47 
 
 "Won't you tell me?" asked the maiden, with a 
 little vexation on her face, and a slight accent of 
 threatening in her tone of voice. 
 
 "Don't he sulky, Clara; I must not. Else! — 
 You may fancy I have heen ready to hurst ever 
 Bince I knew it. Last evening and this morning, 
 as soon as I was alone, I have been telling you all 
 about it out aloud more than twenty times — but I 
 couldn't tell it to you as you stand there now — no, 
 not for the world. But if you did know it, oh, 
 oh, — how you would laugh!" 
 
 "Get along with you!" muttered Clara, turning 
 away from him. " You have come here only to 
 tease me and vex me! my father may get up any 
 moment, and he would be very angry if he sur- 
 prised you here." 
 
 "But why? my father has sent me — and be- 
 sides, as soon as I hear any thing, I shall be off 
 like a shot." 
 
 "A likely thing, indeed, that I should be sulky ! 
 if you would only stay away — " 
 
 " Come here, Clara," said the youth, " I will 
 tell you all about it — I can't keep it in any longer. 
 Will you hold your tongue about it? you won't 
 tell your father^" 
 
 " Lasses know how to keep secrets better than 
 lads," answered Clara, again coming close to 
 Luke. 
 
 " So ! that means that I ought to keep my 
 secret — and now, a plague on my face ! — it won't 
 keep still — I car't say a word for laughing." 
 
48 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 "Well, now, are you going to tell me? torment 
 that you are!" 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes ; wait a hit, Clara." 
 
 lie cast his eyes on the ground, and seemed to 
 r.e meditatiiig. 
 
 '*IIave you forgotten it?" said the girl, in a 
 mocking and impatient tone. 
 
 '■' I'orgotten ! oh, yes ; it isn't so easy to forget 
 things like this," stammered Luke; "hut you see 
 1 don't know what ails me ; I can't tell how to set 
 about it. I had thought it all over and over; hut 
 it is not so easy to say things like this right out 
 m the face of — of a young girl — Clara, I am so 
 ashamed." 
 
 " What a haby you are, Luke ! It is beautiful, 
 and happy, and all that, you say; there is no 
 great mischief, then. IIow can you be ashamed 
 about it?" 
 
 " Yes, I am very anxious to know how you will 
 take it!" 
 
 "Look 3^ou, Luke; if you are not going to 
 speak right out, I shall run away !" 
 
 " Listen, then ; but don't be too glad, Clara, 
 and try to restrain yourself, else you may forget 
 yourself in your joy, and make a disturbance. 
 My father is coming here to make a proposal to 
 yours." 
 
 " Well, I knew^hat before." 
 
 " Yes, but there is another proposal — ^how shall 
 I get it out ? Clara, you have always wished me 
 well, haven't you?" 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 4& 
 
 **Eut why do you ask such stupid questions*:* 
 
 " And if you had to choose among all the lads 
 Oi the village, which would you choose?" 
 
 "Oh, you have lost your senses I" muttered 
 Clara, impatiently. 
 
 "Come, come," sighed Luke, "I will try to 
 bring it out better somehow. My father is com 
 ing to see your father to — to — " 
 
 "To!— to!— to what?" 
 
 " To ask whether Luke may marry Clara !* 
 
 The maiden, as if petrified w^itli astonishment, 
 gazed incredulously at him. 
 
 " Whether we may go and live in a little cot- 
 tage, and be man and wdfe," repeated the young 
 man, with joy in every gesture. 
 
 Clara trembled ; a sudden paleness drove the 
 color from her cheek, and then cheek and fore- 
 head glowed with fierj^ crimson, and she bent her 
 eyes on the ground in violent emotion. 
 
 Accusing himself as the cause of her perturba- 
 tion, Luke sighed sorrowfully: 
 
 "Yes, didn't I tell you, Clara, that you would 
 be ashamed? It is j^our own fault: you forced 
 me to tell you." 
 
 The girl remained silent, and from eacb eye 
 dropped a glistening tear. 
 
 " Oh, Clara," said Luke, imploringly, " don't be 
 vexed about it. Think, now, my father will help 
 yours to pay all his debts, and stand by him aa 
 a friend and adviser. We shall go away, and live 
 in our little cottage, and work. together, and save, 
 
 P . 5 
 
.50 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 and live in tranquil happiness. Too long have 
 you endured pain and grief, and sat weeping in 
 dreary loneliness. I shall hold nothing so dear 
 as your happiness ; I will slave from morning to 
 night to provide for you; I shall love you, and 
 make every thing around you smile on you. My 
 mother will be your mother, — she loves you so 
 dearly already. And, do you know, last evening 
 she took out of her box her gold chain with the 
 large golden heart, and she said, 'This is for Clara, 
 my daughter !' But why do you weep so bitterly, 
 Clara? Your father, when he sees happiness 
 open all around him, and all cares are removed 
 from his mind, — when he meets with nothing but 
 friendship and aftection, — ah, then he will be cured 
 of his dreadful malady, and his old age will yet 
 be peaceful and happy !" 
 
 While -Luke was speaking, the damsel had 
 covered her face with her hands, and was sobbing 
 aloud. 
 
 *' Oh, God!" said Luke, with bitter disappoint- 
 ment, "I thought you would have jumped for 
 joy like me, and there you stand crying as if 
 something very bad had happened. But you 
 have only to sa}', Clara, that you won't have me, 
 — I will go home — and I shall fall sick — and — " 
 
 Suddenly a loud noise w^as heard behind the 
 door of a small chamber, as of something that 
 fell to the ground with a crash and was broken in 
 pieces. 
 
 "My father, — my father is coming," sobbed 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 51 
 
 the girl, with terror depicted on her countenance. 
 Luke made a step toward the door, folded his 
 hands in a gesture of earnest entreaty, pleaded — 
 
 " Clara, Clara, you will consent after all, won't 
 you ? oh, don't let me die of sorrow ! I will do 
 any thing you wish; I will be obedient to you, and 
 surround you with love — " 
 
 " Hold your tongue! be off with you!" said the 
 maiden, with a confused and faltering voice. "My 
 tears are tears of joy; I never dared to hope for 
 so much happiness on earth — " 
 
 "Ah! thank God, it was all for joy!" shouted 
 the youth, in an ecstacy, and at the top of his 
 voice, as he ran toward the door. 
 
 Then he turned back again a step or two, and 
 said : — 
 
 "Clara, don't say a word to anybody! I shall 
 go and tell my father. Good-by! and won't we 
 laugh and be merry with mother ? Ha ! ha ! it 
 was all for joy !" 
 
 lie darted out at the door — and when he was 
 fairly out in the farmyard he threw up his cap in 
 the air with a loud shout : 
 
 "The lassie, the lassie ! it was all for joy ! it was 
 all for joy!" 
 
 Clara fixed her eyes a while on the door of her 
 father's bedroom, and, hearing no further sound, 
 her thoughts reverted to the intelligence which 
 had so deeply moved her. She wiped away her 
 tears and sighed, as she turned her eyes to heaven 
 with a look of gratitude, and said — 
 
^2 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 "0 God, how good tliou art to me! Dame 
 Torfs will be my mother! my poor father will be 
 quite cured ! yes, he will be quite right again, and 
 be happy in his old age ! Luke and I will toil and 
 be careful now, to make his life pleasant4o him, 
 to tend him, to give him all he needs. Alas! I 
 have from my childhood pined and sighed within 
 these four walls; and now I shall live with friends 
 who love me dearly; I shall be always merry, and 
 work and sing— my God, I thank thee! it is a 
 heaven on earth!" 
 
 Again she heard a slight noise, — the door was 
 opened, and Jan Staers, her father, entered the 
 room. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 Jan Staers was a man above the middle size ; 
 but although his frame indicated great muscular 
 power, his limbs hung loose and disjointed, and 
 his dull inanimate countenance was bloated and 
 pallid. 
 
 The brio^ht lio^ht of the sun had taken him bv 
 surprise as he entered the room, and he was obliged 
 to close his weak and bloodshot eyes. His hair 
 hung negligently over his forehead, and his clothes 
 were soiled and disordered. 
 
 He stood a while at the door, pressing his hand 
 heavily on his head, like one who is suffering -from 
 a violent headache. In the mean time, Clara, after 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 53 
 
 a word of affectionate greeting, had run to tlie 
 hearth, placed on the table a coffee-pot, a loaf and 
 some butter, and set a chair for him. 
 
 With downcast eyes, and without speaking a 
 word, hk legs trembling under him as he moved, 
 Jan Staers drew near the table and let himself 
 drop into his chair. The sunlight seemed still to 
 annoy him a great deal, for he looked fiercely out 
 of the window, and then saicl to Clara, in a tone 
 of great irritation — 
 
 " Shut the window, can't you ?" 
 
 Clara obeyed his command, and then remained 
 standing in silence at a little distance. Meanwhile 
 Jan Staers took the loaf and tried to cut oft* a 
 corner of the crust, but his hand trembled and 
 shook so violently, that he found it utterly impos- 
 sible to help himself. He threw down the loaf 
 sulkily, with such violence that he broke another 
 piece out of the plate that contained the butter. 
 lie growled some words that sounded like an oath, 
 but restrained himself when he saw that Clara, 
 anticipating his wish, was cutting some slices of 
 bread and butter for him. 
 
 "Father dear!" said the girl, with an insinua- 
 ting tone, " don't be vexed. I will do all that you 
 wish ; only keep in a good temper and don't worry 
 yourself. Our neighbor Torfs is coming directly 
 to speak to you about something." 
 
 " The hypocritical old hunks ! lie dare to come 
 into my house, will he? But you have been cry 
 ing — always at your old tricks !'* . 
 
 6« 
 
54 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 " Oil, father, Farmer Torfs means to make you 
 such a nice proposal ; he will save us from rain, 
 and make us so happ}^ — " 
 
 "I won't see him, I tell you. Don't mention it; 
 it only vexes me." 
 
 The girl retired two or three steps behind her 
 father's chair, and there remained standing, with 
 her troubled look bent on the floor. Jan Staei-s 
 took the bread and butter, and began to eat ; then 
 he threw it down in disgust, and said — 
 
 "It is dry as sand. A bit of wood has more 
 taste in it. Why haven't you got fresh bread ?" 
 
 Clara was silent. 
 
 " Why is there no fresh bread in the house ?" 
 repeated he, still louder. 
 
 "The baker will not tmst us any longer," stam- 
 mered the poor girl. 
 
 An expression of anger clouded her father's 
 countenance. Without further remark, he buried 
 his head in his hands, and remained for some time 
 thus without moving. 
 
 The damsel looked at him in silent sorrow, and 
 exerted herself to restrain the tears that were start- 
 ing from her eyes. After a while she went close 
 to him, stroked his hand coaxingly with hers, and 
 said, in a tone of entreaty — 
 
 "Don't fret yourself, father; things will go better 
 soon. Farmer Torfs has some good project to 
 talk to you about. Do drink another cup of 
 warm coffee ; it will brighten you up and cheer 
 you." 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 55 
 
 "The grovelling hypociite, the sneaking rascal, 
 who has his eye on my farm!" roared Jan Staers, 
 in a voice choked by rage. "Let him come; I 
 will very soon kick him out at the door I" 
 
 At these savage threats, Clara could no longer 
 refrain herself; her cup of sorrow overflowed, and 
 Avith a cry of anguish she sank down upon a chair, 
 placed her hand before her eyes, and wept and 
 sobbed aloud. 
 
 Her emotion pained her father deeply ; he wrung 
 his hands and ground his teeth in a paroxysm of 
 impatience and rage, and at length said — 
 
 "I have a pain in my head, Clara, child; why 
 will you worry me so with your whims and tricks? 
 .... now,' now, out with it, what do you want 
 me to do?" 
 
 "Answer me, then!" he cried, angrily, after a 
 brief pause. 
 
 "0 father," said the poor weeping girl, beseech- 
 ingly, "don't be churlish to Farmer Torfs. Listen 
 to him with good nature ; what he has to say to 
 you will make you very glad." 
 
 "Have done, then, with your blubbering; I will 
 listen to what he has to say, even if I burst with 
 rage." 
 
 "No, no, father dear," sobbed Clara, "not so; 
 you will listen to him with friendship and kindly 
 feeling." 
 
 Jan Staers raised his head again, and remained 
 a few moments without speaking. The thought 
 was evidently very painful, and the struggle with- 
 
^6 THE CURSt: OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 in, a violent one. At last he said suddenly and 
 sharply — 
 
 " Let me alone ; you will keep talking to me — 
 it worries me, I tell you ; your voice makes my 
 head split: get along — ^be off from this; I will 
 call you if I want f ou." 
 
 But when he saw that his words had made her 
 tears flow afresh and more plentifully, he added, 
 in a milder tone — 
 
 *' Come, now, I will try my best to listen to the 
 old hunks with patience." 
 
 The poor Clara raised her apron to her eyes, 
 and slowly left the room. Jan Staers followed 
 her with his eyes until she had quite disappeared. 
 Then he rose up and made a few unsteady steps 
 across the room ; he then stood still, pressed his 
 arms convulsively to his side, stamped with his 
 foot, and seemed abandoned to utter despair. 
 
 Again he made a few steps, muttered some 
 moody curses, and shook his head in deep thought, 
 as though he were making a violent effort to recall 
 some things which had escaped his memory. 
 From time to time he shivered in every limb, and 
 exclaimed, as if in pain or great uneasiness — 
 
 " Whew — how cold ! — my brain is all on fire, 
 and my body is quite frozen!" 
 
 All at once his eyes began to beam with a 
 melancholy lustre, and an expression of deep sus- 
 pense overspread his face ; it was as if a sudden 
 illumination had been cast on his mind. From 
 liis chest issued a hoarse rattling sound, and he 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 57 
 
 struck himself passionately on the forehead with 
 his clenched fist, as though he would have broken 
 his skull. 
 
 Exhausted by this overtension of his powers, 
 and subdued by pain, he staggered to the table, 
 and let himself drop into his 'chair with a deej: 
 sigh. Then, with his bewildered gaze fixed on thp 
 floor, he exclaimed, in a forlorn, despairing tone— 
 
 "Damnable poison! curse of soul and bodj 
 both ! ah, he who invented you was a cruel enemj 
 of his kind. Despicable drunkard that I am ! w^hal 
 a wretched pass I have brought myself to ! The 
 blessed light torments me ; my whole body is 
 trembling ; my very soul is dry and waste ; I can 
 neither walk nor stand, nor eat nor drink ! In my 
 head is a dark, hideous chaos of despair, of rage 
 of guilt, of remorse, and of coward impotence 
 and my child, my poor Clara ! she is sufferi^ig 
 she is pining uncomplainingly away; I requite li^ 
 love with anger and surliness — I am her father, 
 and I must be under constant obligation to her — 
 and, oh cursed destiny! I am her murderer! in 
 vile selfishness, I have blighted and wasted her 
 young life ! "Were God to punish me — to kill me 
 — it would be a blessing for her. IIow ghastly a 
 thought that a father's death should be a blessing 
 to his child !" 
 
 This last thought seemed to shock him terribly ; 
 he gnashed his teeth fiercely, and clutched tlje 
 table so violently with his hands that it seemed to 
 bend beneath the pressure of his fingers. 
 
58 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 After this violent convulsive movement he re- 
 mained awhile quite still; and then his counte- 
 nance began again to work with painful emotions. 
 Holding his fingers pressed on his forehead, as 
 though to coerce his refractory memory, his cheeks 
 became all at once bloodless, under the impulse 
 of a sudden alarm. 
 
 "Yesterday," he muttered, "yesterday I was to 
 have gone to the town. Yes, I had some money 
 — money to pay an instalment of my rent. But 
 where did I go ? what did I do with myself? how 
 did I get here ? let me see — can I have paid the 
 rent? — ah! wretched man! I got drunk, I fell 
 asleep — " 
 
 And with trembling haste he raised his blouse, 
 and unclasped a leathern belt that was fastened 
 ai'ound his waist. He shook a number of pieces 
 of money out of the belt upon the table, his coun- 
 tenance the while bearing an expression of deep- 
 est anxiety. He seized several of the pieces, and 
 tried to count them ; and now his frame shook 
 more violently still, and he felt as if each separate 
 hair were standing erect on his head from sheer 
 despair. 
 
 "Horror of horrors!" he exclaimed; "lost! 
 stolen ! I must count them over again ; perhaps 
 I have made a mistake." 
 
 He then tried hastily to arrange the pieces of 
 gold in two rows ; but his hand shook so tremu- 
 loush^, that it was with extreme difliculty that he at 
 length succeeded, after a fashion ; and many a bit- 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 59 
 
 ter word, many a deadly curse, rolled from his lips 
 during the oj^eration. 
 
 Ilis terror became greater still, and a cold per- 
 spiration broke out all over him; for he counted 
 and counted again, and still found himself a con- 
 siderable sum short. And at length he was forced 
 to give up all hope that he was mistaken in his 
 reckoning. A violent tremor sliook his whole 
 body; he tore his hair, and roared, in a tone of 
 despair — 
 
 *' Fifty francs! fifty francs short! where can 
 they have gone? Ah, I had sold our last cow — 
 and the money was to have stopped the ejectment; 
 and now, now I shall be driven out of my farm, 
 and turned out into the street like a dog — and 
 then go and beg ! I must be jeered — be despised 
 — be pointed at with the finger, as a contemptible 
 drunkard ! And my poor Clara ! what will be- 
 come of her? perdition — may perdition seize 
 me!" 
 
 And he uttered a cry so shrill and so full of 
 distress, that it seemed as though his heart had 
 broken in twain within him. 
 
 He then started up, strode furiously up and 
 down the room, struck his fists against the walls 
 until they bled, kicked the chairs in all directions, 
 and gave utterance to all kinds of cries of des- 
 l)eration and rage. Then, when he had exhausted 
 his passion, he stood suddenly still. An inde- 
 scribable smile of joy and of derision lighted up 
 his features as he turned his glisteuing eyes toward 
 
60 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 the door of his sleeping-apartment; and he ex- 
 claimed, as if beside himself — 
 
 "Ah, ah ! light and clearness for the spirit, vigor 
 for the body, energy for the will, — there they are, 
 behind the door, in a flask ! I have surrendered 
 my reason, my whole soul, to the demon of drink ; 
 he alone can lend them back to me for a few mo- 
 ments. And I must, I must have them now. 
 Advise me, advise me — ^j^es, for the last time, the 
 very last time ; yet this once — only this once — " 
 
 And while finishing these words, he sprang 
 toward the door, and disappeared in the little 
 adjoining room. And now for some time there 
 was a silence as of death throughout the farm- 
 house ; only, at intervals, a dull mufiled sound, like 
 the gurgling of a liquid from the mouth of a flask 
 reached the large room. 
 
 When Jan Staers again made his appearance, he 
 was scarcely to be recognised for the same man. 
 His countenance was lighted up by a gentle smile, 
 his eyes were bright and wide open, his head stood 
 erect and firm on his shoulders ; he no longer trem- 
 bled and staggered, and his cheeks were suflTused 
 with a warm and rich blood. His every gesture 
 betokened freedom, courage, and energy. 
 
 Approaching the table, he said, in a tone of 
 scornful merriment — 
 
 " So, so, — the miserly wretches, — they thought it 
 was all over with Jan Staers, did they ? the stupid 
 blockheads ! they clapped their hands when they 
 saw him turned. out of the stone farm, did they? 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. Gl 
 
 AVcll, I am not quite done up 3^et. Hal ha! Mt 18 
 poison,' whine the stupid scoundrels ; exquisite 
 poison, delicious poison, that courses through my 
 veins like a living flame! Ha! ha! now I havo 
 sense enough ; it is clear enough now here inside, 
 in my head. But let us be quick. I have emptied 
 the flask; it is too much, perhaps. Now let ua 
 make haste to count the money, and decide what 
 is to be done to show that Jan Staers is not quite 
 80 easily to be thrown on his back." 
 
 Then he arranged the pieces of money, and 
 counted them readily and accurately. 
 
 " Only forty francs short !" he exclaimed, joy- 
 ously; "ten francs gained! but now, where can 
 these tw^enty florins be gone ? Ah, I know. Yester- 
 day I didn't go to the town at all : I stopped short 
 at the ^Golden Apple,' on the Crossway. It was 
 a jolly company : I lent fifteen florins to Klaes 
 Grills, the sand-digger. What ever makes me 
 always play the rich man ? Bah ! it w^as only it 
 jest; I shall get my money again. And the othei 
 iive florins ? Yes, I remember, they got them out 
 of me : I paid all the reckoning. Well, come, 
 come — ^there are no pots broken as yet. I will be 
 oft' at once to the town, and carry this money to 
 my covetous old landlord ; I will go by the lower 
 road, so as not to pass by any public-house. He 
 will be glad enough when he sees his cash ; else 
 who will take off* his hands this tumble-down 
 house and these wretched barren fields ? — who ? 
 Ah, yes, the old beetle, perhaps : the niggardly old 
 
(j2 the curse of the village. 
 
 Torfs, wlio has been liankering after my farm tliis 
 many a year, and splitting eveiy farthing into four 
 to manage it. But I'll let him see ! To-morrow 
 I'll begin to work, and I w^on't drink any more ; 
 no, on my Hfe, not a drop more, till the brooks run 
 gin. I will sell some of that useless rubbish there 
 in the great glass w^ardrobe. My name is worth 
 money still ; I shall readily find a horse and a 
 couple of cows somewhere on credit. And besides, 
 I will drive such a trade in grain and in wood, 
 and by care and intelligence I will so soon put 
 every thing straight, that the envious fellows round 
 me will burst Avith wonder and vexation. Ah, but 
 w^ho is that coming ? The beetle, I declare, wnth 
 his hypocritical face ; oh that I could kick him 
 out at the door! — but no, no, I promised Clara 
 that I would receive him in a friendly way. Come 
 then, I'm in a good temper now; I'll be a good 
 boy, and hear out what the old rascal has to say. 
 It wall be uncommonly hard work, though." 
 
 With a smile of conscious pride, he looked at 
 the old Torfs as he entered the room, and threw 
 himself back in his chair, just as if he were some 
 great lord w^ho w^asj receiving a beggar. A slight 
 shade of vexation came over Farmer Torfs's counte- 
 nance when his eye rested on Jan Staers, as he 
 bade him good-day, for he saw how strange and 
 fierce was the light of his e3'e, and how red hia 
 features were. 
 
 Going up to him with a friendly smile, he 
 said — 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 03 
 
 "Famier Stacrs, I am come here to ask some- 
 tliiiig of you, and at the same time to make you 
 a weighty proposal. Are you prepared to listen 
 to me with cahnness?" 
 
 "With calmness? what do you mean?" asked 
 Staers, contemptuously. "Do you think I have 
 lost my senses ?" 
 
 The old man shook his head in displeasure, as 
 he continued — 
 
 "I should he sorry to say any thing to displease 
 you. The matter on which I am going to speak 
 to you is very serious ; it demands on both sides 
 the greatest consideration. With your permission, 
 I will take a seat." 
 
 "What difference does it make to me whether 
 you sit or stand?" answered the other. "Only 
 make haste ; for I must be off to the town in a 
 very short time. All these preambles and flourishes 
 make me impatient — the perspiration stands on my 
 forehead." 
 
 " There is no use in my remaining here," said 
 the old man, in a tone of vexation, and turning 
 toward the door, as if to leave the room. " I did 
 not come here either to jest or to be made a jest 
 of." 
 
 "l!^ow, now, sit you down, neighbor," said 
 Jan Staers, with a friendly smile : " it is only my 
 way. Let us hear what you want." 
 
 "Will you listen to me a moment without 
 Interrupting me? I like talking straight on, 
 you see, whenever I have any thing to say ; but 
 
'64 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 in my turn L can hold my tongue and be a good 
 listener." 
 
 ^'Say on, then ; and if I interrupt you, may — " 
 
 *• There is no need of that!" interposed the 
 old man, as with a gesture of his hand he kept 
 back the oath that Staers was about to utter. 
 
 lie then sat dow^n on a chair, and said, w^ith im- 
 pressive calmness — 
 
 " Staers, you have a child, a daughter. It would 
 be a pleasure to you to see her happy, would it 
 not ? You are a father. Always alone in this farm- 
 house, without company, wailing over bitter and 
 painful things: you can conceive that her life must 
 l)e rather weary and dull — now, don't be impa- 
 tient; let me have my say out. Clara is a good 
 lass, and desei-ves a better lot; and it would be in- 
 deed melancholy if she had to endure new sorrows; 
 for an indelible disgrace would deprive her of the 
 hope of a happy life — " 
 
 *'What are you prating about all this time?" 
 growled Staers, with kindling eyes. "Disgrace? 
 what disgrace ?" 
 
 " Only a few words more ; don't interrupt me," 
 continued the old man, calmly. " You know my 
 son Luke ; he is a fine lad, and works from morn- 
 ing to night." 
 
 "I can well believe that, for, if he didn't work, 
 what on earth is he fit for else ?" 
 
 " Well, now, neighbor, it seems that the young 
 folks have had a liking for each other for a long 
 time, and — " . 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. ^5 
 
 • " And, and ?" said the other, scornfully. 
 
 ' "And I am come to ask the hand of Clara for 
 
 Luke." 
 
 Jan Staers burst out into a long peal of laughter, 
 which produced a very painful effect on the old 
 man. It was evident that Torfs w^as deeply 
 wounded ; for he raised his eyes toward his neigh- 
 bor with wonder and inquiry, and said, in a tone 
 of irritation — 
 
 *'I cannot see that there is any thing so veiy 
 ludicrous in the proposal I have made." 
 
 "l!^othing ludicrous?" shouted the othej*. "Ila! 
 ha! the daughter of Farmer Staers is to marry the 
 son of a cattle-drover! You stick your horns 
 rather high, neighbor : God be praised, I am not 
 come to that yet." 
 
 The aged Torfs was obliged to put forth all his 
 strength to restrain his indignation at this con- 
 temptuous scoff. His lips were compressed with 
 anger, and his hand trembled at his side. It was 
 with a bitter calmness that he said — 
 
 " You were once a thriving farmer, and I was 
 once a poor cattle-drover; but we are, neither of 
 us, what we were." 
 
 "You will make me angry in a moment," said 
 Jan Staers, still with a look of ineffable contempt 
 and derision; "yet I don't want to heat my blood. 
 So you think that I am fairly come to an end, do 
 you? I'll let you see something yet you little 
 di'eam of. He laughs best who laughs last !" 
 . The old mau had for some time noticed that 
 
 E 6* 
 
6Q THE CUKSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 the eyes of his neighbor glowed with a peculiar 
 firo ; liis smile, his gestures, were too remarkable to 
 allow him to doubt that Clara's father had already 
 drunk too much that morning. And with this con- 
 viction, he made a movement toward the door; 
 but he thought of his son, on the impossibility of 
 putting off the matter, and he sat down again on 
 his chair, and said, firmly and decisively — 
 
 "You may interrupt me or not, as you please, 
 I will say out all I have to say to you. In the 
 name of your child, I beseech you listen to me 
 with patience — " 
 
 *'Now, now, go yonr own way; I am listening." 
 
 "Look you, neighbor," said the old man; "it 
 is useless to play with mc, or have any disguise 
 w^ith me ; I know the state of your affairs too accu- 
 rately for that. I know, too, that to-morrow, if 
 not to-day, you wdll be ejected from your farm, 
 because you have not paid the arrears of your rent, 
 and the term of the writ is nearly run out. I know, 
 too, that you have made away with your last cow, 
 but the money you got for it is not enough, and 
 consequently — " 
 
 Jan Staers struck his hand among the pieces ot 
 money which were scattered about on the table, 
 and their pleasant chink echoed through the room. 
 
 "Money?" exclaimed he, wdth impetuosity. 
 "Money? there is money for you !" 
 
 "It is not the third part of what you must pay 
 if you would suspend the execution of the w^rit: — 
 if you will only be reasonable, I will advance you 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 67 
 
 at once what you want to make np your whole 
 rent." 
 
 "You?" said Staers, with scornful incredulity. 
 **IIow^ did you come by it?" 
 
 "Yes, I. And why not? Do you think that 
 from tw^enty yeai^ of hard work and thrift there is 
 not enough over, when one has had a good land- 
 lord?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, our landlord! he'know^s how to skin 
 a man alive, the blood-sucker!" 
 
 "I Tvill not hear that said!" indignantly ex- 
 claimed the old man. "He has never raised my 
 rent over me, although I have very considerably 
 increased the value of his land." 
 
 "Ah, you w^ill lend me money!" repeated Jan 
 Staers, in a softer tone. "Well, I should never 
 have expected it from you. "We shall become 
 good friends, I see. How much will you lend me ?" 
 
 "In case you will assent to the happiness of 
 your daughter and my son, I wall lend you enough 
 to clear off your arrears with our landlord; and 
 besides, I will help you to pay off all your debts 
 by degrees." 
 
 "But, Father Torfs, you are only making an idle 
 boast ! you talk of money as if it grcw^ on your 
 back. Have ^^ou found a treasure, — or have you 
 stolen one? It seems likely enough. l!s'ow^ don't 
 be angry, neighbor; it is only my way of talking; 
 I don't mean any harm. What were w^e saj'ing? 
 Oh, yes, you are to lend me money, plenty of 
 money, — on condition that your son shall marry 
 
68 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 Clara. Well, now, it is reasonable enough; tliero 
 is my liand to it. It is a bargain. Luke can come 
 and live with us, and work — there is land enough. 
 Why do you draw your hand away ? what more is 
 wanting?" 
 
 The old man paused for a moment, and then 
 continued : 
 
 "It cannot be so, neighbor Jan. Let me once 
 for all explain to you freely and fairly my whole 
 intention. Without horses, without cows, this 
 farm can never be cultivated properly. My son 
 and you would work yourselves to death for no- 
 thing ; you would not get half your rent off the 
 land. ]^ow this is my plan; I have some little 
 money, and plenty of credit; I will take your land 
 off your hands, and bring my horse and my four 
 cows here with me. I will buy two horses besides, 
 and gradually get as many cows as are necessary 
 on such a farm as this. You shall live on with us 
 in the stone farm-house. Luke and Clara will put 
 up ^vith my present little cottage, and I will take 
 care they have enough to begin life in a quiet way. 
 You will have no further cares upon your mind, 
 and perhaps you would become fond of a dwelling 
 in which my wife and I, through our example and 
 our kindness, would try to make your life more 
 pleasant and peaceful. And if you were once 
 cured of the vice which is the cause of all your 
 misery, then you would have good reason to bless 
 God, neighbor Jan. Clara, who has nothing to 
 look forward to. but poverty and wretchedness, 
 
THE CURSE OxT THE MLLAGE. GO 
 
 would find in my son Luke a virtuous husband, 
 and live happily with him to the end of her days. 
 Well, now, do you agree to my proposal ? whole 
 and entire, as I have laid it down?" 
 
 Jan Staers, whose head had already become con- 
 fused with listening so long, had probably deceived 
 himself as to the drift of the proposal ; for he stood 
 up w^ith joy, and was throwing his arms around 
 the neck of old Torfs; but the latter drew back in 
 doubt and consternation, and declined the embrace 
 of his neighbor. Nevertheless, Staers managed to 
 raise both the old man's hands, and exclaimed: 
 "Ab, you are a fine fellow, to help your neighbor 
 80 generously and nobly ! It was time, indeed ; 
 
 for I could not see my way very far ahead 
 
 well, yes, put up your horse and your cows in the 
 stables here, — I give you free room; we will farm 
 together and divide the profits. Each shall have 
 half; that seems fair enough." 
 
 Shaking his head with vexation and compassion, 
 the old Torfs observed, drily — 
 
 "You have not understood me: I am to be 
 tenant here." 
 
 "What! what do you say?" roared Jan Staers, 
 roused to a fury of passion. "You are to be 
 tenant of the stone farm-house ? — and what is to 
 become of me?" 
 
 " You are to live with me. If you like to work, 
 I will pay you for your work. If you prefer work- 
 ing for any one else, or would rather do nothing 
 at all, I w^ill give you free board, lodging, and 
 
70 
 
 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 clothing, until our children have to provide for ua 
 all, as the law directs." 
 
 Jan Staers seized in his rage the first ohject 
 Tvithin his reach, and flung it with violence on tho 
 floor ; the plate with butter lay in fragments at hi? 
 feet. With a flood of curses, he shrieked out — 
 
 " What will come to me next? Ha, that is just 
 the parable of our curd — the clay cot of the cattle- 
 drover is to devour the stone farm-house of Jan 
 Staers. You bite very close, you envious old 
 hunks — but what hinders me from flattening your 
 hypocritical old face against the wall? You are 
 to be master, and I to be servant ! To come here 
 like a snake, wriggling, and curling, and crawling, 
 to cheat me out of my daughter and my stone 
 farm-house !" 
 
 " Cheat !" repeated the old man, with disdain. 
 "These two years and more our landlord has 
 wished to put me into your farm ; I have refused, 
 and have begged him to have patience with you, 
 out of compassion for your hapless daughter — I 
 see well what her end must be ; but take good 
 heed to my words, Jan Staers. I am willing iiow 
 to consent to the marriage of my son, in case I 
 can prevent the disgrace of your ejectment — ^l»ut 
 if that ejectment once took place, I should say, 
 no, no ; forever, no !" 
 
 "Be off, out of my sight, I tell you!" roared 
 Staers. "You hideous old beetle, set your foot 
 on my threshold again, if you dare !" 
 
 He raised his hand and made a gesture of 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. Tl 
 
 threatening toward the graj-headed old man, who 
 was moving to the door. lie was discomposed 
 and ruffled, and wound the leather thong of his 
 medlar stick around his wrist, and prepared to 
 defend himself. When he saw that Jan Staers 
 stood still, pouring out a whole volley of curses 
 and revilings, he said, with indignant irritation — 
 
 '*Ah, I have no fear of your threats; but you 
 are in your own house, and I will not remain here 
 against your will. I will say only a few words 
 more to you ; you may attend to them or not, as 
 vou like. Jan Staers, vou are a heartless father; 
 you have spent the inheritance of your daughter 
 in vice and drunkenness ; you are poor, the beg- 
 gar's wallet awaits you. And the disgrace, the 
 ruin, that you alone have deserved — you will force 
 that upon your innocent child — to the very ex- 
 treme of endurance — till drink has killed 3'ou — till 
 misery has made her pine away. I came to rescue 
 both you and her; I was ready to give twenty 
 years of the sweat of my brow to make her happy. 
 In your selfishness, in your pride, you have crushed 
 her whole future — her whole life. Oh, remember 
 that there is a God above us ! He will punish 
 you for your baseness; in the day of his terrible 
 judgment he will ask you what you have done 
 with your poor, hapless child !" 
 
 The firm and impressive tone of the old man — 
 perhaps, too, the stout medlar stick — had at first 
 struck and restrained Jan Staers. He listened 
 with an air of disdain; but the concluding ro- 
 
72 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 proach stung him to ike quick. A loud sound, 
 like the roar of a lion, rolled from his throat, as 
 he rushed with clenched fists at the old man. But 
 before he could reach him, Farmer Torfs ha<l 
 Btepped through the doorway, and found himself 
 in the village street, along which some laborers 
 were passing at the momont. Jan Staers hurled 
 some parting execrations at the head of the old 
 man, and then he flung his door to with such vio- 
 lence, that a large piece was broken off and fell 
 upon the floor. 
 
 At a little distance stood Luke and Clara, anx- 
 iously watching. The sounds of strife had already 
 filled them with anguish and terror; and when 
 they saw the old man approach them, his face pale 
 with suppressed passion, his eyes gleaming, and 
 his fists clenched, they could scarcely summon up 
 strength enough to ask him, amid their tears, how 
 he had succeeded. 
 
 "Let me be quiet," murmured he ; "I am chafed 
 — I am trembling all over — my blood is boiling iu 
 my veins. I feel as if I should be ill : an apoplexy, 
 perhaps ! Alas ! my dear children, no hope now 
 for you : all is over — forever — forever." 
 
 Luke followed liis father, moaning and tearing 
 his hair ; Clara walked beside them, with her face 
 buried in her apron. 
 
 A few monients later, the door of the stone farm- 
 house was thrown open again, and Jan Staers 
 issued from it. He ran,, with hurried steps and 
 •uhintelligibla gestures, along^.the .village street, 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 73 
 
 and disappeared in the pine wood wliicli lay along 
 the road that was cut out of the hill-side. He was 
 on his way to the town. 
 
 chaptp:r yi. 
 
 Poor Luke wandered back to the courtyard of 
 his father's house. ITow he stood still at the corner 
 of the barn and looked out vacantly upon the 
 meadow, toward the spot whence resounded the 
 heavy blows of a hatchet; then he turned sud- 
 denly round and walked a few steps, then stood 
 still again, crossed his arms, stamped on the 
 ground with spite, and at length made toward the 
 door of the stable mechanically, as if he were 
 walking in his sleep. Here he moved slowly 
 toward the cows, placed his hands on their necks 
 in a kind of dreamy abstraction, and looked at 
 them as if he would have told them all his piteous 
 sorrow; then, still slowly and sadly, he shook 
 some hay into the horse's rack, and finally stalked, 
 m moody silence, into the cottage where his mo- 
 ther was busied in pouring water from a boiling 
 kettle into the coffee-pot. 
 
 Luke let himself sink listlessly upon a wooden 
 bench in the chimney-corner. He was quite 
 crushed down with dejection; his limbs hung 
 nerveless and loose about him, and his whole body 
 seemed shrunk in and bent together. He kept 
 
74 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 bis eyes fixed on the smouldering fire in a mourn-, 
 ful reverie. 
 
 Mother Beth >vas a little plump dame, with 
 cheeks still blooming, and large, open blue eyes, 
 the sweetness and animation of whose glance 
 betokened the gentle goodness of her heart. 
 Although she now and then shook her head in 
 compassion whenever her eye fell on her discon- 
 solate son, a gentle smile played on her lips, and 
 it was remarkable that she did not seem to think 
 the misery of Luke quite so extremely crushing as 
 the young man's dejection would have led one to 
 suppose it. 
 
 The coffee being made, she set the pot among 
 the hot embers, drew forward her stool and her 
 spinning-wheel, and soon the flax was running 
 nimbly between her fingers. Then, with the hum 
 of her wheel as an accompaniment and support, 
 she began, in a soothing tone: 
 
 "Luke, lad, you sit there like a body who has 
 done something very bad. Come, come, drive it 
 all out of your head ; it isn't as bad as you think." 
 
 "I^ot so bad?" sighed the young peasant, with- 
 out moving a muscle. "Why then were we all so 
 merry here yesterday? and why did you, mother, 
 make me almost a fool with happiness by showing 
 me all those beautiful things? Haven't you put 
 back in the chest there all the things you meant 
 to give Clara as a wedding-gift? Oh, mother, 
 
 I was so happy — so happy and I thought I 
 
 could look so far on into my life, and all waa so 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 75 
 
 good, SO bright, so heavenly beautiful — and you, 
 mother, were you not obliged to wipe away the 
 tears from your eyes, because we were all so 
 beside ourselves with gladness? — There was 
 father giving me advice, and making me wise — 
 how I was to farm so as to get on. Oh, Clara, 
 poor Clara! When I told her that you would 
 be her dear mother, she fairly gave way; she 
 burst into tears of jo}^, and was almost out of her 
 senses with happiness. And now she is sitting 
 there again alone within the silent walls of the 
 stone farm-house, and is tearing her hair, perhaps, 
 in utter hopelessness." 
 
 Some more painful emotion here smote his heart; 
 he turned half round, and, wringing his hands in 
 desperation, he sobbed out — 
 
 "And to dream about it a whole night long — 
 not to be able to close one's eyes for joy — to jump 
 up a hundred times and turn one's eyes to the win- 
 dow to see if the sun of the long hoped-for day was 
 not yet up — to feel one's heart flutter, to sing, to 
 dance, to lose one's senses quite in an intoxication 
 of joy and hope — and then, after all, to feci a cold 
 knife run through one's heart, and to hear father 
 say, * 1^0 hope more ! it is all over — all over for- 
 ever!' Ah, look you, mother, you may believe It 
 or not, but it is enough to kill one outright!" 
 
 "Luke, Luke, you are such a stifi>necked, obsti- 
 nate lad!" said his mother, in a tone of vexation. 
 " Why don't you hearken to what I say to you ? 
 Let father's anger cool down a bit; things will go 
 
76 THE CUKSB OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 all right then. If you were in his place you would, 
 perhaps, be a great deal more angry than he is. 
 Only think — ^lie goes to Jan Staers, to make him 
 an offer which was, perhaps, rather imprudent 
 and rash on our part. He offers to save him, 
 and to make Clara happy ; and he gets for answer, 
 * fXi'ovellins: old hunks, hideous old beetle !' he is 
 threatened to have his head beaten against the 
 wall, and to be kicked out of doors ! Ah, Luke, 
 he is still your father, and you ought surely to feel 
 that he has good cause to be angry, yes, to be very 
 excessively angry !" 
 
 ''Alas, dear mother, I know that well enough!" 
 exclaimed Luke, dejectedly; "but is it Clara's 
 fault that God has given her such a father?" 
 
 "Truly, child," sighed the old dame, "of a 
 surety, it is not her fault; but everybody must 
 bear his own cross. If I had been able to forecast 
 all this, you should never have made acquaintance 
 with Clara." 
 
 "Why, father says that Jan Staers has been 
 given to drink these twenty years; so you have 
 known it well enough all the time." 
 
 "I let myself be seduced, Luke — that is just the 
 word. I have always loved Clara, long before you 
 did, lad. It was always such a good lass from the 
 cradle — so pious, so industrious, and so unfor- 
 tunate! — more by token she was so neat and 
 clean, and had such pretty black eyes. Look 
 you, Luke, that is the way with mothers : you 
 could scarcely both of you run alone, when I said 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 7T 
 
 to myself in my heart, she wouldn't make such a 
 Dad wife for my Luke !" 
 
 Her voice had gradually hecome more soft and 
 gentle; as she uttered the last words, the kind- 
 hearted old dame put her finger to her eyes, and 
 took away two blinding tears. 
 
 The youth sprang from his bench, seized her 
 hand, and exclaimed — 
 
 "Oh, dear, kind mother, thank you, thank you ! 
 and you think so still, don't you ?" 
 
 "That is to say, Luke, after a time, yes." 
 
 "What do you mean ? — after a time ?" 
 
 "Why, father is master; we must have no other 
 thought than his. The thorn which has pierced 
 him will not be very soon got out. We must wait, 
 child." 
 
 Luke returned to his bench in great discontent, 
 and muttered, in an irritated tone — 
 
 "Wait — ^vait! and in the mean time to know 
 that she is unhappy, and has nothing in the wide 
 world but terror and suffering! Wait — and fall 
 sick, and die of vexation !" 
 
 "Look you, Luke, if you won't have patience, 
 I can't help it. You must not put the cart before 
 the horse, lad. There are a good many days in 
 the year; and if it is bad weather one day, perhaps 
 the sun will shine out the next." 
 
 "And father, who is so angry that 1 dare not 
 look at him ! I must not mention the subject. It 
 ia all over, all over forever, he says." 
 
 "Yes, yes, he may say all that just now, yoii 
 
78 ^ THE CURSE OF THE \aLLAQE. 
 
 see, just to give his anger a little vent; but I, who 
 have dreamed for fifteen years long that Clara 
 would be my daughter, I shall not let the notion 
 drop quite so suddenly. We must give in a little 
 bit at first, Luke ; your father is master ; we must 
 not say a word against his will. You just let me 
 alone : I will contrive to feel my way with a little 
 hint, and bring the subject up again. Your father 
 has a right good heart; his anger will lessen with 
 time and patience." 
 
 Luke was just going to thank his mother for lx<-.r 
 tender consolation, but at that moment Father 
 Torfs entered the house, and with one hand placed 
 his hatchet carefully on the ground, while with the 
 other he wiped the perspiration from his forehead. 
 His countenance was severe, but calm ; his greet- 
 ing brief, but gracious withal. 
 
 He took his place at the table without saying 
 another word. The good dame placed the coffee- 
 pot and the bread on the table, and made Luke 
 a sign that he should draw near and eat with 
 them. 
 
 Father Torfs was evidently regarded with great 
 respect and even awe by his household, for his 
 appearance alone had effected an entire revolution 
 in Luke's frame of mind. The lad seemed to 
 conquer his sa^lness, and came to the table with 
 his eyes cast down and an air of timidity; he sat 
 down opposite his father, and, in spite of hiinseli', 
 it may be, ate and drank, that he might not vex 
 him. An oppressive silence reigned in the little 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 79 
 
 room, until the old man said, with a calm and 
 measured voice — 
 
 " Luke, I told you not to work this mornin«!;, 
 because I knew well enough that your head 
 would not be fit for it, and I wanted to let your 
 sorrow pass over a little. But now you must 
 lend a hand to load the beech-wood on the cart. 
 To-morrow you will drive over to the town, and 
 deliver it at the house of our landlord." 
 
 "Very well, father; I will do all that you wish," 
 answered the youth, submissively, but with a touch 
 of sorrow in his voice. 
 
 His mother had risen up to reach something; 
 she stood at the window a moment, looking up 
 the village street. Her manner indicated curiosity 
 and anxiety. 
 
 "Take courage, Luke," said his father; "it 
 pains me much to be forced to see you sufter. 
 I was once young myself, and I know that it is a 
 bitter thing to be deceived in one's hopes ; but I 
 cannot help it. You must, by degrees, drive it out 
 of your head — " 
 
 Suddenly they heard a noise as of confused 
 voices, with loud and merry peals of laughter; 
 it seemed to come from the street of the vil- 
 lage. 
 
 " 'Tis the laborers and lads of farmer Daelmans, 
 who are coming from the field with the last cart- 
 load of potatoes," observed the old man ; " I saw 
 them at a distance just now, hanging the cart 
 with branches of green. This evening they keep 
 
80 THE CtTRSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 the feast of cakes. They are merry, sure enough, 
 Betli." 
 
 The good wife turned round. On her counte- 
 nance one could read fear and deep sadness. 
 
 "I don't know," she replied; "there is a great 
 crowd at the door of Jan Staers, bijt I can't see 
 what is going on. The rural guard is there with 
 his sabre drawn !" 
 
 *' Heavens!" shrieked Luke, springing up, "what 
 can it be? Clara, Clara!" He ran to the door, 
 and was about to leave the Iwuse; but his father 
 anticipated him, and said, with a gesture of com- 
 mand — 
 
 " You stay here, Luke : what happens there is 
 no concern of ours." 
 
 Rushing to the window, the poor lad pressed 
 his face against the glass, trying to make out 
 what was going on among the crowd of villagers 
 in front of the stone farm-house. The sight of 
 the drawn sabre of the rural guard, gleaming over 
 the heads of the lookers-on, made him tremble a a 
 though he were quailing beneath some terrible 
 disaster. 
 
 "Good heavens! can Jan Staers have com- 
 mitted any crime?" cried he, in a tone of deepest 
 dejection. " Can they be fetching him to put him 
 in prison? Alas, alai! this is all that was want- 
 ing to complete my uiisei^." 
 
 "Don't be afraid," said the father; "I think I 
 know what it is. The officers of justice are come 
 out of the town to seize his goods; the rural guard 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE, 81 
 
 is keeping the people awaj from the door. Look, 
 now he is driving the lads back, because tliey 
 were coming too near." 
 
 This movement allowed them to see within the 
 circle of villagers. All at once a shrill, piercing 
 cry of despair forced its way from Luke's deepest 
 heart. 
 
 *' Oh !" cried he, " there is Clara sitting against 
 the wall, near the door, on a sack of straw; she is 
 holding her hands before her eyes ; she is weep- 
 ing; they have turned her out into the street. 
 Oh, misery of miseries ! they are laughing all 
 around her; they are making a jest of her degra- 
 dation — of her unhappiness ! Father, father, let 
 me go; for God's sake, let me go !" 
 
 The old man bolted and locked the door, and 
 put the key into the pocket of his blouse. 
 
 "But, tather," cried Luke, quite beside himself, 
 " how can you be so cruel and unfeeling ? Clara, 
 — oh, the poor child ! — she is sitting yonder in the 
 open air, without a shelter! she knows not where 
 to go. She is weeping bitter tears, I see them — • 
 oh, and listen, they are laughing! She must — 
 tender, innocent lamb as she is — she must put up 
 with this disgrace, and remain sitting there, the 
 scoft' and jest of the whole village! Have you 
 then lost all feeling, father?" 
 
 " It is very sad ; but — " 
 
 "But, but, father," howled Luke, tearing his hair 
 violently, " you don't know what you are doing ! 
 you are allowing your son's wife to be insulted!" 
 P 
 
82 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 "Your wife?" 
 
 " Yes, she shall be my wife, even if I die with 
 vexation at causing you so much displeasure ; she 
 shall be my wife, I tell you that!" 
 
 And, terrified at his own boldness, he ran with 
 streaming eyes to his father, raised his hand, and, 
 laying his head on his bosom, said, with a beseech- 
 ing, imploring voice — 
 
 " Oh, forgive me for daring to speak so ; but, 
 for Jill that, it is truth. She is suffering; she is 
 unhappy. Oh, let me go, that I may rescue her 
 from that terrible degradation." 
 
 " To fetch her, and bring her here?" 
 
 The old man shook his head, while he muttered, 
 in perplexity and hesitation — 
 
 *'And her father! her father?" 
 
 Dame Torfs had not yet had time to put in a 
 word. Although the piteous lamentations of her 
 son cut deep into her mother's heart, she had 
 hitherto restrained her emotion, and listened in 
 silence. But now she burst suddenly into tears, 
 and said, with a deep groan — 
 
 " Look you, Torfs, you are really too cruel ; 
 3^ou cannot stand out any longer. You can't 
 drive our Luke quite into his grave; and this 
 luckless lamb, — oh, the poor dear ! — sitting there 
 before everybody, under the blue heaven, and 
 weeping ! Can you look on in cold blood and see 
 her there — like a stone without a soul or a heart ? 
 Yes, you have more sense than we have ; I know 
 that; but, after all, perhaps it is better to be some- 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 83 
 
 what more merciful, come of it what will. We 
 are, after all. Christian folk, Torfs; don't you 
 know that?" 
 
 "Oh, father, do listen to mother; let me fetch 
 Clara?" 
 
 The old man seemed quite overcome by the 
 rebuke of his good wife. 
 
 " One moment," muttered he, with his finger on 
 his forehead, and his eyes fixed on the ground, 
 *' one moment; let me think — " 
 
 He hastily took the key from his pocket, and 
 opened the door. 
 
 " You are making me commit a great folly," 
 said he ; " but, in the name of God, then, go and 
 bring Clara here." 
 
 Luke and his mother rushed out at the door, 
 and ran in haste toward the throng of idle gos- 
 sips who were gathered around the door of Jan 
 Staers's dwelling. The young man made his way 
 by main force through the crowd, thrust back 
 some laughers with angry impetuosity, seized the 
 hand of the maiden, made her stand up, and said 
 to her — 
 
 " Come, come, my mother is here ; she is come 
 to fetch you; you must not stay here. I w^ill 
 take care that your clothes are brought to you. 
 Cheer up, Clara dear; Luke will never forsake 
 you." 
 
 Mother Torfs had already grasped the other 
 Land of the weeping damsel, and was now lead- 
 ing her along the village street toward her cot- 
 
84 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 tage, ritijring all manner of soothing, comforting 
 words by the way. Luke remained at the stone 
 farm-house, and made there a terrible commotion 
 among those on whose face he had surprised a 
 smile of derision. 
 
 " What!" shouted he; "are you wicked enough 
 to take pleasure in another man's affliction? You 
 see the poor Clara — goodness, loveliness, kind- 
 ness itself^ — pining in tears, and you stand by and 
 laugh ! Fie on you I I am ashamed that you are 
 men." 
 
 "^N'owcome, Luke, don't you get up any bad 
 blood, lad," said a burly peasant. " We are not 
 laughing at Clara's misfortune; far from that; 
 but surely you would not have us make a long 
 face because the proud, drunken scoundrel, her 
 father, has got his deserts, would you ? Jan Staers 
 has planted his nose well in the mud now. It 
 serves him right; he has long deserved it. And 
 now the village will be clear of the filthy beast." 
 
 "It is wonderful," remarked another villager; 
 " I met him this morning there away in the dell : 
 he had a whole sackful of five-franc pieces with 
 him, and said that he was going off to pay his 
 rent." 
 
 " Pay his rent!" said a third, with a laugh ; " as 
 if there were not too many public-houses on the 
 road for that! I'll bet any thing he is sitting now 
 in the ' Spotted Cow,' so fuddled and blinded by 
 drink, that he remembers nothing of God or his 
 commandments." 
 
IRE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 85 
 
 "Silence, friends, silence!" said Luke, with 
 angry impatience; "who among you will lend 
 me a hand ? I should like to stow away the bed- 
 ding and the wearing apparel in our barn.'* 
 
 Three or four young lads sprang forward, and 
 expressed their readiness to help him in any 
 way. 
 
 "When Mother Beth reached her house, leading 
 Clara by the hand, her husband was no longer to 
 be seen ; she thought that he was gone out into 
 the back court, and paid little attention to his 
 absence. So, leading the weeping girl to the 
 bench by the hearth, she made her sit down, and 
 said — 
 
 "Clara, child, it is a sad job; but you must 
 not despair. We shall be able to help you a little 
 bit." 
 
 "Alas! for me it is no matter," said the girl, 
 with a .voice interrupted by sobs ; "I can w^ork, 
 find can easily earn enough to get a bit of bread ; 
 but father, oh, poor father, what will become of 
 1iim ? Where will he sleep ? ^o dwelling more 
 — to be turned out in the street like a beggar! 
 Oh ! Mother Beth, it would be a good thing for 
 us, perhaps, if we both had died a good Christian 
 death !" 
 
 "Child, child, you must not wish any thing of 
 that kind," remonstrated the good dame, in a tone 
 of rebuke and sorrow. 
 
 "And only yesterday so full of joy!" sobbed 
 Clara, lost in -h^r own' thoughts ; '^^ to iull,. as it 
 
SQ 1HE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 were, out of heaven, and tumble down into bell 
 — into disgrace, into poverty, into hopelessness ! 
 Oh ! oh ! And my father, my poor father, what 
 will he do dow?" 
 
 "Yes, truly, Clara," answered Mother Torfs, 
 shaking her head slowly; "that is indeed the 
 worst of all. "We \vould gladly take care of you, 
 and put you up a little bed in the attic until some- 
 thing else turned up ; but your father — ^}'ou see, 
 child, that is quite another thing. I won't have 
 him in my house; and Torfs would rather 
 leave the house, and be off, than — how shall I 
 say it? — than sleep under the same roof with 
 such a savage. You must consider, Clara, that, 
 when your flither is drunk, he is a very awkward 
 man to deal with. lie would turn the house up- 
 side downi in the middle of the night, and rave 
 and swear, and perhaps call my good man ugly 
 names again. Torfs, too, is rather short and 
 quick in his way; he -would not put up with it 
 long; and — "who knows? — they might do each 
 other a harm in their passion. iTo, no ; Jan 
 Staers must never set foot over this threshold; it 
 cannot be." 
 
 " Lord, help me ! I know that w^ell, Mother 
 Beth," pleaded the poor girl ; " but, for God's 
 sake, doii't say it. It cuts me to the lieai-t. To 
 know that my poor father is everybody's scoff; to 
 hear him jeered for his misfortune; to see people 
 clap their hands for joy because we are turned out 
 of our bouse — and no means, no hope, of bet- 
 
THE CUtlSE OF THE VILLAGE 87 
 
 tering our lot I — it must go on and on to, until, 
 perhaps, it ends with something awful. Oh, 
 Mother Torfs, say now yourself, Avould it not be 
 better that God should take us both out of the 
 world ?" 
 
 "Drunkenness is indeed a fearful evil," nmt- 
 tered the old dame, pensively. "And certain it 
 is, that the vile habit of gin-drinking is gaining 
 ground in our villages like a contagious sickness. 
 In our neighborhood it is not so very bad yet; 
 but there, away in that direction, toward Kempen 
 — there the men run in crowds to make their 
 wives and children miserable, and to hang the 
 beggar's wallet round their necks in the end — " 
 
 She was interrupted in her discourse by the en- 
 trance of Luke, who went up straight to the w^eep- 
 ing girl, took her hand, and said to her, with an 
 accent of consolation — 
 
 " Oh, Clara dear, don't cry any more ; things 
 will turn out much better than w^e think. I have 
 put the chest and the clothes in the barn, and 
 spread out the beds in a corner on some straw. 
 Your father w^ill be able to sleep there till to- 
 morrow morning ; and then mother will put in a 
 good word with father to help you out of your dif- 
 ficulties. And after all, you see, it will be all 
 the same, whatever turns up. I shall, in any case, 
 be glad to see you stay here." 
 
 "So ! wdiat are you talking about there, Luke?" 
 interposed his mother, in a tone of rebuke. "Jan 
 Staers to sleep in our barn ? On my word, J 
 
88 T^E CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 think you have lost your senses. Suppose the 
 whim takes him to smoke a pipe ? And then that 
 infernal invention of phosphorus matches — in 
 the straw ! We should have house, and barn, and 
 all burnt to ashes. Don't speak of it, for God's 
 ^ake, before your father." 
 
 "But where is father?" asked the lad, looking 
 round in all directions. 
 
 "Indeed I don't know. When I came back 
 with Clara he was gone, and I have not seen him 
 since." 
 
 "Good heavens! he is vexed, perhaps." 
 
 "Possible enough, my boy; you have said many 
 things too, look you, which were rather strong. 
 And you know of old, your father will be treated 
 with due respect." 
 
 "But, mother," said Luke, with a mournful 
 voice, " I do honor father all I can ; I love him 
 and look up to him for his goodness and his 
 wisdom; but how can I help it, if my heart 
 will run away with me in my vexation — " 
 
 He ceased suddenly, for at this moment hi3 
 father entered the house. The young man went 
 up to him, andsaid, in a supplicating tone — 
 
 " Oh, father, you are not vexed with me ? You 
 must bear with me a little, and forgive me; I 
 didn't well know what I was saying." 
 
 "Sit you down!" said old Torfs, with an im- 
 perative voice and gesture, "and listen al! of you 
 with attention ; I don't like to be interrupted." 
 . Luke and his mother obeved in silence ; and aa 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 89 
 
 if tlicy guessed, from the old man's tone of voice, 
 that he was going to say something very important, 
 they fastened their eyes on him with intense curi- 
 osity and anxiety. 
 
 "You think that I am vexed with you, Luke ?'* 
 said his father. " You are wrong. I feel too much 
 pity for your trouble, and my one wish is to see 
 you happy. While 3'ou and your mother were 
 gone to fetch Clara, I thought over the course we 
 must take. Look here what I said to myself: — 
 We all love Clara, and it grieves us much that 
 she must suffer — the innocent child ! If she were 
 alone, the thing would be soon done ; she should 
 never shed another tear about it, for I would not 
 allow it. But we have no right to separate father 
 and daughter ; where she is, there he must be too. 
 Jan Staers shall not set foot in my house ! I 
 have hit upon another plan ; and though it may 
 cost me some money, I have not grudged it, in 
 the hope that the God who is above us will re- 
 ward me. There behind, near the brook, is a little 
 laborer's cottage, belonging to our bailiff Putkop. 
 I have hii*ed it for three months ; you must move 
 the bedding and things there ; Clara can live there 
 with her father — " 
 
 Luke made a movement as if he w^as going to 
 speak ; Clara extended her hands in grateful ac- 
 knowledgment ; but a sign from the old man 
 drove the words back into their mouths. 
 
 "I w^ill make one last effort," he continued. 
 "It may be that Jan Staers's misfortune will bring 
 
 8* ^ 
 
90 Til's CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 him to a better mind. Clara, you will tell him that 
 I mean to come to have a talk with him to-mor- 
 row forenoon ; try and persuade him to lay aside 
 his pride, and to look at things as they really are. 
 If he will accept my proposals, and fulfil the con- 
 ditions I mean to make, then, my children, nothing 
 is lost yet, and all that we were dreaming about 
 yesterday may still become reality. I have a kind 
 of hope that all will go right. This is all I had to 
 say." 
 
 Luke aud Clara sprang up at the same moment, 
 and seized, with tears in their eyes, the hands of 
 the old man. The maiden murmured some unin- 
 telligible words of thankfulness. 
 
 " Oh, father," exclaimed Luke ; " an angel can- 
 not be better or kinder than you are. Thank you, 
 thank you ! How can I repay you ?" 
 
 " Continue to be virtuous, Luke," answered the 
 old man, with deep emotion; "and when I am old 
 and worn out, then remember how I have loved 
 you, and what I have done to prove my love. 
 And you, Clara, if God is so good to us as to give 
 you to us as our daughter, love your new mother, 
 and tend her with care to the end of her days." 
 
 The girl threw her arms round Mother Beth's 
 neck with a cry of joy, and exclaimed — 
 
 " Oh, if I am doomed never to see you again 
 after to-day, I shall never forget all your good- 
 ness. I shall remember you in my prayers, that 
 God may bless you, and grant you a long, long 
 life!" 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. ' 91 
 
 Rousing himself from the effects of his emotion, 
 the old Torfs then said — 
 
 " Come, don't let us lose any time. Beth, bring 
 with you all that is necessary for a good cleaning 
 out: a bucket, a broom, and all the rest. Go with 
 Chira, and touch up the cottage a bit, that it may 
 look a little tidy. Carry over what is wanted for 
 housekeeping. The rural guard will stay close to 
 the stone farm-house, to show Jan Staers his new 
 abode. Go you, Luke, take the wheelbarrow and 
 carry off the bedding. There is the key. I must 
 go again to say a word to the bailiff Putkop. 
 Anyhow, be sharp; for evening will draw in very 
 soon." 
 
 When he saw that each was in movement to 
 carry out his injunctions, the old man stepped out 
 at the door. 
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 It was about ten o'clock in the morning, when 
 
 Farmer Torfs closed the back door of his cottage 
 behind him, and went along the field toward the 
 new dwelling of Jan Staers. He had scarcely 
 gone a good bow-shot, when he saw Clara in the 
 distance, coming toward him. The girl seemed 
 to him quite sprightly and full of energy, for she 
 held her head upright, and walked on with a li^ht, 
 firm step. - . . 
 
92 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE 
 
 This sight gladdened the old man, because it 
 encouraged him to hope for a favorable result 
 from his eftbrts ; and so it was with a smile on 
 his lips that he saw the maiden come up to 
 him. 
 
 *'Well now, Clara, has your father borne his 
 misfortune patiently?" he asked. "Is he become 
 more reasonable?" 
 
 "It is quite wonderful," answered the girl. "A 
 great change has come over father. It was not 
 late last evening when he came back from the 
 town; and he could not have drunk any thing, for 
 he allowed himself to be led by the rural guard to 
 our new house w^ithout a w^ord of opposition. He 
 spoke to me a few calm and affectionate words, 
 advising me to go to rest. Little did I sleep, 
 however, for I heard that my father was awake, 
 and was pacing up and down his room. When 
 I rose and came down-stairs, I found him sitting 
 in a corner, with his arms folded on his breast, 
 and looking sadly down on the ground. I became 
 pale, and uttered a slight groan as I took him by 
 the hand; but he consoled me with great tender- 
 ness, and asked my forgiveness for all the wrongs he 
 said he had done me." 
 
 "It is indeed wonderful. At this rate he will 
 mend." 
 
 "He declared, again and again, that he would 
 never more enter a public-house, never taste an- 
 other drop of strong diink — not a single drop 
 more! He takes his lot very submissively, aiid 
 
THE CUnSE OF THE VILLAGE. 93 
 
 says that he will go out to work as a clay-laborer 
 to earn us a living." 
 
 "And do you think that he really and truly 
 means it?" 
 
 " Certainly : there is no reason to doubt it. Ho 
 has borrowed a spade from the shoemaker; and, 
 since an early hour this morning, he has been busy 
 digging the little bit of ground behind our cottage. 
 Ah, Father Torfs, I ought to lament over our mis- 
 fortune and ruin, ought I not? But I cannot; 
 you see I am so gay, so happy, that I could jump 
 into the air for joy. Now my father will drink no 
 more ! If we were as poor and bare as the stones, 
 that would still be a great happiness to me. And 
 if we both go out to work, we may, perhaps, manage 
 to earn enough to pay the rent of our cottage and 
 get on in a small way. I feel so much energy — 1 
 can't tell you how nmch. If I did not fear it was 
 wrong, I should thank God with all my heart for 
 having cast us into such a deep of misfortune !" 
 
 The old man shook his head thoughtfully, and 
 muttered to himself — 
 
 " Hum, hum ! it is rather sudden !" 
 
 Then, turning to Clara, he said — 
 
 " So, then, he has said that he does not mean to 
 drink any more ? That he means to go out as ti 
 day-laborer ? It is a very good resolve, and it is 
 just the thing I want to talk over with him." 
 
 The girl pointed forward with her finger. 
 
 " Look, there behind the hedge is father, busy 
 digging," said she. 
 
94 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 "Have you let him know I am coming?'* 
 
 "Yes; he will listen to yon with respect; he haa 
 promised me." 
 
 " INTow, then, Clara, you go along home to our 
 mother, and wait there till I come to you; I must 
 be quite alone with your flither. Courage, lassie ! 
 if what you say is true, we will all go to church 
 together to thank God for his mercy." 
 
 The maiden turned back along the field-path 
 with slow steps, while Father Torfs entered the 
 court-yard of the little cottage. 
 
 When Jan Staers saw his old neighbor coming, 
 his face burned with a fiery crimson, and his lips 
 moved with a peculiar expression. "Was it only 
 shame on account of his wretched condition, or 
 was it also a bitter vexation of soul ? This con- 
 jecture did not escape the old man ; but it made 
 no veiy unfavorable impression on him, for he 
 could^well understand that this meeting must 
 be humiliating to Clara's father — quite enough 
 so to occasion him a little temporary discom- 
 posure. 
 
 Jan Staers had stuck his spade in the ground and 
 left oflf his digging. While muttering a sad and 
 somewhat cold greeting, he walked with Farmer 
 Torfs into the cottage. Placing a chair for the 
 old man, he said, with an emphatic and constrained 
 voice — 
 
 "Farmer Torfs, you have had the kindness to 
 provide me a home ; I thank you on behalf of my 
 daughter." 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 95 
 
 "On behalf of your claugliter!" repeated tlio 
 old man. 
 
 " Yes ; for certainly you would not have done 
 it for me." 
 
 "Look you, neighbor, you must not look at it 
 quite in that light," remarked the other, with a 
 firm and assured voice. " I admit that I was for 
 some time very angry with you; for, certainlj^, it 
 was not likely I could look on in cold blood, and 
 see you thoughtlessly wasting your inheritance 
 and rendering your daughter wretched; but, be- 
 lieve me, if you will only get the better of your 
 unhappy vice, and say farewell forever to strong 
 drink, then will I show you that you cannot have 
 a better friend on earth than me." 
 
 "It is very possible; but I will take good care 
 that I will not eat my bread out of any man's 
 hand," said Jan Staers, with a sullen, secret emo- 
 tion of repressed anger and jealous3\ "I mean to 
 pay the rent of this cottage ; and so 3'ou shall not 
 have to bestow an alms on Jan Staers." 
 
 He laid a marked and peevish stress on the 
 word you, as if to show that no assistance he might 
 receive from any other person would humiliate 
 him so deeply as the idea of being beholden to 
 Farmer Torfs. There was an unfriendly and 
 quarrelsome expression in the tone of his voice, 
 in the very sound of the words. 
 
 "Neighbor, neighbor," said the old man, shak- 
 ing his head, "pride is an evil counsellor. I had 
 intended making you again, a proposal which has 
 
06 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 no other end in view than the happiness of \'Gnr 
 daughter and your own welfare ; but I see clearly 
 that your affliction even has not changed you. It 
 is a great grief to me ; but, after all, I cannot do 
 what is impossible. In the name of God, then—-" 
 
 He stood up as if about to take his departi/7e, 
 and sighed profoundly. 
 
 "Poor Clara!" he exclaimed. 
 
 Jan Staers now placed his hands before his eyes 
 and began to weep bitterly, as though the bending 
 and crushing of his pride had affected V.is whole 
 frame ; his limbs moved convulsively, and a mourn- 
 ful cry issued from his oppressed bosom. 
 
 Father Torfs looked at him for some time with- 
 out speaking. His countenance bore an expression 
 of deep sympathy and compassion ; he hastened 
 to lay his hand on his neighbor's shoulder, and 
 said, in a tone of consolation — 
 
 "Now, tian Staers, moderate your grief; hear 
 me out ; I will tell you what I wanted to propose 
 to you." 
 
 "Alas ! I am a contemptible rascal, a venomous 
 reptile, a reprobate abandoned of God !" exclaimed 
 Jan Staers, in wild despair. "I am doomed to 
 perish. I shall sink down into hell, and burn 
 there forever and ever, like a wretched fiend that 
 I am! All this night I have not been able to 
 fcleep ; for, for the first time these many years, I 
 had drunk nothing, not a single drop. My father, 
 my mother, my wife, all rose out of their graves 
 and atood before my eyes; they reproached me 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 97 
 
 with my disgraceful conduct, and accused me of 
 having embittered their lives — of being the cause 
 of their premature death — " 
 
 "You are wandering in your mind. Don't make 
 3'ourself out more guilty than you really are," 
 murmured the old Torfs, gently. 
 
 "/wander in my mind!" repeated Jan Staers, 
 with a bitter scoiF. "Fifteen long years I have 
 been the scandal and disgrace of the whole village, 
 and have lived like a beast. I have wasted the 
 sweat of my father's brow, and the inheritance of 
 my child, in vile debau^chery. I have cursed, and 
 sworn, and blasphemed, as though I would rise up 
 against God himself out of the deep mire of my 
 drunkenness. Alas ! I have received the care, the 
 love, the mournful solicitude of Clara w^ith utter 
 unfeelingness. I have crushed her young life 
 under heavy shame ; and, as her sole recompense, 
 I have cast her down upon the straw of poverty, 
 into an abyss of frightful degradation. Damna- 
 tion ! my soul is lost — there is nothing within me 
 but a loathsome mass of brute instincts, of selfish- 
 ness, of base cowardice, and of pride. You come 
 to offer me help — you wish to make my Clara 
 happy, to raise her in tenderest affection out of 
 her poverty and humiliation — and I, abominable 
 monster that I am, I am not able to command 
 myself so far as to feel grateful to you. Far from 
 that; my abject soul spurns the benefit you would 
 confer, and chafes that your kindness degrades it. 
 Wretch that I am ! leave me ; I am not deserving 
 
 Q 9 
 
98 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 of your goodness. God has laid his curse upon 
 me !" 
 
 The old Torfs was so deeply affected by the 
 despairing confession of Jan Staers, that liis eyes 
 were filled with tears of compassion. lie re- 
 mained silent for a short time, then sat down 
 again on his chair, took the hand of his neighbor 
 sympathizingly, and said to him, with a kind and 
 soothing voice — 
 
 " Jan, there is no guilt so great but that it may 
 be done away by true repentance. Although I 
 quite enter into your distress of mind, I am filled 
 with extraordinary pleasure that your eyes "are at 
 last opened to your past sinful conduct. It is a 
 great gain. Let me now ask you a few ques- 
 tions : we shall perhaps soon get at some happy 
 conclusion of all your trouble. Tell me, how 
 much money have you left from the price of your 
 cow?" 
 
 "Nothing," answered Staers; " I gave it all 
 yesterday into the hands of our landlord's stew- 
 ard, and no sooner had he put it away in his 
 money-box than he told me that the writ of eject- 
 ment had been already issued." 
 
 "That is no great matter; your debts are so 
 much the less. Clara has been telling me that 
 you have resolved never to drink again. Is this 
 really your irrevocable determination?" 
 
 "If I ever drink again — one single drop — " ex- 
 claimed Jan Staers, clenching his fists, "may 
 God—" 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 99 
 
 " Ko, no, don't swear about it !" interposed the 
 old man; '^your word is quite sufficient for the 
 moment." 
 
 "Drink!" exclaimed the other again. "So 
 firmly have I resolved that I will never again set 
 foot inside a public-house, that I would not do it 
 to gain any sum of money — never — never!" 
 
 " Come, that is good ; and you have made up 
 your mind to w^ork like a right-minded, independ- 
 ent man?" 
 
 "Ah, neighbor Torfs, I don't know whether I 
 ought to say so to you, but I am longing to die ; 
 for my death will make my child happy. And 
 since that is the only good I can do her, I shall 
 try to put an end to my wretched life — " 
 
 "What, what! put an end to your own life!" 
 exclaimed the old man, with horror. "Surely you 
 have lost your senses! Don't you believe, then, 
 that you have a soul, and that there is a God in 
 heaven ? Wretched man ! your words make mo 
 shudder." 
 
 "You deceive yourself," remarked Jan Staers; 
 " I don't mean that. I have resolved to work, to 
 slave, so hard and so continuously, that I shall 
 sink under it — that my body w411 waste and give 
 way-" 
 
 " Oh, come, is that all you mean ?" said old 
 Torfs, with a sigh of relief and of joy. " You 
 may make yourself quite easy about that; the 
 work men do with a hearty good-will never yet 
 killed anybody; on the contrary, it makes them 
 
100 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 strong and healthy. But, neighbor Jan, you 
 are not wise to be so impetuous. Even in good 
 things cool counsel is best, and the golden mean 
 is the best way to reach the goal. Are you really 
 resolved to sacrilice your miserable liking for 
 drink to the happiness of your daughter? Be- 
 g*n, then, by taking your affliction patiently, and 
 look your humiliation courageously in the face. 
 Break down your pride; it is that which makes 
 you speak so harshly and rise up in rebellion 
 against your inevitable lot. Listen to me now, 
 calmly; I shall make you see that you have no 
 reason to abandon yourself to despair. Yester- 
 day you did not behave quite w^ell to me, and I 
 had firmly resolved never to speak a word more 
 to you. But the sorrow, the disgrace, of Clara, 
 who sat weeping at the door of your house, have 
 overcome me. All is forgiven and forgotten. I 
 have been pondering it all the night, and now I 
 liave hit on a plan to be of use to you and to your 
 daughter. The first condition I make is, that you 
 shall leave oif drink — because, if I knew that you 
 ever once — only once — tasted gin again, I should 
 certainly leave you to your fate, and never trouble 
 myself with you any more than if I had never 
 known you." 
 
 An expression of rising vexation passed over 
 Jan Staers's face; he made an evident eftbrt to 
 control himself and get the better of this feeling. 
 It was nevertheless observable in his words, for he 
 said — 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 101 
 
 "You wish to raise Clara out of her poverty? 
 Well, now, take her into your house, or provide 
 for her in some other w'ay. I will leave the vil- 
 lage, and seek my bread of bitterness somcwliero 
 else, until I need it no longer." 
 
 "Always proud!" growled the old man. " l^o, 
 no, that won't do. In case you ever get drunk 
 again, you Avould be coming back and giving mo 
 trouble that I would not — and could not — put up 
 with." 
 
 " But I tell you that I mean never to drink any 
 more — never!" 
 
 "That is just what w^e must first of all see — 
 you as well as I. Listen attentively, and don't 
 interrupt me. You have nothing at all left ; and 
 if you don't wish to beg you must work — w^ork as 
 a day-laborer. Well, now, look you 'here what I 
 propose to you. You shall w^ork for me ; I will 
 give you the very highest w^ages, and I shall not 
 mind if you take a holiday now and then." 
 
 "Work for you? your day-laborer, your ser- 
 vant?" muttered Jan Staers, with fierce despera- 
 tion. 
 
 "Is it not all one whom you work for?" 
 
 "Ko, it is not all one to me," was the answer. 
 " I cannot help it ; the thought of it kills me with 
 shame." 
 
 " I understand ; you have always had a grudge 
 against me. But w^as it my fault? Have I ever 
 done you any harm?" 
 
 "No," exclaimed Jan Staers; "it is envy that 
 
 9* 
 
102 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 was consuming me. Your success was the ever- 
 lasting rebuke of my indolence — I could not 
 digest it — nor now either. I would rather work 
 for anybody else." 
 
 "It cannot be, neighbor; for your own welfare 
 it is necessary that I should help you in the effort 
 to overcome your unhappy vice. Don't be too 
 proud; it is not enough just to say, 'I won't drink 
 any more,' to cure oneself of so terrible a failing. 
 So, if you work for me, I ask this pledge for the 
 space of three months. It is not that I Avant to be 
 your master; on the contrary, it is on my part an 
 effort to enable myself to become your true friend. 
 So it is seriously agreed between us, is it not, that 
 for that time you will not taste gin, not one single 
 drop? For, you see, however firm your resolve 
 may be now', once put your lips to the glass — and 
 the devil has you safe enough again in his clutches! 
 Well now, will you accept the test?" 
 
 A scornful smile played on the lips of Jan Staers. 
 
 "It is of no use," replied he; "you may be sure 
 I shall never drink again." 
 
 "But do you submit to the test with good- will 
 and in all kindliness?" 
 
 "Yes, since you w^ish it." 
 
 "^ow I will say something more. If you keep 
 your w^ord, and avoid all drink for three months, 
 then you w^ill have gained mastery enough over 
 yourself to do your duty henceforward as an honor- 
 able man and as a father. "We will then begin to 
 talk about our children, and consider whether it is 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 103 
 
 Dot advisable to let them marry after Easter. You 
 should never remain a daj-laborer then, Jan Staers. 
 My son would have to call you father, and you can 
 fancy that we should not let you remain in a de- 
 grading position. My first project — the one you so 
 scornfully rejected — will come forward again to be 
 talked over. "We Avill put our children into a little 
 cottage, and you should then come and live with 
 us, not as a laborer or as a servant, but as our rela- 
 tion, as a member of our family." 
 
 While the old man was speaking, Jan Staers 
 looked at him with an unwonted expression ; his 
 features seem transfigured and brightened by a 
 gentle emotion, and his eyes glistened, as though 
 the words of his neighbor were pouring a healing 
 and comforting balm into his soul. The old Torfs 
 remarked this favorable change in his state of 
 mind, and it was with a more tender accent, and 
 a sympathetic deepening of emotion, that he thus 
 continued: 
 
 ''Jan, hitherto every one in our village had 
 laughed at you and despised you ; you have be- 
 haved very shockingly, and have given yourself 
 up blindfold to drink, in order to drown the re- 
 proaches of your conscience there within you ; is 
 it not so? Ah, well, now only carry out your 
 good resolution, and you will see how happy your 
 life will be from this time. All the lads will be 
 edified by your amendment; people will esteem 
 you for your wise resolve. Meanwhile all the 
 past will sink and be forgotten ; and, in the feel- 
 
104 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 iiig that you are doing your duty toward God and 
 toward man as you ought, you will find strength 
 and courage ; you will be able to caiTy your head 
 up again, and look everybody honestly in the face. 
 We shall be good friends ; we will work together 
 for our children, for they will inherit all w^e have, 
 won't they? We w^ill make ourselves glad in 
 their love, in their happiness ; and when the Lord 
 of heaven shall at length call us to his throne of 
 judgment, w^e shall appear there with an assured 
 confidence in his mercy and compassion !" 
 
 Jan Staers was profoundly moved by the pathetic 
 tone of the old man, and great tears trickled fast 
 over his cheeks. 
 
 "You are too good," said he; "I don't deserve 
 it." 
 
 And raising his hand, he exclaimed — 
 
 "Ah, I shall now be able to rise out of my 
 shame and degradation ! It is not too late to ex- 
 piate my past guilt; I shall have around me a 
 family that loves me ; I shall work for my Clara, 
 make myself worthy of her love, see her happy ' 
 Ah, Torfs, noble, generous man, you give me my 
 life back again, you restore peace to my soul, and 
 trust in God's goodness ! Thanks, thanks !" 
 
 "Give me your hand on it," said the old man; 
 " the hand of kindness and firm resolution." 
 
 The pressure of Jan Staers s hand was most vio- 
 lent; and, as if he could not be temperate in any 
 thing, he now overwhelmed his neighbor with all 
 kinds of fervent expressions of thanks to such an 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 105 
 
 extent, at length, that old Torfs, wishing to put 
 an end to these demonstrations of gratitude, in- 
 terrupted him, by saying, with calm earnestness — 
 
 *'Jan, I have confidence in the sincerity and 
 finnness of your resolve ; but you must allow mo 
 to speak for a moment, as if it were just possible 
 that you should again yield to temptation. What 
 I ask of you is the price of your daughter's whole 
 future and happiness. If you ever once let your- 
 self be overcome with drink I shall, without mercy, 
 break off every engagement between us, and forbid 
 my son ever to see Clara again, even though I have 
 to use all my power and authority as a father to 
 compel him. I am not wanting in strength of will ; 
 what 1 have once decided after mature thought is 
 infallibly done. But I feel assured that you will 
 never be so inhuman a father as to crush the life 
 of your daughter for the sake of a miserable vice. 
 You must remember that there yawns before you 
 an infinite abyss of shame, of poverty, and of male- 
 diction ; you will never leap into it and drag your 
 child after you, now that deliverance and happiness 
 smile upon you?" 
 
 "Xo, no, you need not fear," said Jan Staers, 
 beseechingly; "I will follow your advice; I will 
 let you lead me like a child ; I will submit myself 
 to your will, and serve you with gratitude, and 
 with respect and veneration. More than this I 
 cannot say : words fail me to express, as I wish, 
 the feeling of gratitude that fills me and unnerves 
 me. But be very sure, for all that, I will never 
 
106 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 drink again, never any thing stronger than 
 water." 
 
 "And coffee and small beer, which you will 
 liave with us. You must not run on too fast with 
 your resolves, neighbor; it is dangerous. He 
 whose arrow flies over the target misses his mark 
 quite as much as he who falls short." 
 
 The old man rose from his chair, and, pressing 
 once more Jan Staers's hand, he said — 
 
 "I am very much pleased; a joyful hope fills 
 my heart. Take courage, neighbor ; we shall get 
 on. We shall live many happy days together in 
 the world yet. When will you come to my house 
 and set to work?" 
 
 "To-morrow, if you like." 
 
 " To-morrow ! I would much rather you should 
 come to-day, after dinner ; for 3'ou see, Jan Staers, 
 hard work is the most mighty weapon against all 
 kinds of vice, and it is not good for a man to be 
 left too long alone with his own thoughts. AVhen 
 a man is idle, good and bad thoughts run alike 
 through his head." 
 
 " Well, then, this afternoon ; I will do any thing 
 you like." 
 
 "We' will thresh some new corn together, and 
 you will feel how hard work clears the head and 
 cheers the heart! Till the afternoon, then." 
 
 Farmer Torfs left the cottage in a very happy 
 frame of mind. Though he could not help being 
 a little anxious about his efforts and their possible 
 consequences, yet he inwardly rejoiced that he had 
 
THE CTTRSE OF THE VILLAGE. 107 
 
 resolved to make them. The thought that he was 
 going to confer a very great benefit on a fellow- 
 man filled him with a sort of joyous pride. And 
 with this there mingled a sweet and delightful 
 satisfaction that he was thus securing his son's 
 happiness, and sparing him much sorrow and 
 bitter pain. So he stepped out through the fields 
 with unusual vigor and speed, and soon reached 
 his little cottage. There he found his wife and 
 Clara at the door, looking anxiously and inquir- 
 ingly at him as he drew near, and taking comfort 
 from the smile on his face. Both came a few steps 
 toward him, and asked him eagerly how he had 
 fared in his visit to the cottage. 
 
 " It is all right ; I am very much pleased ;" said 
 the old man. "After all, there is good feeling, 
 even virtue itself, in Jan Staers. I have a good hope 
 that every thing will turn out just as we wish." 
 
 "And has he agreed to all you have proposed 
 to him ?" inquired Mother Torfs. 
 
 " Yes, he has. It cost him a little efibrt at first, 
 though ; but after all, you see, Beth, we must not 
 ask too much of a man who is in trouble. Cologne 
 and Aix-la-Chapelle were not built in a day. We 
 ehall do now; we shall do, I see. I am very glad 
 that God put the notion into my head ; I am sure 
 it will turn out well." He took the hand of the 
 poor girl, who stood by, devounng his words with 
 tremulous eagerness. "And you, Clara," said he, 
 v/ith considerable delicacy and affection in his 
 voice, "you too will help us a little, and strengthen 
 
108 THE CURSE OF THE S'lLLAQE. 
 
 your father in his good resolve by your love and 
 care. Ha! look up, and be a little more lively; 
 the gay dreams of yesterday will come true after 
 all. You will be to us a very dear child; we will 
 all live together in aftection and in unmingled 
 joy and happiness." 
 
 The maiden was so deeply moved that she 
 turned away her head to hide her tears. Sud- 
 denly a distant sound seemed to have caught her 
 ear, for she raised her head and looked away over 
 the fields in the direction from which came the 
 sharp crack of a well-known whip. "With a cry 
 of joy she raised her hands above her head, and 
 waved them in the air like the sails of a win(hnill. 
 
 "What are you about, Clara?" asked Mother 
 Beth, in amazement. 
 
 "Look, look," said the maiden, "yonder in the 
 lower road Luke is coming with his cart! oh, how 
 glad he will be !" 
 
 She continued all the wdiile making signs to 
 Luke. 
 
 " Ila, ha, he sees it ! he sees it !" she exclaimed, 
 "Listen, how merrily he is cracking his whip! 
 here he comes ! here he comes !" 
 
 And in sooth Luke was cracking his whip so 
 vigorously in the distance that the sound came on 
 the breeze like the modulations of a lively song. 
 
 "Oh, the vagabond!" roared Father Torfs, 
 stamping his foot with anger ; " the hair-brained 
 vagabond, he is making the horse go at full gallop ! 
 lie will break his neck or his limbs in another 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 109 
 
 minute. Just look how the cart is thumping and 
 jolting along the road ! he'll break it all to bits ! 
 sure enoijgh, he'll never reach home with a sound 
 skin. The stupid blockhead ! I'll pay him out 
 for this. Oh, these young folk — these young folk 
 — there is no holding them in ! Just look — look!" 
 
 *'I^o, no, don't be vexed, Father Torfs," said 
 Clara, coaxingly ; "it is all joy — all for gladness. 
 I'll run on and tell him to drive a little more 
 gently." 
 
 " I^ow, look there ; only listen how my poor old 
 cart is creaking and rattling along!" growled the 
 old man. " The blacksmith will get a good job 
 out of that, I see. Yes — there's so much gone of 
 my precious money. There now, there, the horse 
 is off full gallop again !" 
 
 But Clara had ceased to hear the wail of his 
 lamentation ; with the speed of an arrow just free 
 from the bow, she was off over the fields, running 
 at full speed, shouting and waving both arms, to 
 meet the reckless stripling. 
 
 CHAPTER Vm. 
 
 After dinner Jan Staers presented himself in 
 the cottage of his old neighbor, to begin his 
 career as day-laborer. Farmer Torfs placed a 
 flail in his hand, and led him to the barn, where 
 
 10 
 
110 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 they and another hired laborer were to thresh the 
 new corn. 
 
 AVhen Jan Staers entered the barn, a thrill of 
 painful surprise ran through him ; his lips were 
 compressed together with vexation, and his fore- 
 head glowed with the scarlet of shame. He had 
 recognised in the laborer one of his own servants 
 in times gone by, whom he had discharged in a fit 
 of drunkenness and with very harsh and brutal 
 treatment. And now this poor day-laborer greeted 
 him with a familiar smile, and in that smile was 
 a slight touch of revengeful derision ; so at least 
 thought Jan Staers, whose heart was suddenly 
 charged with bitterness at this unexpected appa- 
 rition and at his haunting suspicion. 
 
 Matters became still worse when Jan, either 
 through distraction or because he Avas not accus- 
 tomed to work, did not wield his flail scientiflcally 
 enough, and so struck out of his turn. Then the 
 laborer would utter some little joke, and make 
 merry over the unskilfulness of his former master. 
 Poor Jan made very great efforts to restrain his 
 anger; he kept his eyes fixed in a wide stare on 
 the straw which covered the barn-floor, and did 
 not look at his fellow-laborer again. 
 
 The old Torfs thought nothing of the perti- 
 nacious silence of Jan Staers, or rather he thought 
 it a natural consequence of his sadness and of the 
 trouble he was in. During the whole afternoon he 
 used every possible effort to raise the spirits of hia 
 companion; and whenever a new sheaf was laid on 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. ' 111 
 
 •the floor, tlie good old man took the opportunity 
 to say a few merry words to him, and thus, if pos- 
 sible, entice a smile to play on the lips of his 
 gloomy neighbor. 
 
 But all was in vain. Jan Staers worked until 
 the perspiration streamed from his forehead, and 
 soon he turned out his work in a much better 
 style ; but he answered the old man's demonstra- 
 tions of friendship only by brief, abrupt mono- 
 syllables, and never spoke a word unless when 
 it was absolutely necessary in order not to seem 
 rude or stupid. 
 
 And so things went on until evening closed in. 
 Then Jan Staers took leave of his neighbor with 
 a cold greeting, and he took himself to his own 
 little cottage. When the poor day-laborer had 
 wished him good-evening in a friendly, cheerful 
 tone, Jan had turned his head sulkily away, and 
 returned him no answer. 
 
 The second da^^, and the following days, matters 
 did not at all mend. On the contrary, now that 
 Jan Staers had to work in the open fields, and 
 sometimes to drive through the village in the cart 
 of his new master, his lofty pride was ever receiv- 
 ing fresh and deeper wounds. The peasants who 
 met him looked at him with a sort of curious 
 wonder, which tortured him and made him wild 
 with shame, as though he regarded every look 
 and every word of his fellow-villagers as a scornful 
 jest on him. 
 
 lie was yet more annoyed and irritated when, 
 
112 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 as sometimes happened, he observed that the 
 farmers would come running out of their barns and 
 stables to look at him as he drove by, and seemed 
 to whisper and smile to one another about his de- 
 gradation and humiliation. His heart really bled 
 within him; he was consumed by a secret vexa- 
 tion, which rose at times to a desperate but sullen 
 rage. Seeing no means of relieving these bitter 
 torments of soul by words or deeds, he gradu- 
 ally sank deeper and deeper into a moody silence. 
 At all hazards he resolved to abide the test — to 
 keep his word; — the happiness of his daughter I 
 this was its price. He made eveiy effort, there- 
 fore, that his indomitable pride permitted, to 
 please Farmer Torfs, and with most painful 
 submission carried out accurately all his com- 
 mands. 
 
 The deathlike silence of her father grieved 
 poor Clara excessively. She spared no exertion to 
 infuse courage and hope into his breast. When- 
 ever he came home for his dinner at mid-day, or 
 returned in the evening with wearied limbs, she 
 surrounded him with every invention of affection- 
 ate care, spoke to him the tenderest words to 
 comfort him, and in cheerful accents set before 
 him the joys of a brighter future. 
 
 He answered her affectionately, and appeared to 
 be grateful for her tender affection : then he usually 
 broke off the conversation abruptly, and drove tho 
 poor girl to silence by his impenetrable coldness. 
 Then he would go into a corner, and sit with his 
 
TlIE CUllSE OF THE VILLAGE. 113 
 
 head buried in his hands, and remain lost in 
 gloom}^ musings, until, after a brief good-night, 
 he went up-stairs into the attic in which his bed 
 stood, and bolted his door behind him. 
 
 This singular behavior began to fill Clara and 
 Ti'ike with uneasiness. Their blissful dream began 
 to enfold itself with clouds as they gazed on it ; 
 and, although they knew not what they had to 
 fear, their hearts would often beat with intense 
 anxiety about the future. 
 
 Quite different were the feelings of old Torfs. 
 It was true, indeed, that the melancholy abstrac- 
 tion of Staers did not please him very much; yet 
 it was enough for him that he kept himself from 
 drink, and did his work regularly and well. He 
 thought they could not expect more of him at 
 first, and it would pass away by degrees as he got 
 used to his new position. Besides, if he stood the 
 test well, and really remained victorious over his 
 fatal propensity to drink for three months, then 
 he would not be compelled any longer to work 
 as a day-laborer; on the contrary-, he would be 
 the relation, the inmate, and the equal, of Torfs 
 himself. This improvement in his condition, the 
 affectionate friendship of his new family circle, 
 the happiness of his child, — all this, he said, would 
 raise Staers out of the dejection which kept him 
 so low. 
 
 So the old man used to say to his son and fo 
 Clara : he tried to make them sec that every thing 
 was going on veiy well — could not go on better — ' 
 
 H 10* 
 
114 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 and, in order to dissipate their gloomy forebodings, 
 he would at times laugh and jest with them ou 
 their causeless fears and fancies. 
 
 What inspired him with this comforting hope 
 was the evident submission of Jan Staers to his 
 slightest command, and the painful timidity and 
 gentleness of his voice whenever he said any 
 thing to him or asked any question of him. 
 
 Gould the old man have seen how Clara's father, 
 whenever he was alone, would gnash his teeth by 
 fits and starts, and stamp with his foot, and mutter 
 bitter words between his teeth, then perhaps he 
 would not have deemed the fears of his children 
 quite groundless. Bat in his presence Jan Staers 
 repressed every rising feeling of impatience or 
 of vexation, and assumed a sad but calm and cool 
 exterior. 
 
 Ten days had thus gone by, and Jan Staers had 
 manifested no tendency toward strong drink ; and 
 it was commonly thought in the village that he 
 had really overcome, by an unwonted energy and 
 persistence of will, a vice which is generally most 
 difficult of cure, if not entirely hopeless. But, at 
 the end of that time, there appeared some indica- 
 tions which began to disquiet the old Torfs, and 
 to excite in him suspicions and doubts whether 
 Clara's father had accepted the test with good will 
 and free concurrence. Wlienever he went to see 
 him in the fields, he was pained and surprised to 
 find him standing w^ith his arms crossed ; and, at 
 the end of the day, the veiy small amount of work 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 115 
 
 clone showed that he must have passed many 
 hours in idleness. 
 
 The two vices which old Torfs hated the most 
 were idleness and drunkenness. It grieved him to 
 see that Staei-s, while he seemed to get the bettei 
 of his drunkenness, remained still the slave of in- 
 dolence. Nevertheless, the old man made as many 
 excuses for him as he could ; he thought he had 
 noticed that Clara's father had been paler than 
 usual the last few days, and that his cheeks had 
 become visibly thinner. 
 
 Torfs had spoken to him about it, and told him 
 that if he did not feel quite well he should not 
 hesitate to say so, and then he might stay a few 
 days at home to rest himself thoroughly ; but Jan 
 Staers had made reply that he was quite well, and 
 felt himself strong enough to do any work that 
 farm-laborers usually did. 
 
 The tw^elfth day — the morrow was a great holi- 
 day — ^Father Torfs was returning from the tow^o, 
 to which he had been summoned by his landlord. 
 At the end of the lower road he did not follow 
 the pine avenue, but took a footpath which would 
 lead him along a field where he knew that Jan 
 Staers was employed in spreading a great heap of 
 manure. When he had reached the field, and 
 come to Clara's father, he took him by the hand, 
 and said, in a light and joyous tone of voice — 
 
 " Don't be cast down, friend Jan ; take courage, 
 man ; things will all come right. Shall I tell you 
 fiomethinf]^ that will give you great pleasure ?" 
 
116 THE CUKSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 lie then gave him a slap on the shoulder, and 
 said — 
 
 "What would you think, eh? if I were to tell 
 you that you would sleep again — much sooner 
 than you think for — in the stone farm-house yon- 
 der?" 
 
 "J sleep there? is the new tenant in want of 
 a servant, then ?" muttered Staers, with a forced 
 effort at a jest. 
 
 "You don't catch my meaning; I mean that 
 you will live again in the stone house, as you used 
 to do formerly." 
 
 " But the new tenant is Franz Vleugels, from 
 the forest farm." 
 
 " He has, indeed, offered a good deal for it ; but 
 the man — do you see, Staers?" 
 
 And the old man raised his hand to his lips, 
 and made a movement with it to imitate a man 
 drinking. 
 
 " So you see, neighbor Jan, the landlord won't 
 hear of him. He would rather let the farm at a 
 much lower rent, if he can only be sure that it 
 will be regularly paid, and that his impoverished 
 fields will be improved and well farmed. Guess, 
 now, who the new tenant is ?" 
 
 "What business is it of mine?" growled Jan 
 Staers. "I should like never to hear the stone 
 farm mentioned again — the wretched hole where 
 I was slowly ruined I" 
 
 "Kow, now, be a little more calm, neighbor 
 Jan ; Jam the new tenant." 
 
THE CURSE or THE VILLAGE. 117 
 
 "I knew well it would end so!" exclaimed Jan 
 Staers, with a forced laugh, which was irieant to 
 fiimulate joy, and expressed envious derision. 
 
 "And I have got it at a very reasonable rent," 
 continued the old man. "I give very little more 
 for it than you did. It is a mine of gold, my 
 friend. The landlord, who has a liking for me, 
 because he has known me these twenty years as 
 an honorable man, and is sure that I shall im- 
 prove his property, opened his money-box, and 
 said I might take what I wanted. I am to buy 
 cows and horses, and hire laborers as many as I 
 like. Yes, we shall do, now ; we shall have to 
 tuck up our sleeves, now! Eh, neighbor, our 
 children will have room enough in the world, 
 now ; for if we don't get money now, people may 
 well say, ' They were too stupid or too idle to be- 
 come rich.' " 
 
 During this glowing exposition of the old man's 
 projects, Jan Staers kept his e3^es fixed on the 
 ground, and his arms seemed to tremble by his 
 side. 
 
 " Well, now, what do you say of this news ?" 
 asked Torfs, astonished at his silence. 
 
 " Good ! it is very good ! I wish you good 
 luck !" muttered Jan Staers. 
 
 "You must have a better heart," said the old 
 man, with increasing joy; "the appointed time 
 will soon run out; then you shall leave your cot- 
 tage, and come to live with us in the stone farm- 
 bouse. We must not put off the marriage of our 
 
118 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 young folk much longer, or the little farm-house 
 will have to stand empty. It is a good thing 
 that winter is coming on, and that there is a good 
 deal of plastering and patching up to be done in 
 the stone house ; for the landlord wishes to hand 
 it over to me sound and in good repair. Monday 
 we will go together there, and have a look over it, 
 and see what we can do to prepare the fields to 
 yield a good harvest next year. The land has 
 had a good fallow, friend Jan; it will work well, 
 depend on it ! Come back to the house in some- 
 thing less than an hour ; we will have a cup of 
 coffee, and bespeak one of mother's best rye- 
 rakes. Good-by ; within an hour !" 
 
 Jan Staers leaned on his pitchfork, and with a 
 fixed and gloomy look followed the old man with 
 his eyes until he had disappeared in the distance. 
 lie remained in this attitude as though stunned, 
 sunk in the depth of despair, and with a bitter 
 sneer on his countenance, until he lieard over the 
 fields the echo of gladsome voices in the house of 
 old Torfs : they were welcoming the glad tidings. 
 
 All his muscles quivered with a sudden convul- 
 sion. With an unintelligible growl, he threw the 
 pitchfork angrily away from him. lie stamped 
 his feet and clenched his fists; the sounds which 
 escaped his lips were formless, but they sounded 
 like fierce and terrible execrations. 
 
 He remained a short time overmastered by this 
 transport of rage. But soon he relapsed into his 
 former immobility, and, as though his reason gra- 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 119 
 
 dually gained an insight into his true situation, 
 his limbs became again relaxed, and he said to 
 himself, in a dejected tone — 
 
 "Wretch that I am ! He brings me happiness 
 for my child — and I am bursting with envy ! ab- 
 ject coward ! I am lying prostrate in the pit of 
 misery I have dug for myself, and I hold him for 
 my enemy who reaches out a brother's hand to 
 raise me from my degradation. Oh, that drink, 
 that drink ! It numbs the heart — it slays the soul. 
 But I will overcome it ; I will strangle this demon 
 of pride which possesses my heart. Come on. 
 Farmer Staers, you contemptible drunkard, you 
 are to be a servant in your father's stone farm- 
 house ! You must be obedient, and toil and wear 
 yourself out for others, in the very house where 
 you used to command as master. The men will 
 laugh at your humiliation ; they will make a mock 
 of you ; they w^ill rejoice, in their envious gibes, 
 over your misfortunes ; but you must stoop and 
 crouch, and digest your misery as best you can, 
 and drink the poison draught of shame — drink it 
 in full draughts — until you burst!" 
 
 He w^ent a few steps, took up his fork from the 
 ground, and began to work again ; but there was 
 something so wild and feverish in his way of 
 working, that one would liave said he was cooling 
 his rage upon the heap of manure. lie stuck his 
 pitchfork into it with furious violence, threw it 
 hither and thither without order or moderation, 
 and behaved himself like one out of his senses.. 
 
120 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 After about a quarter of an hour, the perspira- 
 tion was pouring from his brow, and his breath 
 was short and thick with extreme weariness. 
 But still he continued, and at intervals a gloomy 
 sound issued from his mouth, as though he were 
 goading himself on to persevere in this desperate 
 conflict with himself, until he sank exhausted and 
 powerless. 
 
 Then all at once he heard the voice of Farmer 
 Torfs, who was calling to him from a great dis- 
 tance to leave his work and come to drink the 
 promised coffee. 
 
 "Perdition!" growled Jan Staers. "Go — and 
 sit down at the table — look on — and see how glad 
 they all are — how they clap their hands for joy ! 
 See how your own child exults in your disgrace ! — 
 and chatter, and laugh and be merry ; or else you 
 will be driven away like a servant, who is not 
 servile enough in his master's eyes ! Come, come, 
 — crawl along — reptile that you are !" 
 
 And with slow steps he went, and murmured as 
 he went, toward the abode of Farmer Torfs. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 It was the day after this scene, and about two 
 o'clock in the afternoon. Clara stood ready, with 
 her prayer-book in her hand, to go to church. She 
 spoke to her father, and said, with her sweet voice — 
 
THE CURSE OF THE TILLAGE. 121 
 
 "Xow, jou will go out, won't you ? and walk a 
 bit in tlie fields to freshen you up ? The sun is 
 shining so clear; it is so beautiful and so fresh out 
 of doors. Here you sit all day long, moping ; it 
 is not right, father. You will make yourself ill. 
 Farmer Torfs said, too, that you ought to got a 
 little fresh air. Ah, if you won't do it for your 
 own sake, do it for mine. It is not so very great 
 a kindness, and you don't know how glad it will 
 make me. To think you are sitting there on that 
 chair all day long, with your head in your hands, 
 dreaming away — do you think that that is no grief 
 tome?" 
 
 "To run right into men's faces, and have to 
 answer all sorts of jeering questions!" muttered 
 Staers. 
 
 "But, father," observed the girl, "it is a fes- 
 tival ; almost all the men w^ill be in church ; you 
 won't meet anybody. Besides, if you don't wish 
 to see anybody, go away toward the forest ; you 
 may be sure of being alone there. But the clock 
 is striking; I must make haste." 
 
 She pressed his hand, and, looking coaxingly 
 and imploringly into his eyes, she asked — 
 
 " Father dear, won't you now ? won't you take 
 a little walk?" 
 
 "Well, yes. What difference is it to me? It 
 is all one to me — every thing is," answered Jau 
 Staers, impatiently. 
 
 "And if you are not at home when I come back 
 from church, I shall go to Mother Beth's ; she haa 
 
 11 
 
122 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 begged me to come. You will come on too, Avon't 
 you, father? You know that we are all to have 
 a game of cards quietly in the early evening; 
 Farmer Torfs said so." 
 
 "Very w^ell," growled Staers. "Take care yon 
 don't be late for the service : people will think you 
 are lazy and idle." 
 
 Repeating hastily her greeting, the girl ran out 
 at the door. 
 
 Jan Staers remained a little while longer, sitting 
 without moving a limb. A grim, sour smile was 
 on his lips ; and he was gazing wrathfully into 
 vacancy, as though a disquieting spirit stood before 
 his mind's eye. 
 
 "Play a game at cards!" he muttered. "Yes 
 — play with the cards — and gnaw your own heart 
 the while others are merry and glad. Go out to 
 w^alk : yes, show yourself out of doors : Jem Pas- 
 mans will ask you, as he did you yesterday, how 
 much you get a day with the old beetle. The 
 broom-maker — a mere begger — he will pity you, 
 and tell you it is a miserable and humiliating 
 thing to go and work as a servant in your father's 
 farmyard ; and the drunken blacksmith will put 
 his hand to his mouth, and laugh and shout to 
 you from a distance — ^Jan, Jan, my lad — this 
 comes of — the glass !' All the children will be at 
 your heels as if you were a strange sort of animal, 
 and they wdll whisper scornfully to one another 
 about Farmer Staers, the great fool, who was rich, 
 and drank himself poor." 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 123 
 
 Kow he held his peace a while, and his morbid 
 fancy charged these irritating thoughts with yet 
 more vivid and maddening colors. Then an ex- 
 pression of deepening despair succeeded to one of 
 envious hatred on his countenance, and, with a 
 laugh of fierce and bitter derision, he continued — 
 
 "And to-morrow I am to go and work in the 
 stone farm-house — help the masons to put new tiles 
 on the roof. I shall have to stand up aloft, on a 
 ladder, right out in the street. The whole village 
 wnll see me; fathers will point me out to their 
 children as an example that they must lay up in 
 their terrified hearts. My story Avill be told again 
 and again a hundred times ; tmd I, the while, 
 dying of shame and spite, shall have to sit up there 
 on the roof like a martyr on the rack ; and down 
 below in the street they will be laughing, jesting, 
 scoffing, and calling out aloud that I have deserved 
 it. Oh, half of one month is gone ; and I feel 
 myself quite conquered already — ten weeks more ! 
 ten ages of horrible suffering, of infernal de- 
 spair!" 
 
 All his limbs were convulsed and shaken in a 
 paroxysm of passion. He rose with a groan, and 
 strode up and down his little room like a madman, 
 shouting aloud — 
 
 •'No, no! it cannot last. I must put an end to 
 it. Clara ! — but if I were dead she would be happy. 
 Kothing could hinder her marriage. My body 
 would be scarcely cold before the Torfses would 
 begin to talk of the wedding. Ah, I should be 
 
124 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 set free from all my shame ; I should have no more 
 feeling than a stone ; no more conscience to gnaw 
 me ; no more heart to feel." 
 
 He sprang forward, put his hand on the bolt of 
 the cupboard, and opened the door of it with vio- 
 lence. Something like the glimmering of bright 
 steel struck his eye. He stood a moment looking 
 at it with a shudder ; it seemed to kill him with 
 terror and fear ; for he closed the door with a jerk, 
 and sprang backward with a dull, sad cry. 
 
 Then, as though he would escape from some 
 perilous thought, he began again to run rather than 
 walk up and down the room, and roared all kinds 
 of disjointed words without form or sense. 
 
 Suddenly he stood still before the window and 
 looked out. A smile of peculiar joy illumined his 
 face, and he sighed with longing for something the 
 sight of which seemed to cause him indescribable 
 pleasure. 
 
 Abo Lit a bow-shot oft', on the farther side of the 
 brook, was a public-house, above the door of which 
 hung a sign. A swan was painted on it, and be- 
 neath the swan a pint full of brown beer, and a 
 green flask surrounded with little glasses. And 
 on this flask Jan Staers kept his eager eye fixed; 
 he stood with open mouth and panting breast, and 
 then he said, with a shudder — 
 
 "Gin ! — Ah, to be dead — no more consciousness 
 — no more j)ain ; to drink, drink, drink, and then 
 fall down without reason, without soul ! to feel 
 the flame rush through one's veins! to be nch, 
 
THE CUllSE OF THE TILLAGE. 125 
 
 happy, valiant, and strong ! to forget every thing 
 — all — every thing — come, come!" 
 
 He felt his pockets and fumbled about them with 
 feverish eagerness. 
 
 "Money!" murmured he; "I have no money. 
 The old beetle won't pay me till to-morrow. IIo 
 distrusts me ; I might go and drink with it to-day. 
 Ah, I saw some money yesterday ! — it must be 
 there still. There, in Clara's box !" 
 
 He stooped toward the box while saying these 
 w^ords, and took out a little casket, the contents of 
 wiiicjv.lie shook out into the palm of his hand. 
 
 *' Silver!" said he, with glee. '^Silver! one, 
 two, three francs, and a half; enough, enough to 
 live, to die — " 
 
 But, as if the pieces of money had uttered an 
 appealing, expostulating voice, he put them back 
 into the little box hastily and in terror, and began 
 suddenly to shiver and to totter on his legs, so 
 that he sank into a chair to prevent himself from 
 falling. 
 
 With his bewildered eye still fixed upon the 
 money, he said, gloomily — 
 
 "Vile Judas! go — sell the soul of your child I 
 
 Wretch that I am, what am I going to do ? Poor 
 
 Clara, she has worked so many nights in secret for 
 
 this. The brewer's wife gave her some shirts to 
 
 make; she has hoarded the wages of her toil, 
 
 penny by penny, all in secret; I was not to know 
 
 it. But Luke has betrayed her. She is going to 
 
 bnv me a fine Sunday neckerchief; she w^ants to 
 11* 
 
126 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 surprise and gladden me with this grand present ! 
 — and this money, this money of love and affec- 
 tion, — it will serve for — oh no, no ! never ! never!" 
 
 Springing np hastily, he replaced the pieces of 
 money in Clara's box. While he was stooping to 
 do this, a strange sound smote suddenly on his ear. 
 It was a distant noise, as of some one who was 
 coming along, singing as he walked. Jan Staers 
 stood upright in the room, and listened with mar- 
 vellous astonishment to the song, which seemed to 
 him more and more f'stinct, although the false 
 notes, and the confused and stammering words, 
 must have been uttered rather by an idiot than by 
 a reasonable man. 
 
 "The sand-digger!" muttered Jan Staers, with 
 a bitter expression of env}^ on his countenance. 
 "IIow jolly he is now! He has had his drink; 
 he sings, he runs, he has plenty of courage, he 
 knows nothing of humiliation or of shame ! He 
 has no daughter; he can drink — drink as much as 
 he likes." 
 
 The song came nearer and nearer ; the door of 
 Jan Staers's cottage was opened, and his old boon- 
 companion stood before him. 
 
 Klaes Grils, the sand-digger, seemed uncom- 
 monly merry, and in good spirits; his eyes rolled 
 wildly in his head ; his cheeks and his nose glowed 
 with a fiery red ; he felt with his hands in the air, 
 and at last he said, with a loud peal of laughter— 
 
 " There he is ! Good God, he is alive still ! Jan 
 Staers, iad, I thought you were gone to live ia a 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 12T 
 
 molc-track. These ten days we have had such a 
 drinking-bout ! it is so good just now, the gin at the 
 White Calf. I wanted to lead the wheelwright's 
 eon home, but he w^ould lie down in the middle of 
 the road, and I can't make him get up. So every 
 one to his taste, say I." 
 
 Jan Staers stared at his old companion with a 
 peculiarly steady and fixed look ; there he stood, 
 tottering and reeling about, and making all kinds 
 of strange grimaces. 
 
 *'But, bless me, friend Jan," continued he, "you 
 are making a face as if you wanted to eat me up ! 
 What are you up to now ? Where do you go for 
 a drink? or do you manage matters like great 
 folks, and mix your glass at home to your liking ? 
 I'm going to try that to-day ; I have a little green 
 flask; when it is full it holds over a pint." 
 
 lie put his hand in the pocket of his blouse and 
 drew out a flask. Eeaching it out to Jan Staers, 
 he stammered — 
 
 "There, that comes out of the White Calf Just 
 taste it. Only a drop ; don't be greedy; for that's 
 something to make a dead man jump up out of 
 his coffin." 
 
 He kept his hand stretched out toward Jan 
 Staers, who stood trembling wdth inexpressible 
 anguish, and following every movement of the 
 flask in the sand-digger's unsteady hand. 
 
 "Is your throat bunged up?" said the latter, 
 jeeringly. "Or do you think it is some of that 
 wretched stuft' from the Blue Dog?" 
 
128 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 *'Go away, go away! take the flask out of my 
 sight!" roared Jan Staers, although he involun- 
 tarily put out liis hand as if to seize it. And in 
 truth a fearful conflict was raging within him. 
 The memory of the simple hut deep aftection of 
 his daughter stayed him a while on the hrink of 
 the awful precipice; hut the fatal flask shone he- 
 witchingly before his eyes. It smiled on him; it 
 seemed to him surrounded with all kinds of en- 
 chanting images of happiness; it drew him on and 
 on with irresistible force, as the magnet draws the 
 needle. 
 
 However, the brutal and repulsive face of the 
 sand-digger, which grinned behind the flask, would 
 probably have given him strength to gain the vic- 
 tory over his passion, had not his companion at 
 that moment withdrawn the flask, saying, with a 
 scornful laugh — 
 
 *'Ah, ah, I know how it is; they were talking 
 of it at the "White Calf. You would catch it well, 
 wouldn't you? The old beetle ^vould send you 
 about your business, if you drank only one single 
 drop." 
 
 "Here, here!" howled Jan Staers, suddenly 
 springing forward, and grasping the flask with his 
 hand, as a wild beast clutches his prey. 
 
 "Stop there! halloa!" cried the other, running 
 after him round the room; "only one drop; I 
 know 3^ou of old; you have no bottom to your 
 mouth. Give me back the flask! give it me V* 
 
 Jan Staerp pTit the flask to his mouth, and 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 129 
 
 pushed the sand-digger violently from him. For 
 a moment there was a kind of scuffle, until at 
 length Jan Staers, drawing a deep breath, gave 
 back the flask and sank down on his chair ex- 
 hausted. 
 
 The sand-digger looked alternately at the empty 
 flask and at his panting comrade, in mute wonder. 
 
 " Oh, be oft* with you, begone ! Fiend that you 
 are, you have stolen my soul, you have murdered 
 my daughter," moaned Jan Staers, as if beside 
 himself, and shuddering in his chair. 
 
 " Well, that is good !" grumbled the sand-digger. 
 "What rubbish are you saying now? You shall 
 see whether I won't make you pay for your drink. 
 Here I am assaulted and robbed in broad daylight, 
 as if I were in a wilderness. Ah, you don't like 
 it; you are afraid it will burn your lips ! I shall 
 go up yonder, up the hill, to the Spotted Cow, 
 and drink a pint of the best, and put it to your 
 account. If you won't pay it I will bring you up 
 before the magistrate, as sure as my name is Klaes 
 Grils. Stealing is stealing ; they locked up Frank, 
 the dung-carter, for six months for finding a loaf 
 worth twopence on the baker's counter." 
 
 The sand-digger took two steps toward the 
 door, as though to leave the cottage; then he 
 turned, and asked again — 
 
 "You will pay it, won't you? Then we shall 
 still be good friends, anyhow. Jan Staers, lad, 
 how ugly you look with your great, glassy, staring 
 eyes! If I didn't know what it is owing tOj I 
 
130 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 fihould run away from you as from a mad dog. 
 The devil, who is up in the church in the picture 
 of the Last Judgment, and you — why you are as 
 like one another as two drops of gin — no, 1 mean 
 two drops of water. But Jan, I foi'got to ask you : 
 is it true what they were talking ahout in the 
 White Calf, that the old beetle has taken the stone 
 farm, and that you are going to work with him as 
 his servant? on your own property — that is, what 
 was your own property? I wish that word 'was' 
 didn't come in, don't you, Jan ? What a number 
 of beautiful franc-pieces we should have, which 
 are gone now ! So, so — the cure's parable, which 
 used to make you rave so, when you were half-seas 
 over — the parable is come true ! The clay cottage 
 has, after all, eaten up the stone farm-house I Ila! 
 ha! the curd, lad, is a clever man, to tell true 
 fifteen years beforehand! So, you are to be 
 servant to the old hair-splitter! I'm sorry for 
 3'ou; you'll have to work like a slave — and gin? 
 yes, indeed, you will draw your gin out of the 
 well with a bucket !" 
 
 During this jeeiing address, Jan Staers had re- 
 mained sitting in his chair, with his unmeaning 
 gaze bent on vacancy. Not a limb, not a muscle 
 of his body moved ; but his features worked with 
 impetuous emotions, and at each wound which 
 the sand-digger's gibes inflicted on his pride, he 
 clenched his teeth more rigidly together, and his 
 eyes sparkled and glowed with an ever intenser 
 flame of anger. It was also observable that the 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 131 
 
 drink had begun to fire bis brain, for bis accus- 
 tomed paleness was now replaced, even on bis 
 forebead, witb a warmer tint. 
 
 "Farewell !" grumbled tbe sand-digger, turning 
 again toward tbe door. "Tell your master — tlie 
 old beetle — tbat I laugb at bini and despise bim, 
 for all bis being tenant of tbe stone farm-bouse." 
 
 Jan Staers sprang up, and, running after tbe 
 sand-digger, pulled bim back into tbe room. 
 
 "Wait, wait a moment!" be exclaimed, witb 
 warmtb, as be bent over tbe box; "I will go witb 
 you ; I will pay you for tbe flask — up yonder in 
 tbe Spotted Cow." 
 
 " Come, now, tbat's sometbing like ! ab, you 
 nave some money in a box? Wbile you are about 
 it, bring a little more. Let me see — silver !" 
 
 "Come along!" exclaimed Jan Staers, dragging 
 tbe sand-digger toward tbe door. 
 
 But wben be set bis foot over tbe tbresbold, it 
 seemed as if a restraining tbougbt occurred to 
 him ; perhaps there stood before bis disquieted 
 spirit the image of bis daughter, standing with 
 uplifted bands, imploring him to have pity on 
 himself and on her. He leaned against tbe door- 
 post, and stood for a moment trembling ; but the 
 sand-digger pushed bim out into tbe street, and 
 followed him, carefully closing tbe door behind 
 him. Jan Staers w^alked on witb uneasy and pain- 
 ful rapidity, and made for an oak coppice, as 
 though be were afraid of beijig seen by any one. 
 When they reached the open field, all was still and 
 
132 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 solitary ; so far as the eye could reach, there was 
 no living being in sight. The sand-digger reeled 
 and staggered after him, and muttered, quite out 
 of breath, "Eh, Jan, are you on iire anywhere 
 that you run so fast? but I'll beat you yet; my 
 legs are good yet. Oh, there I go, down in the 
 mud ! They call this keeping the roads in order — 
 an honest man can't go up to the Spotted Cow 
 without breaking his neck ! Here I am, in for it. 
 Jan, Jan, wait a bit ; we must rest a little there 
 at the corner of the wood, at Jem Snoeks's." 
 
 Running on thus, and stammering as he went, 
 the two boon-companions disappeared rapidly be- 
 hind the angle of the pine grove. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later, large numbers of 
 men were seen leaving the village, and returning 
 homeward through the roads and lanes and over 
 the fields. The service was over. 
 
 When Clara entered the cottage, a joyous smile 
 played on her lips. 
 
 "Ah, father is gone out to walk," she said, gayly. 
 " This is the first time. Now things will go better. 
 He will come round by degrees, and the bitter 
 vexation that gnaws him will vanish gradually. 
 The brewer's wife has given me some more work. 
 What a beautiful neckerchief that was in the sa 
 cristan's window ! it was so gay, it quite dazzled 
 my eyes. I shall manage it famously ; and father 
 shan't know a moment's peace until he puts it on 
 and goes with me to church ; as for the worn-out 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 133 
 
 rag he has on his neck now, it is quite a disgrace 
 to be seen in it. And he knows nothing about it. 
 I work while he is in bed. Come, I will run off 
 to Mother Beth's and tell her the good news — and 
 this evening we will have such a nice game *at 
 cards — and the loser is to have a cleft stick fitted 
 on his nose. Oh, how merry we shall be ! how 
 we shall all laugh ! " 
 
 Swiftly as a bird she ran out at the door, and 
 disappeared behind the wall of the cottage. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " GooD-day, Mother Torfs ; what fine weather, 
 kn'tit?" 
 
 *' Because you look at it with such merry eyes, 
 Clara." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I am very well, too." 
 
 " Sit down by the fire, then ; we '11 have a little 
 chat. Does all go well yonder ? " 
 
 " Mother Torfs, my father is gone out to walk. 
 This is a sign that he begins to get used to his 
 position, and that he is shaking ofl:' his gloom." 
 
 " Gone out to walk? Clara, child, it is a holi- 
 day ; all the public-houses are wide open." 
 
 " iN'o no. Mother Beth ; he is only gone for a 
 stroll in the fields to get a mouthful of fresh air. 
 The public-houses ? don 't be alarmed about them 
 
 12 
 
134 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 If my fallier had wished to drink, he might have 
 done so any day; hut, he sure, he stands firm in 
 his good resokition ; and if he hecomes a litt.e 
 more cheerful in mind, I don't despair hut that he 
 will quite get over his had hahit." 
 
 *'It is my notion, too, Clara, that things will go 
 on Vv^ell. Perhaps something may turn up wrong, 
 but anyhow Luke shall not he prevented from — 
 from enahling me to call you my daughter. Look 
 you well, you wouldn't say that Luke is much 
 like his father outwardly ; hut inside, they are 
 as like as two pins. Luke seems patient, and 
 gentle, and easy to manage as a child, doesn't he ? 
 Well, for all that, Luke has a hard head on his 
 shoulders, Clara; and, Uke his father, whenever he 
 takes any thing into that head of his, you will 
 never make him give it up. Say what j^ou like, 
 and try all you can, hoth of them always come 
 hack to the point they started from. They are 
 a little hit ohstinate, sure enough: it runs in the 
 hlood of the Torfses — they always were very hard 
 to manage." 
 
 " But, Mother Torfs, I thought Luke was to be 
 here after the service ?" 
 
 "He is gone with his father to the St. George's 
 G uild. They meet to-day. I dare say it will be 
 an hour before they come hack." 
 
 " I have heard say that they are going to choose 
 Father Torfs as Dean of the St. George's Guild; is 
 it true?" 
 
 "It seems so; hut Torfs hesitates. lie does 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 185 
 
 not like to have his head troubled with cares. You 
 see the Guild is not on a very good footing, and if 
 Torfs became dean he Avould want to set it all 
 right: for he would rather not touch a thing thau 
 leave it half done." 
 
 " But it would be such a nice thing for Farmer 
 Torfs to be dean. Only think, Mother Beth, 
 what an honor for the family !" 
 
 "Ha! ha! Clara dear, you make me laugh. 
 You good-for-nothing girl, you are always caring 
 for the honor of the family ! You seem to think 
 it is Palm Sunday, and that Easter is at the door ! 
 — But, laughing aside, I was saying just now that 
 the Torfses are made of vei'y stubborn stuft'. If 
 you were to say that obstinacy was wrong, yoM 
 would have them both down upon you. You 
 must know, then, that they never decide on any 
 thing without keeping it at least four-and- twenty 
 hours working in their heads ; sometimes they will 
 run about with a thought in their brains for months 
 and years before they say it must be done. And 
 if you find fault with them, — oh, it is manhj^ and 
 they can't see any harm in it. But, after all, the 
 Torfses are capital workers, and they do their 
 duties carefully and accurately both toward God 
 and tow^ard man. Yes, often so good and so 
 strict, that you may happen to get a good scolding 
 if you hint they are wrong in any thing they do." 
 
 " I've got something in my head. Mother Beth. 
 Couldn't they make Luke dean of the St. George's 
 Guild?" 
 
136 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 " Oh, you little goose, he is much too young. 
 I don't know what you sit there dreaming about. 
 Clara, Clara, you mustn't be so proud. Honor 
 and renown, look you, all that is but wind. -Just 
 blow on your hand ; you will feel something, and 
 think it is something real, and it is nothing after 
 all. I was saying the Torfses had a will of their 
 own. You must know how to manage them when 
 thej^ take a whim in their heads. Look : if things 
 should ever go so far as that you should sit here 
 by the fire, and be called Dame Torfs — you laugh, 
 eh? — then you must take good care to notice 
 what Luke has in his head ; and if you think that 
 he is going to do or undertake any thing that is 
 hazardous, then begin betimes your observations 
 on it, and never give over; — ^you may have to talk 
 a long time, but never give over, till he has given 
 up his project. If you can't get the better of his 
 whim, and if he has once made a resolution, don't 
 bother him any more. You'll never move the 
 Torfses." 
 
 " Oh, mother, where people love one another, 
 every thing goes smoothly." 
 
 "No, no, child, nothing in the world goes 
 smoothly. "What you must take care of especially 
 is, that you never — never, do you hear? — allow 
 him to remain a quarter of an hour in a public- 
 house from the time of your marriage. As soon as 
 you notice any thing of that kind, then begin to 
 be vexed, and peevish, and look sour, and scold, 
 and so on, without ceasing. Men can't stand out 
 
THE CTTRSE OF THE VILLAGE. 137 
 
 ftgainst that, and they will do any thing we like to 
 1)6 quit of our everlasting seesawing on one thing, 
 as they call it. Of that curse of our villages, of 
 gin, I shall not say much to you ; you have had a 
 melancholy example of its consequences before your 
 eyes all your life long, and so has Luke ; hut who 
 knows ? some bad luck, or some trouble ; they take 
 a drop to drown their vexation, they say, and then 
 it is all over with them. Just look, in the village 
 over yonder, on the Lysterbcrg, the weaver Tist 
 Mees ; he was for forty years an honest man, who 
 earned his bread honorably. He had five children, 
 and one of them was killed by a kick from one of 
 the brewer's horses. Tist Mees was almost beside 
 himself with grief; by the advice of some bad 
 friends he tasted gin for the first tim'e, just to cheer 
 himself up, as they said. It was all over with him : 
 the poor weaver became a drunkard, and went fast 
 to ruin. To console himself for the loss of one 
 child, he has brought the four others to beggary, 
 and made them miserable. Clara, child, if things 
 don't mend in our villages with this wretched gin- 
 drinking, depend on it we shall hear of some sad 
 doings. If it were only the drunkards themselves 
 who suffered, we might say that it served them 
 right — they reaped as tliey sowed ; but that wife 
 and children, sometimes even father and mother, 
 should have to suffer hunger, and shed tears of 
 grief and shame — that is not as it should be ; and 
 I say that drunkards can have no hearts in their 
 bodices, to- forget their poor lambs in such an inliu- 
 
 12* 
 
138 THE CURSE or the village. 
 
 man way, and knowingly and willingly make them 
 suffer so much. You are sitting so still, Clara; 
 I dare say you have not been listening all the 
 time, and are thinking of something else." 
 
 " I am sad, Mother Beth : your words make mo 
 afraid. You talk as if Luke could ever get a 
 liking for gin. There's no reason in that, now. 
 Oh, God ! is the world then so far gone that we 
 cannot he sure of those we love from one day to 
 another?" 
 
 "You must not be vexed about it, Clara; but 
 for all that, look you, you must always keep your 
 eyes wide open. One thing more you ought to 
 know well. The w^ife seems to be the slave in a 
 family, and always to be obedient ; but it is only 
 in appearance^ child. Of a hundred households, 
 ninety are just what the wife has made them, or 
 allowed them to become. So you must always be 
 up very early, earlier than the servants, and take 
 care that evei-ybody goes to his work in good time. 
 Never let them stay up longer than necessary at 
 night ; it only wastes oil, and makes them lazy at 
 their work. You must give a good example to 
 everybody; for where the farmer's wife likes 
 sitting about, or crossing her arms, there the cart 
 runs out of its proper track, and the horse remains 
 in the stable uselessly nibbling his ha}^ You 
 must be neat and clean in every thing, Clara; 
 cleanliness in a household cheers the heart and 
 gladdens the soul. And economy, Clara, economy 
 is the first duty of a wife. Men, you see, arc not 
 
TnE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 139 
 
 Strict enough about it ; but tbej are always glad, 
 after all, to see a little heap of money in a corner 
 of the chest, though they never ask how it has 
 been gathered, by care and economy. Let nothing 
 be lost; everything has its value. In the town 
 there is a man who became rich only by collecting 
 old iron and worn-out clothes. A plate that has 
 lost a piece may still last some time ; and when 
 it breaks in pieces at last, you see, it breaks in- 
 stead of the new one that you might have bought. 
 Anyhow, it is a plate gained ; and so it is with 
 every thing. When Luke wants to throw away 
 his waistcoat or his blouse because they are worn 
 out, just put a patch here and there, and they will 
 last six months longer. And then you must be 
 careful not to spend a penny at the milliner's. 
 Out of an old pair of father's trousers, mother can 
 easil}^ make a new waistcoat for her eldest boy; 
 and when the eldest is grown out of it, just pass 
 it on to the next, and so on, till you can do 
 nothing more with it but cut out a good pair of 
 socks for father. But you see, Clara, there is one 
 thing you must not be too saving in, and that is 
 eating. I don't mean that you should have dain- 
 ties on the table; no, but there should always be 
 enough. It is a mistake to try to save out of the 
 mouths of your servants ; it never answers in the 
 long run. lie who works hard must eat well, or 
 he will never hold out. What you lose in victuals 
 you gain twice over in work. And the same with 
 cattle Look you, when we bought our horse, it 
 
140 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 was lean and out of condition, and scarcely fit for 
 work; and though we got him cheap, we thought 
 we had made a very bad bargain. But we 
 treated the poor beast well, and he got round, and 
 became very strong again. You may go all round 
 the neighborhood, and you won't find a horse that 
 will do so much work, and with so much spirit. 
 But the cows, Clara, the cows, if you don't care 
 for them and look after them as if they were your 
 own children, you will never get on in farming. 
 Cows, do you see, are the main thing in farming; 
 and it takes a good deal of skill to get out of them 
 all that is in them, and improve their condition all 
 the time. I'll tell 'you how to manage it. I once 
 heard the cure preach — I don't remember now what 
 it was about — but he was telling us about the false 
 gods of some of the folk that lived a long time 
 ago. Some went and bowed down to the sun or 
 to the moon, some to an elephant, some to a bird, 
 or any thing else ; but there was one country 
 where they had a notion that cows and oxen were 
 gods, and so out of reverence they would not kill 
 them nor eat them. Thinks I to myself, these 
 people, poor creatures, they don't know any better, 
 but they weren't so far wrong after all ; for you 
 see, Clara, the cow is the queen of all cattle, 
 and the greatest benefactor to men. Without 
 the cow, man would never be able to work the 
 land ; and like too many, even now-a-days, they 
 would eat one another up for hungcfl-, if God 
 hadn't created the cow. Clara, child, what ails 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 141 
 
 you now? You look as if you had a tear in 
 your eye." 
 
 "Oh, it is nothing," stammered the girl; "I 
 was thinking of my poor white mammy, who 
 supported us so long, and then was killed at last 
 before her time. All you say is very true, Mo- 
 ther Beth." 
 
 " Yes, if you have been listening to all I have 
 been saying, I fancied your wits were w'ool- 
 gathering a little bit; Luke was skipping about 
 in your head, wasn't he, now ? Well, well, it is 
 natural enough." 
 
 ''1^0, Dame Torfs, you are mistaken; I have 
 been listening, listening very attentively, and I 
 thank you a thousand times for your good advice. 
 Your words made me feel a little sad ; I did not 
 know that it was so serious a matter to be mistress 
 of a house, but now I begin to have a little notion 
 of it." 
 
 "Yes, yes ; this book isn't so easily read through. 
 Only wait a bit till we come to the chapter on 
 children. We had three, but my little Mieken 
 and Pietje went to heaven when they w^ere about 
 seven years old. It is too early yet to talk about 
 them; you will find it all out soon enough. I 
 was going to tell you something about the stable 
 and the sheep, but I fancy I hear Torfs's footstep. 
 Come, we will get out the cards." 
 
142 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Old Torfs and his son entered the house at that 
 moment. Luke went straight toward Clara, who 
 had risen as they came in, and talked quietly with 
 her. The sweet smile which lighted up both their 
 faces, and the joyous gestures of Clara, showed 
 that the maiden was busy in telling her lover how 
 her father had gone out to walk in the fields to 
 refresh himself a little. 
 
 *'Well, now," exclaimed Mother Beth to her 
 husband, "how^ have things gone up yonder? you 
 are surely not dean?" 
 
 "No, no," said the old man with a laugh, "they 
 spared no pains indeed, but — " 
 
 "Yes, yes, father; but tell it right out," said 
 Luke, interrupting him. "Ay, indeed! only 
 fancy, mother, they had elected father, and thero 
 he sat pondering and weighing, like he does when 
 lie is in doubt about any thing. I saw by the 
 shaking of his head that he was going to accept 
 it, but I stepped gently on his toe, and then he 
 said : * I thank you for the honor you have done 
 me, but my last word is — no !' Everybody knows 
 father; so there was nothing more to be said but, 
 "Tis a great pity !' and so they all said." 
 
THE CURSE OV THE VILLAGE. 143 
 
 ^^Well, come, come, Torfs! said Mother Beth, 
 jestingly, "your mouth watered after all to be 
 dean, did it?" 
 
 " There is something in it," answered the old 
 man. " When ^^ou sit down among all your old 
 fi'iends, wdio beg j^ou and coax you, and mean to 
 give you a token of their respect and affection ! I 
 was affected by it a great deal, and it^gave me 
 great pain when I found my refusal vexed them. 
 But don't let us talk any more about it ; let us 
 rather have our game — that will put the matter 
 out of my head. Where is Jan Staers ? I asked 
 him to come at half-past three, and now 'tis four 
 o'clock." 
 
 "Father is gone out to walk in the fields," said 
 Clara. " He wanted to get a mouthful of air to 
 freshen him up. I told him, Farmer Torfs, that 
 you wished him to go out to walk, and then he did 
 it with pleasure. He will come in a moment ; per- 
 haps he hasn't heard the clock strike." 
 
 " So ! he is gone out ? that's all right. But we 
 will begin while we are waiting for him. Sit 
 down at the table — no, no, Luke mustn't sit by 
 Clara; they help one another; we must play fair." 
 
 They arranged themselves around the little 
 table, and old Torfs took the pack of cards and 
 began to deal. 
 
 " Three of trumps !" exclaimed Clara ; " twenty. 
 Knave and queen, sixty! I shall win. I knew 
 you would lose, Luke. I'll fit you, this time, a 
 saddle on your nose, which shan't be made of 
 
144 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 etraw, I assure you. You had better look sharp, 
 lad, I've got it all ready." 
 
 She held up a thick piece of wood with a cleft 
 in it, and said, with a loud laugh, "Look, there 
 is a saddle for you ! this will pinch your nose so 
 that you will cut twenty different faces in a 
 minute !" 
 
 "Bless me! is it possible?" said Mother Beth, 
 laughing : " you have got the thickest stick from 
 the bakehouse. Suppose I lose ?" 
 
 "Oh yes, then we will make the cleft a little 
 deeper and easier for you. This is only for Luke. 
 This will teach him how to tease me again, as he 
 did the other day." 
 
 " Come, come, do you call this playing at cards?" 
 drily remarked old Torfs. 
 
 "My nose is beginning to be sore already," 
 muttered Luke. "I believe you have sorted the 
 cards on purpose for me. Eights and nines, and 
 not a single trump !" 
 
 "Ten of spades !" exclaimed the old man, throw- 
 ing the card on the table with an air, after the 
 peasant fashion, much like a sledge-hammer. 
 
 "Ace of spades, and — the trick is mine!" said 
 Mother Beth, exultingly. 
 
 "Queen of hearts," she continued. 
 
 "I won't take it," said Clara; "Father Torfa 
 shall get one trick. There, nine of diamonds ! — 
 and now my turn. Knave, nine, ace of trumps — 
 one, two, three, — all mine. Luke hasn't got one 
 single trick. Here, my lad, hold up your nose." 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 145 
 
 Luke was obliged to sit with the cleft stick on 
 his nose, without touching it with his hand, until 
 the second game w^as played out. 
 
 The piece of wood which Clara fixed on his nose 
 must have pinched him well ; hut, though the tears 
 almost came into his eyes, he made such odd faces 
 — probably to amuse the others — that they all 
 burst out into a peal of laughter. Clara especially 
 clapped her hands, and filled the room with her 
 merry voice. 
 
 All was suddenly quiet, and Luke, as if ashamed, 
 took the "saddle" from his nose and threw it under 
 the table. The others stood up, for the door was 
 opened, and Master Knops, a farmer of the village, 
 entered the room. 
 
 "Ah, you are playing?" said he. "I am vexed 
 to have to spoil your merriment ; but I come to 
 tell you something you ought to know. I must 
 tell you; you would rather know it than not." 
 
 All looked at him with cool curiosity. 
 
 "You see," he continued, "I went up to the 
 Spotted Cow to look after our Thomas, for they 
 are always trying to lead our young folk astray. 
 Eighteen years old, and he is already a slave to 
 gin ! 'Tis enough to turn all my hair gray ! I 
 didn't find Thomas there : but as I came back I 
 went over the hill and through the pine grove to 
 look for Thomas at Jem Snoeks's. I heard a noise 
 behind the stone cross, and w^hom should I find 
 lying there, so far gone that he couldn't stand on 
 his legs — " 
 
 K 13 
 
146 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 All his hearers turned deadly pale. Clara rested 
 her trembling hand on the back of a chair. 
 
 "Who? why, the sand-digger," continued Mas- 
 ter Knops. 
 
 "Ah, thank God !" shouted Clara, with her arms 
 uplifted toward heaven. 
 
 "Thank God !" repeated Knops. "Yes ; but I 
 hadn't gone five steps before I found another lying 
 there. I took him by the hand, and shook him 
 violently to rouse him. Well, it was no use ; there 
 he lay like a stone ; he had scarcely a breath left 
 in him. You may guess, perhaps, Avho it was ? It 
 was Jan Staers." 
 
 Clara fell into the chair with a piercing shriek, 
 and covered her face with her hands. Luke and 
 his mother stood pale and motionless, as if stunned, 
 in the middle of the chamber. The countenance 
 of Farmer Torfs had meanwhile become crimson ; 
 his lips were compressed with an expression of 
 contempt and indignation, and he stamped his foot 
 heavily on the floor. 
 
 "I have only to say further," remarked Master 
 Knops, moving toward the door, "that you would 
 do well to take a wheelbarrow to fetch the drunk- 
 ard home to his house : else he will lie there all 
 night. As for leading him home, you need not 
 think of that : he has no feeling nor motion left. 
 Good-day, all of you." 
 
 Clara sprang up, and, stretching her hands im- 
 ploringly to Luke and to the old man, she exclaimed, 
 amid a flood of tears- 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 147 
 
 "Oil, Master Torfs, oh, Luke, come — help me — 
 go with me! Anyhow, my poor father can't bo 
 left lying there !" 
 
 " J.^" shouted the old man, furiously, "/go, in 
 the face of everybody, and drag this ungrateful 
 drunkard along the road ? I would rather — I know 
 nothing of him any more; I have never known 
 him. All is broken off between us. And you, 
 Clara, — it grieves me much; but, whatever grief it 
 occasions me, I know no more of you, either, my 
 poor child." 
 
 Luke stood with his eyes bent on the ground, 
 transfixed by this unexpected blow, and trembling 
 violently. 
 
 "But," continued Clara, anew, "I cannot carry 
 my father by myself Let all be broken off between 
 us ; perhaps I may afterward die of it — but now — 
 now — you are Christian men, are you not? Do 
 one last act of Christian charity and pity for me! 
 I assure you. Father Torfs, never again will I set 
 foot over your threshold ; I understand well enough 
 that all is lost — lost — and I have too much regard 
 for Luke ever to — Lord ! O my God ! — I im- 
 plore you, go with me. Bring my father to his 
 house — and then abandon us to our bitter fate !" 
 
 Luke had at the same time clasped his hands, 
 and seemed to be imploring his father's permission 
 to follow Clara. Mother Beth looked at her hus- 
 band with a sad and inquiring expression, but she 
 dared not speak. 
 
 The maiden fancied that she saw old Torfs waver 
 
148 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 in his decision ; she fell before him on her knees, 
 and exclaimed — 
 
 " Oh, I shall go and live with my father in an- 
 other village — far from here : you will never see 
 us again !" 
 
 The old man raised the girl from the ground, and 
 said, with his head erect and fixed — 
 
 " Well, then, out of love to you : but it is the 
 last time. Come, Luke, we will go and see. But 
 that I should ever dream of such a thing ! Let me 
 never hear of him again — of him or of any thing 
 that belongs to him — whether here or at a distance 
 — else I will make you know, Luke, that I am 
 master!" 
 
 Mother Beth, overcome by her emotion, sat down 
 on a chair and began to weep, as she saw her hus- 
 band and her son go out at the door with Clara. 
 
 The shortest way to reach the hill w^here Jan 
 Staers was lying, according to Master Knops's state- 
 ment, was through the village street, and Clara, in 
 her affectionate impatience, tried to lead old Torfs 
 in that direction ; but he took the way throngh the 
 fields, without paying any attention to her, and 
 thus soon reached the pine grove. Here he slack- 
 ened his speed, and resumed his ordinary pace, and 
 broke the silence by saying, in a tone of deepest 
 dejection — 
 
 "It is such a pity, too! All was so nicely 
 arranged! I had planned eveiy thing beforehand 
 in my head : how I should behave to make him 
 feel that I was indeed as a brother to him, and 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 149 
 
 eonvince him that he should he quite on an equality 
 with me. You would have heen married before 
 Easter, children; you would have lived on this 
 little farm ; and Jan Staers was to have lived with 
 me in the stone house, and we should have worked 
 together to leave you a fair inheritance ! Ah ! it 
 was a paradise of delights to us all ; and the reck- 
 less, the dastardly drunkard — he has bartered the 
 happiness of his child for a drop of gin ! You 
 weep, Clara ! my dear child, you may well weep ; 
 you are indeed in a miserable plight. God will 
 recompense you there on high for all your sorrow 
 and trouble in this world." 
 
 [N'either Luke nor Clara uttered a word. The 
 poor girl sowed the dreary path Avith bitter tears ; 
 the lad, lost in utter despair, strode along by his 
 father's side without consciousness of feeling; only 
 at intervals a deep sigh relieved his laboring breast. 
 
 The old man continued, in a melancholy tone of 
 voice — 
 
 "You see, children, you must be reasonable. 
 You know I have done all that Avas possible to see 
 you happy ; but if you don't put every thought of 
 the past out of 3'our heads now, do you know what 
 the consequences will be ? You will then darken 
 and embitter the life of the poor worn-out old 
 Torfs and of Mother Beth ; and their last daj^s will 
 be days of shame, and vexation, and sorrow." 
 
 *'0h, don't imagine it!" exclaimed Clara, with 
 a voice almost smothered with tears and sobs. "I 
 kuow well what will become of me; n]y little 
 
 13* 
 
150 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 corner in the churchyard is marked out ah'eadj. 
 But it is all the same; I will never make you un- 
 happy, — you, my dear benefactor; I shall forget 
 Luke — forget him and never think of him any 
 more — except only to pray God on my knees to 
 grant him a long and happy life." 
 
 A suppressed groan broke from the breast of the 
 young man. 
 
 "And you, Luke," sobbed the poor girl, "for- 
 get me too ; it must be so. And if you will sliow 
 me a kindness when you shall see me no more, 
 ah, think of my poor father in your prayers, that 
 God may at least have mercy on his unhappy soul 
 before he dies!" 
 
 "Clara, dear child, 3'ou talk like a reasonable 
 girl," said the old man, deeply affected. "I feel 
 it much; I love you so well that I would give half 
 my property to deliver you from your miserable 
 condition ; but God has decreed otherwise. Luke, 
 my dear boy, be you too of good courage ; accept 
 your lot with patience; assure your old father that 
 you too will lay aside a vain hope." 
 
 The youth stood still in the road, his every limb 
 convulsed with emotion, and, turning toward his 
 father, he said, with a firm voice and resolved 
 countenance — 
 
 'Lay it aside? forget her? no, never! Clara 
 is deceiving you ; she tells a lie. Forget me ? sho 
 can't do it ! I lay my life on it, let her try as much 
 as she likes, she can't do it ! Ah, do you think, 
 father, that 'tis enough to say, 'I will never think 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 151 
 
 of lier again' ? The faithless thing, she may forget 
 me, if she can ; — Luke, mind you, is no weather- 
 cock, to turn whichever way the wind blows. It 
 has grown right into my heart, and it cannot bo 
 rooted out, as long as I live !" 
 
 "Luke, Luke," murmured the old man, re- 
 proachfullj^, '* you will then make your old father 
 and mother wretched?" 
 
 "l!To, no !" exclaimed the youth, with fiery im- 
 petuosity. "I will never again speak of Clara, 
 never see her again, avoid her — out of love to 
 you, father ; but never, never shall I love another. 
 I will wait, wait long years ; even if my hair 
 grows gray in waiting. Clara shall be one day 
 my wife — unless death shall remove one or both 
 of us from the earth." 
 
 The maiden had listened to these words of 
 despair with a shudder. Unable to restrain her 
 emotion any longer, she sprang to Father Torfs 
 and threw her arms around his neck, and let her 
 head fall on his bosom, and then, as though she 
 would deprecate the wrath of the old man, she 
 said, in a beseeching tone — 
 
 " Oh, Torfs, forgiveness ! — forgive him 1" 
 
 The expression of the old man changed suddenly; 
 he put the girl aside with gentle force, and said — 
 
 " Silence ! people are coming yonder. Come, 
 let us make haste." 
 
 And all stepped out along the road with quick- 
 ened pace. They cast down their eyes, and did 
 not look about them, hoping that the peasants who 
 
152 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 were coming toward them would pass by without 
 interrupting them or remarking their emotion; but 
 already one of the villagers began to shout from 
 a distance — 
 
 *'IIa, you are looking after Jan Staers, I sup- 
 pose ? lie has sat it out well this time ! But you 
 won't find him in the Spotted Cow; he is gone off 
 with the sand-digger — if you can call it going, for 
 they were tumbling about like blind people, feeling 
 with their hands from tree to tree." 
 
 "Look you, now," said a second, with a sneer; 
 " didn't I tell you, Farmer Torfs, that you could 
 never wash a blackamoor white?" 
 
 The old man passed them quickly, without re- 
 turning any answer, and at length reached the foot 
 of the hill, on the top of which stood the cross 
 which preserved the memory of the wretched 
 Durinkx. Having reached this eminence in the 
 pine wood, they looked a while among the trees, 
 and very soon found Jan Staers, lying stretched 
 out at full length on the ground. 
 
 Clara's father must have moved about in some 
 violent way. Perhaps he had been seized with 
 cramp, or with strong convulsions ; for, as he lay 
 there on his back, the ground at his feet was quite 
 ploughed up with the stamping of his heels, and 
 each of his clenched hands was full of grass and 
 fir-cones which he had seized in clutching at tho 
 ground and had crushed between his fingers. His 
 eyes were open and glassy, his lips blue. 
 
 Clara uttered a mournful cry, and, falling on her 
 
THE CURSE Oh' THE VILLAGE- 158 
 
 knees, she took her father's hand and bathed it 
 with tears. The old man and his son knelt also 
 by the side of Jan Staers, called him by his name, 
 shook his head and his limbs, but could not suc- 
 ceed in eliciting the least sign of feeling or life. 
 With tears on his countenance, old Torfs shook his 
 head in deep thought. He made a sign to his son 
 to keep quiet, and then stooped his head over the 
 breast of Jan Staers, as though to listen whether 
 he still breathed. 
 
 "Loosen his neckerchief," said he to his son; 
 "it will relieve him." 
 
 " Eh ! what are you at there ?" stammered a 
 voice from between the trees. " Go your own 
 ways, and let people sleep quietly." 
 
 "It is the sand-digger," muttered Luke, angrily. 
 "The despicable scoundrel is the cause of all this 
 misfortune !" 
 
 The sand-digger had meanwhile raised himself 
 on his elbow, and gazed with wonder and derision 
 on what was taking place beside him. 
 
 "Yes," he hiccuped anew; "call him again! 
 you won't get him home till morning. lie wanted 
 to drink gin against me ! I'll soon lay him on his 
 back. Don't you see that, old beetle ? holloa ! — 
 Farmer Torfs, I mean. You cunning old fox, you 
 would pay him to-morrow, would you? that the 
 bird mightn't take wing to-day. Ah, well, but he 
 had a little box in his chest — " 
 
 A shrill cry broke from the hearts of Clara and 
 of Luke at the same moment. 
 
154 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 "What is the matter?" asked the father, in 
 amazement. 
 
 " Oh ! it is — it is horrible !" shrieked the yonth. 
 " Clara's money ! the pence her love had saved — 
 for which she had worked all night long. Oh, if 
 he were not Clara's father, I would run away from 
 him. God has cursed him !" 
 
 The poor girl, sobbing and wellnigh fainting, 
 laid her hand on the young man's mouth. 
 
 " Come, come," said the father, tormented by 
 an indescribable anxiety, "let us go away from 
 this. We will try to drag him down the hill. 
 There below, at Master Ylym's, Ave can get a 
 w^heelbarrow." 
 
 The old man took the insensible body in his 
 arms, Luke held his legs, and so they dragged 
 him along slowdy and with difficulty over the un- 
 even ground, and down the hill. Clara followed 
 in silence; her tears flowed in streams over her 
 cheeks, and when she heaved a sigh it sounded like 
 a wail of utter despair. 
 
 At the foot of the hill Jan Staers suddenly drew 
 up all his limbs together, and a hoarse rattle was 
 heard in his throat. The two who were carrying 
 him uttered a cry of joyful surprise; they laid 
 him down on the ground, and, together with Clara, 
 stooped over him to trace on his countenance the 
 signs of returning life. But the hope was vain; 
 not the slightest movement could be detected in 
 his now extended body. 
 
 Farmer Torfs grew pale. A melancholy convic 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 155 
 
 tion took possession of him ; he concluded that 
 this last sign of life in Jan Staers was really the 
 convulsive shudder of death. 
 
 "Run, run, Luke! fetch the wheelharrow !" he 
 exclaimed; "quick — ^make haste!" lie laid his 
 hand on Clara's head, and said, with a sigh of 
 profound commiseration, "Poor Clara, hapless 
 child, God be gracious to thee !" 
 
 The sorrowful girl knelt again by her father 
 without reply, and held his ice-cold hand pressed to 
 her lips, calling, amid her sobs, "Father, father!'* 
 
 Luke soon came running with the wheelbarrow ; 
 he helped his father to place the nerveless, relaxed 
 body upon it, and set forward without delay along 
 the field path that led toward the cottage of Jau 
 Staers. 
 
 The old man had taken Clara's hand, and was 
 trying to alleviate her distress by words of conso- 
 lation. He concealed from the poor girl his own 
 apprehensions, and tried to persuade her that her 
 father would be all right again after a long night's 
 rest. Moved by pity, he assured her that he would 
 help her in secret, and never forsake her in her 
 hour of need, so long as he could assist her with- 
 out involving his whole family in misery and 
 in shame. 
 
 The maiden murmured some few signs of quiet 
 p-ratitude, but had not strength to express her 
 leelings in connected words. She kept her eyes 
 on the pallid face of her father, in deep suspense, 
 and was frequently so agitated by fear and alarm 
 
156 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 that her hand trembled and shook in that of the 
 old man. 
 
 They were fortunate enough to arrive at Jan 
 Staers's door without meeting any one. They 
 lifted the body from the wheelbarrow and laid it 
 on a bed. The girl drew a chair forward, sat down, 
 and with a bitter groan let her head fall on the 
 breast of her father. But the old man took her 
 by the arm and forced her to rise, saying — 
 
 "Clara, quick, run for the doctor; tell him I 
 will pay him double if he will come at once, with- 
 out a moment's delay." 
 
 The maiden looked at him bewildered, as if she 
 did not understand him ; then at length her con- 
 sciousness seemed to return, and she said, running 
 to the door — 
 
 "Ah, thank you ! yes — the doctor !" 
 
 Farmer Torfs looked after her sadly ; then, turn- 
 ing to his son, he said, with a solemn voice — 
 
 "Luke, it may be we are standing beside a 
 corpse ! quick, make haste and call the cure. If 
 life remains in him he may yet have time to make 
 his peace wuth God. Who knows, on the brink 
 of the grave — " 
 
 But the youth had not waited for the close of 
 his father's sentence, and was already far on his way. 
 
 Then the old man turned toward the bed, 
 crossed his arms on his breast, and remained thus, 
 with his eyes fixed on the face of Jan Staers ; and 
 from time to time he shook his head and mur- 
 mured to himself — 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 157 
 
 "There are so many who begin with a little 
 drop, and anticipate no misery, no punishment; 
 but who of them can say, ^ My call shall not be like 
 this' ? Poor soul ! perhaps thou standest already 
 shuddering before the judgment-throne of GodT* 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 It was in the year 1851, in the first week of Oc- 
 Ijber. Enticed by the blight autumn days, I had 
 ridden into Kempen, intending to amuse myself 
 by rambling a while in Hageland. There, in a 
 village amid the ironstone mountains, dwelt one 
 of my old friends, who was the vicar of the 
 parish. 
 
 He had taken a favorable opportunity to give 
 me in a letter such a poetical description of the 
 beauty and healthiness of his village, that I had 
 felt ev^er since a strong desire to accept his press- 
 ing invitation and pay him a visit. 
 
 And there I was, in this lovely country, where 
 the ground is so varied wdth hill and valley that 
 it seemed as if the waves of a raging sea had been 
 suddenly arrested and petrified during a tempest. 
 
 I had been taking a walk with my good friend 
 the vicar round the neighborhood, and we sat 
 down at the foot of the stone cross on the hill to 
 rest ourselves for a few minutes. 
 
 We talked over our youthful days. He told me 
 
 14 
 
158 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 of his studies in the seminary, and of the innei 
 conflict between the workl and God, and of hia 
 trying to choose some other course of life, of liis 
 final victory, of the tranquillity of his mind, of the 
 calm happiness he now enjoyed. 
 
 I told him all about my soldier life, the melan- 
 choly death of some of our old friends, who were 
 killed by my side at Louvain by a cannon ball, 
 the ups and downs of literary life, the hot con- 
 tentions of political parties, the resuscitation of 
 Flanders, our too long degraded fatherland. 
 
 And thus gossiping of poetry and of poets, of 
 the beauties of nature and reminiscences of our 
 earlier life, we saw the mist of evening rise slowly 
 at the foot of the little wood, and creep higher 
 and higher, and spread itself out over the mea- 
 dows, until the sun had sunk far below the western 
 horizon. The rising moon was glowing like an 
 enormous ball of fire over the tops of the dusky 
 pines. 
 
 We betook ourselves leisurely to the presbytery, 
 where I was to enjoy a night's hospitality. After 
 supper we remained a long time listening with 
 great interest to the stories which the octogenarian 
 cure told us about the "Besloten Tyd,"* or time 
 of concealment, and about the "Peasant War." 
 
 * The " Besloten Tyd" is that time in our history when the 
 French republic had closed the churches, because the clergy 
 refused to take the oaths required of them. They said mass and 
 preached, during this time, in cellars or in stables, in woods or 
 other concealed places. 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 159 
 
 Pei-secnted and hunted down by the ferocious 
 sansculottes, he had sought refuge among his 
 armed countrymen, and remained among these 
 60-called ^' brigands," up to the time of their de- 
 struction. By a chance which seemed almost 
 miraculous, he contrived to escape when the 
 bodies of his companions lay around Ilasselt, 
 pierced with sabres and weltering in their blood. 
 
 This was all very interesting to me, as I was 
 then occupied in collecting materials for writing a 
 tale founded on this last and famous eftbrt of 
 Belgian freedom against a foreign tyranny.* 
 
 It might be about eight o'clock when the good 
 cure finished his narrative. We sat talking a 
 little while about one thing and another, until the 
 cure looked at his timepiece, and said to his 
 vicar — 
 
 "Don't forget your promise to Fanner Torfs." 
 
 The vicar rose up and put on his hat, and, tak- 
 ing a book from the table, he said to me, "Friend 
 Conscience, I must go in haste to a cottage a little 
 way off. It is there behind the brook, a few 
 minutes from this. I shall be with you again in 
 half an hour. In the mean time you can chat 
 with Mynheer the Cure." 
 
 But I had been for some time looking with 
 longing eyes at the upper panes of the window, 
 
 * The tale here referred to is ''The War of the Peasants: & 
 Historical Sketch from the Eighteenth Century." It will shortly 
 appear in this series. 
 
160 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 through which the pale moonlight streamed in so 
 enticingly, and so I rose from my chair, and said — 
 
 "How lovely it must he out of doors now! 
 Let me go with you; I will wait for you in the 
 road, and store up within me the impressions of 
 this heautiful country in a still moonlight night. 
 Mynheer the Cure, I am sure, will not take it 
 amiss." 
 
 " Oh, hy no means," said the aged priest: "my 
 hour has struck; I am off to bed." 
 
 Scarcely had the vicar led me a gunshot 
 through the field path, when he pointed out to 
 me a little cottage, which stood alone on the 
 margin of the brook, surrounded by trees. 
 
 I could not help admiring the humble cottage 
 which rose so solitary and forlorn out of the level 
 meadow into the calm night, and glittered and 
 sparkled like a diamond beneath the moonbeams. 
 It was as though the torch of night had concen- 
 trated all its keenest lustre upon it; its little 
 windows were touched up with many-tinted light ; 
 the vineyard behind the gable shook its tendrils 
 gently on the sighing breeze, and the tops of the 
 trees waved like masses of molten silver over the 
 roof. 
 
 "How beautiful!" I exclaimed. "It stands 
 there like a work of enchantment." 
 
 " I w^ill tell you presently, as w^e walk back to 
 the presbytery, the history of that little cottage," 
 said my friend, in a tone of sadness ; " it will 
 furnish you with matter for a touching story, if 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 161 
 
 you will only change the names of persons and 
 places so that no one may recognise them. This 
 cottage, you see, friend Hendrick — three days ago 
 there was in this cottage a young girl who dreamed 
 of happiness ; who looked out into the future, and 
 saw every thing radiant with the glad light of her 
 liope. She loved ; she was to have heen united 
 to the heloved of her heart after Easter. In her 
 simplicity she could not keep in the happiness that' 
 awaited her, after a whole life of suifering and of 
 shame. When she met our old cure she told him 
 all that was in her pure and innocent heart, and 
 how she could not sleep for joy. She was to be 
 rich, to be a mother, to thank God, to make all 
 about her happy, and to scatter around her the 
 treasures of her loving soul like, an aureole of 
 quiet gladness and energy — and now !" — 
 
 My friend was silent. I listened for more, for 
 the tone of his voice indicated something very 
 serious and thrilling. 
 
 *' And now?" I repeated, with curiosity. 
 
 We were close to the cottage ; a few steps, and 
 we should reach the threshold. 
 
 "And now!" continued the vicar, leading me 
 toward a side-window. " Keep still. Look ; thus 
 is it now!" 
 
 I looked through a pane of the window. A shud- 
 dering came over me, and I could scarcely restrain 
 the cry of anguish which forced itself from me like 
 a stifled groan. 
 
 The moou filled the room with a bluish light, 
 
 L 14* 
 
162 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 and gave to it a dismal, ghostly appearance. On 
 a table stood a crucifix, between two tapers of yel 
 low wax, whose tiny flames flickered like two 
 corpse-lights. Three or four persons — an elderly 
 dame, an old man, and a youth — were kneeling on 
 the floor. I was alarmed at their silence and their 
 immobility. They were like stone statues, without 
 life. 
 
 In the middle of the room, on two chairs, lay a 
 long wooden chest — a coffin — and at its head a 
 young maiden, whose dishevelled hair fell down 
 in waves upon the coffin, and from whose cheeks 
 a flood of bitter tears streamed on the fatal wood. 
 
 The vicar took my hand, and said, as he led 
 me from the window, " Go ofi" to a little distance ; 
 walk up and down there in the path. Within a 
 quarter of an hour I will rejoin you. 1 have to 
 say some prayers here. Preserve the impression 
 of what you have seen ; I have a melancholy story 
 to tell you." He had his hand already on the 
 latch of the door. 
 
 "Who — who lies there? — in the coffin?" I asked, 
 quite unnerved. 
 
 "A drunkard!" said he, as he entered the cot- 
 tage. 
 
 When my friend left the lowly cottage, he found 
 me standing a few steps from the door, with my 
 arms crossed on my breast and my eyes fixed on 
 the ground. He then began to tell me about Jan 
 Staers and Farmer Torfs, about Mother Beth, and 
 Clara and Luke. The histoiy w^as tolerably long, 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 163 
 
 for we were already sitting in the large room of 
 the presbytery before I knew who the personages 
 were that I had seen gathered around the coffin. 
 
 My friend advised me to write a story of these 
 incidents. The materials seemed touching enough, 
 but hiy heart revolted against the notion of bring- 
 ing before my readers a picture which could excite 
 no emotion but disgust. 
 
 The vicar made many attempts to get me to 
 understand that one might describe vices in all 
 their mournful hideousness, if only true feeling 
 and delicac}^ guided the pen, and if one's aim were 
 simply to inspire a horror of vice and a love of 
 virtue ; that, besides, my tale would be useful to 
 villagers, and that, if only one single man were 
 rescued from destruction, it would be a sufficient 
 recompense to me. 
 
 ^I observed to him that my style of writing led 
 me to aim at vivid and striking pictures, and I 
 could not make up my mind to use the colors of 
 my palette in sketching from nature so degrading 
 a vice as drunkenness; that I could not help finish- 
 ing my pictures, and should run a risk of present- 
 ing scenes which would brand me as a man of de- 
 graded fancy. 
 
 lie then adduced the instance of the ancient 
 Greeks, who, on certain days of the year, made 
 their slaves drink to excess, and exhibited them to 
 their children in that state, to root in their tender 
 minds a disgust of this contemptible vice. 
 
 The matter remained that evening undecided. 
 
164 THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 When I was leaving the presbytery the next 
 morning, my friend renewed his efforts. Al- 
 though the night had somewhat changed my 
 views, I did not venture to make him a decided 
 promise, but, after a hearty farewell, I left him 
 with these words: "I will think it over; perhaps 
 you are right." 
 
 Three years have gone by since the event just 
 related. The coffin and the weeping maiden have 
 often crossed my fancy, but I never ventured to 
 attempt compliance with my friend's wish. But 
 now I had finished my larger work, " Clovis and 
 Clotilda," about two months since, and I was look- 
 ing out for something fresh ; it was to be a story of 
 village life, a tendril the more to entwine into the 
 wreath of hedge-flowers that I had promised to 
 weave for my friends. 
 
 While I was sitting musing, with my head on 
 my hand, the postman brought me a letter. It is 
 from my friend the vicar. What can he have 
 to tell me ? Since my visit to his lovely village I 
 have not heard of him. The letter made inquiries 
 touching my health ; then went on to speak with 
 wonder and animation of " The Dream of Youth," 
 of Flanders' glorious poet, Van Beers, and at last 
 concluded thus : — 
 
 " — This is not, however, the tme motive of mj^ 
 
THE CURSE OF THE VILLAGE. 165 
 
 etter. Can you guess why I write ? Perhaps you 
 may yet remember the coffin, and the story I told 
 you in connection with it. I have waited with 
 some impatience, but waited all in vain, for the 
 tale you were to write about it. I had almost for- 
 gotten it at last ; but yesterday it all came back 
 again fresh as ever, and I have been turning it 
 over in my mind all the day. I baptized a child 
 yesterday, a plump and lively youngster. Guess 
 now, if you can, w^ho are the father and mother. 
 Luke, the young man, who was kneeling in the 
 room of the little cottage, and Clara, the girl with 
 the flowing hair, who lay bending over the coffin. 
 They were married about a year ago, and they 
 live in the stone farm-house with Farmer Torfs 
 and Mother Beth. They are happy, and are do- 
 ing very well. There is some talk about making 
 old Torfs burgomaster of our village at the coming 
 election. Do come and see me once more ; I will 
 take you into the stone house, and we will drink 
 some coffee there. Well, now, there's a conclu- 
 sion for your tale. "Won't you write it, after all?" 
 The next day I despatched a letter to Hageland. 
 The first lines were: "I am coming; I shall be 
 with you the day after to-morrow, and shall be 
 overjoyed to shake hands w^ith Father Torfs and 
 Mother Beth, and Luke and Clara. I will begin 
 at once to wTite the tale. May it be a lesson and 
 an example to some poor villager; I ask nothing 
 more." 
 
4 
 
 14 DAY USE 
 
 RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 LOAN DEPT. 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 
 on the date to which renewed. 
 
 Renewed books are subjert to immediate recall. 
 
 24Mar5oin 
 
 
 REC'D LD 
 
 
 MAR 17 1959 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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 ^i.Uto]l7eV' vJ^S^UpZrni.