UC-NRLF [^ Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2008 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation . http://www.archive.org/details/curseofvillageOOconsrich C|e €nxBt q{ l|e Mage. 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 ' X i ^i.Uto]l7eV' vJ^S^UpZrni.