The Bachelors

by Adalbert Stifter

  “What was that then, Victor?”

  “You said you were assigned a sum of money for my keep and this you were to receive every year. You said that you received this money—and you said furthermore that you invested the money and also regularly added to it the interest that accrued.”

  “Yes, that’s what I said and what I did.”

  “Look, Mother, my conscience tells me it’s not right for me to accept money from you because it doesn’t belong to me—and so I have come to tell you this nicely in advance, rather than decline the money later and anger you. Are you cross?”

  “No, I’m not cross,” she said beaming at him, her eyes lit up with joy, “but don’t be a foolish child, Victor! You must see that I didn’t take you into my house for gain—I would never have taken a child in for gain—that’s why what was left over every year from the money is rightly yours. Listen to me and I’ll explain. Your guardian provided for your clothing; as regards food, you didn’t involve me in any expense—like a bird you scarcely ate anything, and the vegetables and fruit and other things you enjoyed, we had all that here. Do you see now? And the fact that I grew so fond of you wasn’t something with which your father charged me and wasn’t written down in any will either, so you can’t do anything about that. Do you understand everything now?”

  “No, I don’t, and it’s not what you say, either. Once again your kindness is so great that you make me feel nothing but shame. If something really were left over every year after costs had been deducted and you had held this in trust for me, then that would indeed have been just a loving and kind act, but now you say that everything is left over—something almost painful to hear. You have besides done what can scarcely be explained: not only did you give me a lovely room but you also put in it the very things I loved and which meant a lot to me; you provided me with food and drink and yourself with nothing but work. What’s more you have now bought everything for my journey; you have scrimped and saved from the field and garden produce so as to fill my case with beautiful linen and other things—and when in former times I had everything I needed, so you would go about giving me something more—and, on top of that, every day you would secretly leave something out for me that you thought I would love. You have loved me more than Hanna!”

  “No, Victor dear, that’s not right, what you say of me. You don’t yet understand how feelings work. Only what comes from the heart reaches into other hearts. Hanna is my dear daughter—she is the fruit of my body and the beating of my heart ushered her into this world when I gave birth to her: this happiness was my lot late in life at a time when I might have been her grandmother—it was in the midst of the grief at her father’s death that I gave birth to her, but joyfully—then I brought her up—and that made her more precious to me. But I have loved you, too, Victor, very much. Since the time you came to this house and while you were growing up I have loved you very much. Often I felt as if I really had in fact given birth to you myself—and I should in fact have been the one to give birth to you; it was the will of God, even though it turned out differently afterwards—I’ll tell you about that when you’re older. Finally—and to honour both God and the truth I tell you this—you have both become equally dear to me. As regards the money, let’s do it like this, Victor: one should never force anyone to act against their conscience so I won’t try and persuade you any longer—let’s leave the matter of the money where it stands; I’ll have it put in writing that it is to be given to you and Hanna when you are of age; then you can divide it between yourselves or dispose of it in any way you both see fit. Is that all right by you, Victor?”

  “Yes, then I can give it all to her.”

  “Let’s leave it at that for the moment. When the time comes, it will, I am sure, become clear what should happen to the money. I want to say one more thing in response to the other thing you said, Victor. Whenever I secretly did something good for you, I did the same for Hanna, too. Mothers are like that. From the time you came to us here it is almost as if we had been blessed even more. I was able to save every year for Hanna more than before. Caring for two is easier, you get more practised at it, and where God has blessings for two, he often gives for three … Oh, Victor, how quickly the time has gone by since you came here. When I think back to when I was once young, then I have to ask—Where have the years gone and how did I become so old? For everything is still as beautiful as yesterday—the mountains are still there, the sun is shining down on them and the years have gone by as if in the space of a day. When you walk up into the woods once again this afternoon, like you said, or tomorrow perhaps, then look for a spot—you might almost be able to see it from here—do you see, up there in the gully where the light seems to be rippling down over the green beech trees? The spot is important for you. A spring rises there and then flows down into the gully; above the spring there is a broad flat stone and next to it a very old beech tree with a long, low-hanging branch on which you can spread out clothes or hang a woman’s hat.”

  “I don’t know the spot, Mother, but if you wish I’ll walk up there and find it.”

  “No, Victor, it doesn’t in fact mean as much to you as it does to me—you’ll also know other spots which to your eyes may be more beautiful. Let’s leave that now. Everything will be fine—don’t think about the money any more and don’t be sad. You’re feeling the pain of separation already, I know, and that’s why you’re taking things more to heart than they warrant. You said you wanted to walk up to the beech wood before today is out: haven’t you noticed though that not a single little branch is stirring in the garden and how the tops of the trees seem to be frozen in the air; I think a storm might be on the way—you shouldn’t go too far.”

  “I won’t go too far—and I know well the signs of a storm; if I see any, I’ll come back home.”

  “Yes, Victor, do that and it’ll be good. Would you like to go inside into the sitting-room with me in a minute—it’s nearly midday already—or would you prefer to stay out here until lunchtime?”

  “I’d like to stay in the garden for a little while.”

  “Stay in the garden then. I’ll just fasten the loops here and check that the hens haven’t dirtied the linen again.”

  He remained with her a while longer, looking on. Then he went into the garden and she watched him go, after which she fastened first one loop, then the next, until they were all secure. She wiped away a small piece of earth that the foot of a goose or something else had carried onto the linen. She then lifted first this and then another spot to air it, so the linen wouldn’t cling to the grass too much. And every time she looked up she would turn in the direction Victor had gone and watch him standing in front of one or another bush or walking about or looking out over the fence into the surrounding area. This lasted until suddenly the midday chimes rang out in the still, warm air—the signal for prayers for the community and for this house, according to long custom, the signal also that they should come together for the midday meal. Victor’s mother saw him turn round as the clock rang out and head for the house. She then followed him.

  When the young man entered the house, he saw that guests had arrived in the meantime, namely his guardian and his family. As often happens in such matters, they had wanted to give Victor a surprise and at the same time spend a day in the country.

  “You can see, my dear ward,” the guardian said to the astonished young man, “what nice people we are. We wanted to see you again today and give you a good sending-off party. This way you can take a straight course over the hills the day after tomorrow, or whenever your travel preparations are finished, without first coming into town to take your leave of us, as we had arranged. Be sure now that you enjoy your last few days of freedom before you have to take on the yoke of hard work.”

  “Greetings, dear boy,” said the guardian’s wife and kissed Victor on his forehead just as he was about to bend down to kiss her hand.

  “Good the way it’s turned out, eh?” said Ferdinand, their son, shaking his friend’s h
and.

  Rosina, the daughter, a truly beautiful twelve-year-old girl, was standing to one side looking around happily and saying nothing.

  Victor’s foster-mother must have known about the planned visit, for the table was laid for precisely the number of people who were there. She greeted everyone very warmly as she came in, organised who was to sit where and said: “Do you see how fond everyone is of you, Victor?”

  The food arrived and the meal began.

  Victor’s guardian and his wife sat at the head of the table, his foster-sister, Hanna, was put beside Rosina, the boys opposite the girls, and his mother, as hostess, had put herself at the bottom, since she would be coming and going a lot while seeing to her guests.

  The country fare was much enjoyed.

  Victor’s guardian told of adventures he had had when travelling as a student, laid down rules concerning a measured enjoyment of what pleasures the world offered, and advised Victor as to how he should behave in the immediate future. His wife alluded to a future bride, and Ferdinand promised he would visit his friend as soon as the latter had taken up his post. Victor spoke little and promised to abide closely by everything his guardian recommended and had impressed upon him. He also promised to take good care of the letter his guardian had given him to take to his uncle, and to surrender it to him immediately on his arrival. It was to the house of this uncle that Victor was now to travel, and, as his uncle had expressly insisted, on foot, a strange and somewhat capricious condition.

  Towards evening the townsfolk set off back home. They got their carriage, which had stopped at the inn, to go on ahead of them along the narrower valley to the point where it opened out into the wider one, and thus far their hostess and Victor and Hanna accompanied them.

  “Goodbye, Frau Ludmilla,” said Victor’s guardian, as he got into the carriage. “Goodbye, Victor, and remember to do everything I told you.”

  When he had climbed into the carriage and when Victor had thanked him again and they had all taken their leave of each other, the horses sprang into action and set off.

  By now it was too late for Victor to go for a long walk up into the woods so he remained at home, looked at a number things in the garden, and inspected once more all his belongings packed in his knapsack.

  III

  PARTING

  THE NEXT DAY, the last Victor was to spend in this house, brought with it nothing out of the ordinary. There was much packing still; things already organised were reorganised; as is very common in such cases, everyone acted as if nothing were to happen—and so the morning was soon over.

  After lunch, when they had barely got down from the table, Victor at once went off alone up to the stream for a walk, heading for the beech wood and its stone slopes.

  “Let him go, let him go,” the old woman told herself. “He’ll be feeling heavy-hearted.”

  “Where is Victor, Mother?” Hanna asked at one point during the course of the afternoon.

  “He has gone to say goodbye,” she answered, “gone to say goodbye to his old haunts. Dear God, he has nothing else, after all. His guardian, as excellent and as prudent a man as he is, is not close to him—nor are his guardian’s family.”

  Hanna said nothing in reply to these words—not the slightest sound did she make by way of reply, but walked off, disappearing between the spreading branches of the little plum-trees.

  The rest of the afternoon passed as usual: the people spent the time with whatever work came their way, the birds twittered the time away in their trees, the hens strutted around in the yard, the grass and the plants grew a little taller and the mountains decked themselves in the gold of evening.

  When the sun had disappeared from the sky and only the pale gold crest of the hill loomed ominously over the valley—ominously because tomorrow morning early it would again be looming pale gold above the valley, beckoning away forever someone who was so loved—when this hillcrest was glimmering above the valley, Victor came back from the walk he had set off on so hurriedly after lunch. He walked along the garden fence in order to reach the little gate that led into the house from the linen-bleaching area. The white strips of linen were no longer there, only the greener and damper grass showed where they had been lying during the day—there were many glass frames covering the beds since the clear sky promised a cool night—a thin column of smoke rose from the house because his mother was perhaps getting supper ready. Victor had turned his face towards the evening sky, which it softly illumined, while the cooler air ruffled his hair and the sky was reflected in his doleful eyes.

  Hanna had seen him pass quite close by her, since she’d been standing just inside the garden fence, but she hadn’t had the courage to address him. The girl was busy picking pieces of silk material off a roughly trimmed bush; these pieces were part of a separate dress and had been dyed and placed on the bush to dry during the day. She was now taking them off one by one and laying them together in a small heap. When she looked round after a while, she saw Victor standing in the garden next to the large rose-hedge.

  Later she saw him again standing by the blue lilac hedge, which was already in bud. The lilac, however, was much nearer to her than the rose-hedge. Then he moved on again and finally came over to her and said: “I’d like to help you carry something in, Hanna.”

  “No, it’s all right thank you, Victor,” she replied, “they’re just some small pieces of material that I dyed and left here to dry.”

  “Hasn’t the sun rather taken the colour out?”

  “No. You have to lay this blue out in the sun, best of all in the spring sun—then it’ll be even more beautiful.”

  “And is it?”

  “Look!”

  “Oh, I don’t understand any of that.”

  “Not as beautiful as the ribbons last year but certainly beautiful enough.”

  “It’s a very fine silk.”

  “Very fine.”

  “Is there an even finer one?”

  “Yes, there are ones even finer, much finer.”

  “And would you like to have lots of beautiful silk clothes?”

  “No. They’re really excellent as garments for special occasions but since you don’t need many of these, I wouldn’t want much silk. Other clothes are beautiful, too, and wearing silk is always a proud business.”

  “Isn’t the silkworm a wretched little thing?”

  “Why, Victor?”

  “Because it has to be killed if you want to get its silk web.”

  “Does it?”

  “Yes, you boil its web in water vapour or smoke it in sulphur so that the creature inside dies, for otherwise it would eat its way through the threads and emerge as a butterfly.”

  “Poor creature!”

  “Yes—and nowadays we take it away from its poor native land too, Hanna, where it was able to crawl about on sunny mulberry trees, and we feed it in our living rooms on leaves that grow outdoors and aren’t as luxuriant either as they are in their country of origin. And swallows, storks and other migratory birds leave us in the autumn for foreign lands far, far away perhaps, but they return in the spring. The world really must be huge, really huge.”

  “My poor Victor, don’t talk about such things.”

  “I’d like to ask you about something, Hanna.”

  “Then ask me, Victor.”

  “I want to thank you again very much for making me that lovely purse, Hanna. The fabric is so fine and the colours are really beautiful. I’ve kept it safe and won’t put any money in it.”

  “Oh, Victor, that was a long time ago that I gave you that purse and you shouldn’t go to the trouble of thanking me. Go ahead and put your money in it—I’ll make you a new one when it wears out, then another and so on, so that you never lack for anything. I’ve made you something else for your journey that is far more beautiful than the purse but Mother didn’t want me to give it to you until this evening or tomorrow morning.”

  “That makes me really happy, Hanna.”

  “Where were you all aft
ernoon, Victor?”

  “I went up to the stream as I felt so bored. I watched the water bustling so hurriedly on its way down to our village, watched how dark it gets and then so clear again, how it tries to dodge the stones and the sand only to end up in the village, but it doesn’t stop there. I looked at the rock overhang that stands there gazing forever into the rippling water. Finally I went up to the beech-wood where, in one, two or even ten years’ time, the tree trunks will be beautiful. Mother told me about a place where a flat stone lies across a brook and where an old beech tree stands with a long, low-lying branch. I couldn’t find the spot.”

  “That’s the beech brook at Hirschkar. There are good blackberries growing around there—I know the place well and can show you where it is tomorrow if you like.”

  “I won’t be here any more tomorrow, Hanna.”

  “Oh that’s right, you won’t be here any more tomorrow. I keep on thinking you’ll always be here.”

  “Oh, no. Dear Hanna, do divide up these silk strips—I really want to help you take them inside.”

  “I don’t understand the way you are today, Victor; these things are so light a child would be able to carry ten times the amount.”

  “It’s not because of the weight, I just want to carry them for you.”

  “Well, carry some, then—I’ll put them together now. If you want to go in, we’ll quickly gather up what remains and go.”

  “No, no, I don’t want to go in—it isn’t that late—I want to stay a bit longer in the garden. And it wasn’t just about the purse that I wanted to talk to you.”

  “What, then, Victor? Tell me.”

  “The four doves I’ve been looking after—I know they’re not that beautiful but I feel really sorry for them if no one’s going to look after them now.”

  “I’ll take care of that, Victor—I’ll open the dovecot for them in the morning and close it in the evening; I’ll spread sand for them and feed them.”