The Forest Farm: Tales of the Austrian Tyrol

  XI

  About Kickel, who went to Prison

  You were on for a bit of gipsying, were you, Peterkin? Home,everlastingly home, isn't very cheerful--always having the green-glazedmug to drink from, always having your face wiped over by the motherwith a wet rag, always having to sleep in the little box-bed by thestove--it's no fun! One can't help wanting sometimes to gather a dinnerfrom the whortleberry plants and drink from the brook, to roll on theground sometimes, and even to walk about in mud; and now and again onewants to sleep in an old hay barn, with water never seen before rushingalong outside, in an unknown gorge, with quite strange trees standingin the red sunshine when you wake up in the morning, and unknown peoplemowing the grass in the meadows.

  Suppose you long for this, and then your father forbids it! "Childrenbelong at home!" And, "After school, you will come home by the shortestway!" The shortest way! There isn't such a thing in our high lands,especially if Zutrum Simmerl is in school, and if Zutrum Simmerl says,"Peterl, come with me; at home, in Zutrumshaus, there are all sorts ofjolly things; a spotted white yard-dog, who's got puppies;cherry-trees, which are all just red and black; and behind the house isa charcoal-burner's hut with straw that one can lie on, and in thestream you can catch trout and crayfish with your hand, which yourmother can bake and cook afterwards."

  The Zutrum family were far-away cousins of ours, so that when youngCousin Simmerl said "Come with me," one naturally went. It was a wholehour's walk from my parents' house there, and as the school where we,from Alpel and Trabachgraben, met together, lay just half-way, theworld became stranger and stranger to me with each step of my way toZutrum. And when the sun sank down over the black saddle of the woodedrange, and the sycamores threw long shadows across the newly mownmeadows, I felt very strange. The hay smelt, the grasshoppers chirped,the frogs quacked as they did at home, but all else was different, themountains much steeper, the coombs much deeper. I was oppressed. Welooked down at last on the grey shingled roofs of the farm, from whosewhitewashed chimneys thin smoke was going up. It was already dusk, andthe homely smell of charcoal-burning, which I knew so well, came fromamong the tall pines. On the road we made many halts by ant-heaps,foxes' holes, hedge-stiles, little streams and puddles; but now Simmerlhurried up. I did not want to go on, I wanted to turn back. I should begoing into a strange house for the first time in my life--my couragegave way. But Simmerl gripped me quickly by the arm and led me into thefarmyard and through the great door into the house.

  The air was cool in the entrance and scented with fruit; the kitchenwas plastered and had nearly white walls, like an inn. At the openhearth women were busy with pots and kettles, and to one of them, whohad a pale, pretty, kind face, went Simmerl, gave her his hand andsaid, "God greet you, mother!" It was in this house that I first heardchildren reverently greeting their parents at coming in and going out,just as if they were going to a distant country or were coming backfrom one. In our district at home we ran out like a calf from itsstall, and the most that I ever said in the morning when I was off toschool was, "I'm going now," and the mother answered, "Well, go, inGod's name." That was certainly something, but it was not so cordialand fine as when the Zutrum children said "God greet you!" or "God keepyou!" and clasped their parents' hands. In short, this entrance intothe Zutrums' house appeared very splendid to me.

  "And that is my school-friend, Peterl, from the Forest farm," soSimmerl introduced me to his mother.

  "Now, that's nice!" she said; wiped her right hand on her blue apronand held it out to me. I was not quite sure if my little paw ought tobe stretched out too, hesitated, but finally did it.

  "Mother," called Simmerl, "we are running down to the brook."

  "Not too far--it will soon be supper-time."

  We were in the open air again, and it had all gone off very smoothly.We did not get to the brook that evening, for there was the white,spotted yard-dog with puppies! These last were all together in mottledheap, which constantly surged and twisted, while every now and then atiny creature hardly bigger than a rat got loose and rolled clumsilyaway. These things were absolutely all head, and the head again was allmuzzle, and the muzzles burrowed to the teats which the old whitedapple placed ready for use. All that, and the anxious growling of theold dog and the frightened whimpering of the young ones, and the doggysmell which came out of the kennel, nearly stupefied me with sheerdelight.

  "Does she bite?" I asked Simmerl; for I wanted to stroke the puppies.

  "Not now, so we have taken the chain off her. My father says, 'She hasno enemies now, she is just a mother now.'" But still, when he wantedto lift one of the young ones, she snapped at his finger.

  "Have you got a church?" I asked, for a little bell rang. Simmerllaughed, for it was the house-bell, and it was calling people tosupper.

  In the room, where it was already nearly dark, stood two great squaretables. When grace had been said out loud by everybody and alltogether, and the great big soup-tureens were sending up their warm,savoury clouds, about twelve young men, older men, young girls and oldwomen sat themselves down to the one table. At the other table right inthe corner the house-father took his place, a stout, comfortable,cheerful man with a smooth-shaven face and a double chin; then came hischildren, from the merry grown-up Sennerl right down to Simmerl, andstill further down to two quite tiny babies, who had their milk-soupspooned into their little mouths by the servant-maid. I was allowed tosit by Simmerl, and, because the common bowl was rather a long way fromus, we received a little special basin, out of which we ladled thepieces. It was wheaten bread, which was not every day to be had at homewith us! The house-mother went to and fro, looking after the tables,and now and then she sat down with us for a short time, just to eat amorsel as she passed by. Ah, yes, that was like my mother at home. "Whocooks needs nothing to eat," say overwise people.

  I was obliged to keep thinking of home, where just then they would bewaiting for me with supper, and wondering why that boy didn't come homeand where he could possibly be. Then, probably, it would occur to oneor other of them, "Oh, he has gone home with his school-friend toZutrum."

  After the milk-soup came a bowl of salad in vinegar. That again wassomething new for me; at my home there was only salad in butter-milk,which is acid and wet and can therefore well take the place ofexpensive vinegar. At home we ate the greenstuff with a spoon, here onedid it with a fork. I several times stabbed my mouth with the strangetool, but dared make no noise; whereas at home if such a thinghappened there would have been a fine outcry.

  After the salad came the largest dish of all, and this contained stewedcherries in their own juice. Now I might use the spoon again. If onlyit had been a bit bigger--for this black cherry stew was delicious! Thecompany was very ceremonious. They squeezed the stones out of theirmouths and put them back either on to a plate or into their fists. Athome we ate the stones with the cherries.

  I do not know what was talked about at table, and I was certainly quiteindifferent to it, because mere talk is nothing to eat. They werelouder and gayer at the servants' table than we were over at thehouse-father's table, because there was an old man amongst them whosaid the strangest things in the gravest manner at which they alllaughed, until a maid said, "No, no; one must not laugh so at Kickel.It isn't right that Kickel should be laughed at."

  "Who's laughing at _him_?" laughed a boy. "We're only laughing becausewe please to."

  I must have overheard that, as otherwise I should not have known it. Iknow also that suddenly the old Kickel jumped up from his place, andwith his shirt-sleeve fluttering from his wide, strong arm, chucked acherry-stone at the door opposite, which fell back again into themiddle of the room. At that he cried "Bang!" and shouted with laughter.He did this several times, whereupon the others said, "It was quiteright, and he must make a hole in the door so that one could look outinto the kitchen to see whether or no stew was being cooked to-day."Then Kickel raised his other arm, and "Bang!"--he threw the entirehandful at the door, so that it rattled like a hail-storm. At the s
amemoment the old man wrinkled up his wizened face and shouted out anangry curse.

  Then the house-father got up from our table, went to the infuriatedold fellow and said soothingly, "Now, now, Kickel, don't be so vexed.Sowing so many cherry-trees in the rooms! None of them will grow, youknow. Be sensible, Kickel." At my home the father would have talkedvery differently if such a person had strewn the room full ofcherry-stones!

  Then the old servant stood before the house-father with folded hands,and in a voice of groaning anxiety he cried, "Zutrum, Zutrum, I don'tknow how to help myself, it's coming on again!"

  "Michel! Natzel!" said the house-father to the other two men, "takeKickel to bed. It is time for him to go to sleep."

  Then they led Kickel away. Whatever did it mean?

  "It's time for the children to go to sleep also," added thehouse-father. "The Forest-farm boy must sleep in the top room."

  The disappointment was bitter. I had thought that Simmerl and I wouldhave been able to lie near each other on a pile of hay, and this wasactually the reason that I had come with him into this strange house.Tears came into my eyes in proportion to the anguish of finding outthat it was all up with the hay, and that I had to sleep by myself in adark little room. The house-mother must have noticed something, for shesaid, "He can very well sleep in the little room with Simmerl; there'sa bed empty there."

  "Well and good, but don't talk long, boys." So the house-father, afterwhich Simmerl went to his parents, kissed their hands and said "Goodnight."

  This custom pleased me mightily, and I resolved to introduce it alsointo my home. I never got so far as that; I had always been ashamed ofbeing entirely naughty to my parents, but also of being quite good, andin particular it had been impossible to me to show certain courtesies,much as I liked them.

  I gathered from the order "not to talk long" that we had permission totalk, and as we lay, each in his little bed, having put out the light,so that nothing more was to be seen than the two faintly lighted squarewindows, I asked Simmerl, "What was wrong with that fellow Kickel?"

  "Cherry-stones," answered the lad.

  "Why did he get so wild?"

  "Oh, poor old Kickel!" said my comrade. "Don't you know that he was inprison for ten years? Last year they let him out."

  "Why?"

  "Because the Kaiser was married."

  "What, they locked him up for that?"

  "No, that's why they let him out."

  "But, good Lord, I want to know why they put him in prison," I cried.

  "If you shout like that father will come with the strap. He killed hisson."

  This was horrible. I did not know whether Kickel or House-father Zutrumhad killed his son. I dared question no farther, and when I did try itlater Simmerl gave no answer, for he was asleep.

  Next morning we were awakened by a clear voice, "Schoolboys, it'stime!" A bough of elder swayed about in front of the heart-shapedopening in the shutter, and through it the sun shone hot and bright onto our snow-white beds, and the house-spring splashed outside. I shouldhave liked to dress at the same time as Simmerl, but was shy aboutdrawing my legs from under the coverlet. With a long arm I drew mytrousers from the bench into bed, and slipped them on to my limbs witha suggestive slickness, and so out to the spring. After the washing themorning prayers. Simmerl, out of consideration for his guest, wouldhave gone out during these, suggesting that he would then take me tothe grey horse in the stable; but his mother said, "He will see enoughgrey horses during his life; you need the Holy Spirit in school. Nowsay your morning prayer. Both kneel together."

  We knelt on the bench before the table, and each said an Our Father tohimself, while it occurred to me, "We are not so strict at home."Certainly, our mother said one ought to say one's prayers, but she didnot order one straight away on to the bench.

  Now I was to see too what came of the prayers. We had hardly raised ourelbows from the table when it was spread with a white cloth, and setwith white platters and with white bread, and a brown soup was pouredout of the spout of a bright tin pot. At home it was just the other wayround, everything else brown and the soup white. There was no milk-soupfor breakfast here, but coffee! I had already heard about it, that thegrand people ate coffee, but that an old charcoal-burner had said, "Mydear people, I am certainly black. Look at me and see if I'm black orno! But I'm not so black and bad as the black broth from Morocco. Thedevil has invented it, and the peasant will come to an end if he eatsit."

  I do not know if the charcoal-burner knew how wisely he had spoken, andI do not know if they had believed him. I only know that everyone wascrazy for coffee, and that I could not help putting my spoon into theblack soup--Ugh! that isn't good, that is as bitter as gall! The devilhas certainly invented it----

  "You haven't put any sugar," laughed Simmerl, and threw some pieces outof a cup into my bowl. Now it was a little different. Simmerl looked atme and grinned to himself. I should have liked to know why.

  After breakfast it was "God keep you!" to the Zutrum people and off toschool. I had become quite brave and held out my right hand when saying"Good-bye and thank you," just like a well-mannered, grown-up man, andit occurred to me, "How easy it is to be good when one is not athome!"

  As we went along the hill-meadow old Kickel was to be seen with awooden fork spreading haycocks out so that they should dry better inthe new sunshine. To-day I saw, for the first time, that he was verydecrepit, bent double almost to cracking-point, and swaying and limpingat every step. His knee-breeches had certainly once been leather, butnow they had many, many patches of other stuffs stuck on with large,ungainly stitches. His feet and very brown ankles were bare. Breast andarms were covered by a coarse brown shirt; the old felt hat sat like abattered inverted kettle on the little grey head, but all the same itwas decorated by an eagle's feather, which stood up high into the air.Knees, elbows and fingers were all so terribly bony that one felt as ifthe old man would never be able to do anything properly for the rest ofhis life; he was like a deformed and twisted oak tree up on the highland where the storm-wind cripples everything. When he caught sight ofus he raised his hat politely and then he went on working.

  "Oh, I say," I questioned my schoolfellow, "what is the matter withKickel?"

  "When we are higher up I'll tell you," answered Simmerl, and when wecame into the wood, where the ground became more level, he put his armin mine, and said, "He had a son, and he shot him."

  "By accident? On purpose?" I asked, horrified.

  "On purpose--quite on purpose."

  "What had he done then--the son?"

  "Nothing; he was a thorough good fellow, my father said."

  "Good God! And did he hate his son so dreadfully then?"

  "He loved his son ever so much; much too much."

  "And therefore shot him down?"

  "Well, I don't know myself how it was," acknowledged Simmerl.

  "So Kickel is mad?" I put in.

  "Not mad, but a bit crazy, certainly; a bit crazy all his life, andpeople say one can't imagine how sharp he used to be, and what a finekeeper he was up there, and how well educated! But the people say thatthe many books he read must have sent him silly."

  I quickened my steps.

  "Why do you hurry so, Peter?"

  "Supposing he runs after us!"

  "Oh, Kickel won't do anything to us. People say he would not havekilled his son if he hadn't been so fond of him."

  "Oh, Simmerl, supposing he is fond of us?"

  "Oh, not so fond as he was of his son!"

  "But, Simmerl, I don't understand."

  "Some time I'll ask father just how it all was."

  Nothing more. On that particular day I was not much use in school. Justthink!--My father is very fond of _me_. He certainly has never told meso, but mother has said it to me. If things are like this, one willnever trust oneself again with people who are fond of one.

  "What is the matter with Peter?" asked the schoolmaster, "he is soabsent-minded to-day."

  In the afternoon I came
back to my parents' house. I stood awhilerooted to the sandy ground behind the pines. What was going to happennext? My father came towards me with a clacking wheelbarrow. "Go in andeat," he called to me, "and afterwards come out into the wood. We mustcut down some wood for firing."

  "Did you sleep at Zutrum last night?" asked my mother, as she setbefore me the dinner which had been saved for me.

  "Mother, Simmerl wouldn't let go of me until I went home with him."

  "It's quite right, child. Just lately Mistress Zutrum was complainingto your father that you did not come to see your cousins and aunt anduncle. My mother and the mother of Mistress Zutrum were sisters."

  The danger was quite over. Out in the forest I asked my father whetherhe knew the Zutrums' old servant, Kickel, and what was the matter withhim.

  "It isn't the time for gossip now, it's the time for cuttingfirewood,"--that was his answer.

  A few weeks later I was with my father in the cattle pasture. It wasalready dusk, and the oxen, who had been yoked to the plough all day,thrust their muzzles into the food and grazed busily. We stood by andwaited until they were satisfied. It occurred to me that now was thetime for gossip, and I asked him again about Kickel.

  "Child, let Kickel be," answered my father. "He's never harmed you--andmay God Almighty preserve from all craziness! See--they won't eat thegrass--they're not hungry any more."

  Soon after, we led the oxen into the farmyard. If I had died at thattime, reader, you would hardly ever have learnt anything about Kickel.Meanwhile, I grew into a thin, but sadly tall lad, too narrow for apeasant, but long enough for a town gentleman--well, you know all aboutthat!

  And once on a time, in summer, as I was going to visit far-away Alpelagain, in the forest on the way I overtook a peasant lad--a young,handsome but earnest fellow, in Sunday clothes although it was awork-day. He had an upright carriage, and moved his legs lightly andregularly in walking, so that I thought, "He has been a soldier, or isone still." His auburn hair, too, was cut short and shaved behind insuch fashion that his round, fresh-coloured neck was bare for a coupleof inches down to his shirt-collar. The long face, with the somewhatthinly modelled nose, the very fair little moustache and the open,shrewd eyes, suggested that he was by no means one of the most foolishand simple of people. In those days I was as glad to have company onsuch a road as now I am to go alone. So I tried it on with him. Myquestion was, where he went? He was going home to his wood-cutting inFischbacherwald. "Where had he been?" In Krieglach, in the churchyard."What had so lively a young fellow to do with the churchyard?"

  "Well, it's just what happens often enough," answered he. "It was onaccount of old Kickel."

  Old Kickel! I had often heard the name mentioned. Ah, yes! it was theold servant at Zutrum, who----"We'll go together, so that it will bemore entertaining. I am Peter from the Forest farm." That was myintroduction.

  "I've known you before," was his answer. "I have often met you in Grazwhen I was with the soldiers, but you have never recognised me."

  "And why have you never made yourself known since you were from home?"

  "I wanted to speak to you once, but I thought, 'A common soldier! Whoknows if he'd like it?'"

  "Naturally--you a common soldier--and I absolutely nothing."

  "Ah--not that," he rejoined. "You are already somebody. I know itwell."

  "So they have buried Kickel to-day! And where are the others, then?"

  "The few people have already gone on. Not many of them followed him. Hewas only a poor pauper."

  "You have surely been one of the bearers?"

  "No," said he; "I have only followed on after. There has been nopraying even, because they said he had been a heathen. I thought tomyself that he wasn't any worse than most other people, and that he hadhad bad luck--it was certainly his fate. Now in God's name he hasrest."

  "What bad luck did he have, then?" was my question. I believed that Iwas at last near to the satisfaction of my old and now re-awakenedcuriosity.

  "You will have heard of the story before," said my road companion.

  "Yes, just rumours; but never knew where they came from. Do you knowanything exactly?"

  "I know all about it," said he.

  And I had led him on so far that he began to tell me everything. It isagain many years since then, but one never forgets such things, and nowI will tell the story of Kickel.

  * * * * *

  "Isidor Kickel was the only son of a steward at the Schloss of PrinceSchwarzenberg, in Muran. He had to study, and wanted to also, butsuddenly dropped it all in his seventeenth year, just when he shouldhave repeated his annual course. After that he tried an agriculturalschool, learnt forestry and became a forester. But he only got as faras being a forester's assistant or huntsman, and as this he was placedin the Imperial forests at Neuberg. He ought, perhaps, to have been ascholar, for there was something speculative in him, and he read manybooks in his spare time. He was much too much in books. He said suchthings oftentimes, and kept so away from church, that the people said:'Huntsman Kickel has fallen away from the Christian faith.' That oftenhappens to-day," commented my travelling companion. "At that time itwas something novel. No one knew how he felt about it himself inside;the people said it could not feel quite right. Otherwise he was not abad man. Once when he was in the church during a feast, he took moneyout of his purse and wanted to give it to the bell-pocket man, but theman passed by him as if to say, 'You monster, your money is too bad forme.' Whereupon Kickel gave the coins to a poor little old woman; theywere not too bad for her, and the people laughed no end! Once a swallowflew into the church and could not get out again, because the windowshave wire-netting and the door was at the far end. And no one couldcatch her, either. So Kickel went into the church every day and thesacristan thought he had been converted. Kickel, however, was onlytaking in bird's food so that the swallow should not starve. And as toconversion, there was nothing of that sort at all. In spite ofeverything, people liked him well, and nobody could accuse him ofanything wrong. Then he married a schoolmaster's daughter from theVeitsch, and had seven children; and of these he lost six by deathwhile they were quite little, three at one time, and his wife alsothrough consumption. Only one single child remained to him, a boycalled Oswald. One often sees that people who are unable to believe ina future life are all the more thirsty for life here, and for love too.It was just that way with Kickel. His love for this only child becamean overwhelming passion, and all and everything which lay in his powerthat could make life lovely for the handsome, merry young Oswald, hegave him. He had him taught, and when he was twelve years old wanted tosend him to an Institute in Vienna; but, on the other hand, Oswaldwanted to stay among his home mountains, and the huntsman had to forcehimself to thrust him out. A few years later he secured him a clerkshipin the State Forestry Office at Neuberg, and a few years after thatthere was a wedding.

  "Oswald's choice was a pretty daughter of a burgher of M?rzzuschlag.The love-story apparently was just like other love-stories, and wentmuch the same road as they. Oswald became master-woodman in theHochschlag, behind M?rzsteg, on the high Veitsch. After barely a year,naturally enough, the 'little lad' was there, and Oswald could say tohis father, 'I can wish nothing better for myself, and only fear lestthings should become worse!' So he must have been a much more contentedman than his father, and no one ever heard how he stood with regard toreligion. His wife," continued my lad, "has often told me since, thathe laid his arm round her neck and said, 'God be praised and thankedthat I have you!' So he must have believed _something_. And hisfather, Kickel, just revelled in joy because all went so well for hisOswald.

  "Huntsman Kickel lived in an old dismantled farm-house, in the onlyroom which was still habitable. At that time he was suffering with awound in his foot, which he had got by leaping from a rock, and formonths he had been unable to go into the coverts. As Oswald on Sundayswent up to his mountain-hut from the valley, his way led him past, andhe spoke to his father to ask him how the sick le
g was, and to bringhim this thing or the other and to chat with him about his wife and hisdear boy. He often brought the boy with him, too, and then HuntsmanKickel would throw his boxes and cupboards open and invite son andgrandson to take with them anything that particularly pleased them.

  "'Take--just take them all,' he would always say; 'they're merenothings. The little bit of pleasure in this world! I've had my share,and there's nothing beyond. And if things get worse--end it!'

  "Then that Sunday came. It was in August, and so hot in the morningthat the young master-woodman Oswald begged a glass of water of hisfather on his way to church.

  "'When I come back after noon,' he said to his father, 'I will pay youfor the well with St. John's blessing.' He meant by that he would bringwine with him. The old man answered that he ought to take it up to thelittle wife and the laddie. But they were in want of nothing; thelittle wife sang from dawn onwards like a lark, and little Anderl hadlaughed in his sleep as he, Oswald, before going out, had kissed him.

  "'Ah, you poor burdened fellow!' Huntsman Kickel said again, andclapped his son on the shoulder and then 'Good-bye till thisafternoon.'

  "About midday a storm arose over the Hochschwab Mountain. It did notrain much, but the thunder crashed heavily several times. An hour latera woodman came down from the hill, who called into the open windows,'Huntsman Kickel, look up if you want to see the smoke!'

  "'What's the matter? What are you shouting for?' asked Kickel, who wasquite alone in the house.

  "'The mountain-hut is burning--the lightning struck it.'

  "'What do you say, woodman?'

  "'When the master-woodman comes home he will find nothing left.Everything has gone!'

  "'The wife? The child?'

  "'Everything's gone. If your son goes home, prepare him for it. I mustgo to Niederalpel.'

  "That was what the woodman said--and then he was off."

  I cannot repeat as my fellow-wayfarer told it; it went straight into myheart like a knife. But the young fellow remained unmoved, and went ontelling:

  "No one knows what Huntsman Kickel thought of this message. At first hewanted to go up to the heights where the black smoke was making thewhole heavens dark. But he was unable, because of the bad foot. 'Hiswife and his child! His wife and his child! His wife and his child!'The whole time just that. 'End it!' Kickel went into the parlour andstared out of the window. 'Now he's coming--and now he's coming.' Hetook the gun from the wall and stood in the middle of the parlour andlooked out through the window to the path outside. At last he came,Oswald, out from the green wood; he did not look up, and still did notknow anything about it, and came so quickly and gaily to the housewhere his father lived. And Huntsman Kickel aimed through the windowand shot him down."

  "Jesus Christ!" I cried. "Had he gone mad?"

  "One cannot say that," answered the lad. "When his old housekeeper camehome, he sent her at once for a cart, went to the police, and whenexamined he said he could not endure that his Oswald should havetrouble and go on living, and he had thought to himself, 'He knowsnothing, and needs to know nothing. That useless grieving for many aday and year is quite unnecessary. A quick death, and you are afterthem, you are set free from everything--and I, your father, can do youno better service than that.' He said, 'I did not aim badly; and now,your honours, please make an end of me.' I believe they gave himfifteen years, but when the Kaiser married in fifty-four they let himoff the rest."

  I went thoughtfully along the woodland path, and said:

  "It's almost beyond belief."

  "It was best," continued my companion, "that they fetched him away atonce and took him to Loeben. He couldn't have lived after knowing theworst of all."

  "What the woodman said--was it not true, then?" I asked it with mybreath stopping.

  "Yes, the lightning had certainly struck the hill-hut and it was burntdown, but nothing had happened to Oswald's family."

  * * * * *

  It's awful to think of the fate of some men!

  We went on together for a while; neither said a word.

  At last I stood still and asked, "When did he learn it?"

  "When after nine years he had been free for half a year, and he camehome and was always laughing in the air, then I told it him myself."

  "How did you say it to him?"

  "'Father Kickel, your daughter-in-law and your grandson Anderl arestill alive, and all is well with them.'"

  "And what did he say to that?"

  "'So,' said he, 'they are still alive? And I had always dreamt thatthey were all dead, all! God, what tales the young people tell!' Andthen he laughed again."

  "Ah--mad then!"

  "It must have been so," said my companion. "For a while after that hetried to earn his bread as a farm-servant, but later on, as he couldn'tsucceed in that, he came on the parish. As a rule, one saw nothingamiss with him, but many a time one did--many a time one did."

  "You knew him quite well?" I asked the young fellow.

  "Well, naturally," was his answer; "he was my grandfather."