Hugh Lamb – The Invisible Eye: Tales of Terror by Emile Erckmann and Louis Alexandre Chatrian (страница 19)

‘It is a ruin, then?’

‘Yes; an old piece of wall upon a rock enveloped in nettles and brambles – a regular owl’s nest. For my own part, I like the Losser, the Krapenfelz, the Valdhorn; but as they say in France, every one has his own taste and colour. We have everything here, high, medium-sized, and young forest trees, brushwood and brambles, rocks, caverns, torrents, rivers—’

‘But no lakes,’ I said.

‘Lakes!’ he exclaimed. ‘No lakes! As if we had not just beyond the Losser a lake a league in circumference, dark and deep, surrounded by rocks and the giant pines of the Veierschloss! They call it The Lake of the Wild Huntsman!’

And he bent his head as if in reflection for some seconds. Then suddenly rousing himself, he resumed his route without uttering a word. It appeared to me that the old keeper so lately enraptured had suddenly struck upon a melancholy chord. I followed him musing. He, bending forward, wearing a pensive air, and learning on his great holly staff, took such long and vigorous strides that it seemed as if his limbs would burst through his blouse every moment!

The forester’s house came into sight between the trees in the midst of a verdant meadow. At the end of the valley the river could be perceived following the undulations of the hills; farther still in the gorge were clusters of fruit-trees, some tilled ground, a small garden surrounded by a low wall, and finally on a terrace having the wood for a background was the house of the old keeper – a white house, somewhat ancient in appearance, with three windows, and the door on the ground floor, four windows above with little diamond-shaped panes, and four others in the garrets amid the brown tiles of the roof.

Facing the wood in our direction was an old worm-eaten gallery with a carved balustrade, the winding staircase outside being fastened to the wall. A lattice trellis-work occupied two sides upon which the honeysuckles and vines clambered and hung back in festoons from the roof. Across the green sward the small black window-panes glittered in the shade. On the wall of the kitchen garden an old chanticleer was proudly strutting in the midst of his hens; upon the mossy roof a flock of pigeons were moving about; in the stream a number of ducks were swimming, and from the threshold we could have perceived the length of the sloping dell, the extensive valley, and the leafy forest shades as far as the eye could reach.

Nothing so calm and peaceable as this house, lost in the solitudes of the mountains, can be imagined; its very appearance touched one more than you might fancy, and made one feel inclined to live and die there – if possible.

Two old hounds ran out to welcome us. A young girl was hanging some linen out to dry upon the balustrade, and seeing the dogs running out, looked up. The old keeper smiled as he pressed forward.

‘You are at home here,’ I said.

‘Yes, this is my house.’

‘May I ask for a crust and a glass of wine?’

‘Of course, man, of course. If the keepers sent people away I wonder to what inn the travellers could go. You are right welcome, sir.’

At this moment we reached the gate in the palings of the little garden; the dogs jumped upon us, and the girl in the balcony waved her hand in welcome. At the end of the garden another gate gave us admission to the yard, and the keeper, turning to me, exclaimed in a joyous tone: ‘You are now at the house of Frantz Honeck, gamekeeper to the Grand Duke Ludwig. Come into the parlour. I will just get rid of my game-bag, take off my gaiters, and join you there.’

We traversed a narrow passage. Talking as we advanced, the keeper pushed open the door of a low square whitewashed room, furnished with beechwood chairs, having a heart-shaped ornament cut in the back of each, a high walnut-wood press, with glittering hinges and rounded feet, and at the farther end was an old Nuremberg clock. In the corner to the right stood the stove, and by the lattice-windows was a firwood table; these made up the furniture of the room. On the table were a small loaf of bread and two glasses.

‘Sit down. Make yourself comfortable,’ said the old keeper. ‘I will return in a few moments.’

He left the room as he spoke.

I heard him enter the next room. Then, delighted to find myself in such good quarters, I took off my great-coat. The dogs stretched themselves on the floor.

‘Louise! Louise!’ cried out old Frantz.

The young girl passed the windows, and her pretty rosy face put aside the plants to look into the room. I bowed to her. She blushed, and hastily retired.

‘Louise!’ cried the old man again.

‘I am here, grandfather, I am here,’ she replied gently as she came into the passage.

Then I could not help hearing their conversation.

‘There is a traveller come, a fine lad; he will breakfast here. Go and draw a flask of white wine, and put on two plates.’

‘Yes, grandfather.’

‘Go and fetch my woollen jacket and my sabots. The birds have turned out well this morning; the young man comes from the Swan at Pirmasens. When Caspar returns send him in.’

‘He is tending the cows, grandfather, shall I call him?’

‘No, an hour hence will do.’

Every word reached me distinctly. Outside dogs barked, hens cackled, the leaves rustled gently in the breeze; everything was cheerful, fresh, and green.

I placed my knapsack upon the table and sat down thinking of the happiness of living in such a place without any care beyond the daily work.

‘What a life!’ I thought. ‘One can breathe freely here. This old Frantz is as tough as an oak notwithstanding his seventy years. And what a charming little girl his granddaughter is!’

I had scarcely finished these reflections when the old man, clad in his knitted vest and his iron-tipped sabots, came in laughing, and cried out: ‘Here I am. I have finished my morning’s work. I was up and about before you, sir; at four o’clock I had gone my round of the felled timber. Now we are going to rest ourselves, you and I; take a quiet glass and smoke another pipe – pipes again! But tell me, do you wish to change? You can go up to my room.’

‘Thank you, Père Frantz, I have need of nothing but a little rest.’

This title of Père Frantz appeared to please the old man; his cheeks betrayed a smile.

‘’Tis true that my name is Frantz,’ he said, ‘and I am old enough to be your father – ay, your grandfather. But may I ask your age?’

‘I am nearly twenty-two.’

At this moment the little Louise entered, carrying a flask of white wine in one hand, and in the other some cheese, upon a beautiful specimen of Delft ware, ornamented with red flowers. Frantz ceased to speak as she came in, thinking, perhaps, it is better to hold his tongue about age in the presence of his granddaughter.

Louise was about sixteen years of age; she was fair as an ear of corn, of good height and figure. Her forehead was high, her eyes were blue, her nose straight, with a tendency to turn up at the end, with delicate nostrils; her curving lips were as fresh as two cherries, and she was shy and retiring. She wore a dress of blue cloth striped with white, braced-up Hundsrück fashion. The sleeves of her dress scarcely descended below the elbow, and left her round arms displayed, though somewhat burnt by exposure in the open air. One cannot imagine a creature more soft and gentle or more artless, and I am persuaded that the maidens of Berlin, Vienna, or elsewhere, would have lost by the comparison.

Père Frantz, seated at the end of the table, appeared very proud of her. Louise placed the cheese and the flask upon the table without a word. I was quite silent – dreaming. Louise having left the room, quickly returned with two plates, beautifully clean, and two knives. She then appeared about to leave us, but her grandfather, raising his voice, said: ‘Remain here, Louise; remain here, or they will say you are afraid to meet this youth. He is a fine young fellow too. Ha! what is your name? I never thought of asking your before.’

‘My name is Théodore Richter.’

‘Well, then, Monsieur Théodore, if you feel so disposed, help yourself.’

He attacked the cheese as he spoke. Louise sat down timidly near the stove, sending now and then a quick glance in our direction.

‘Yes, he is a painter,’ continued old Honeck, as he went on eating; ‘and if you would not mind our seeing your pictures it will give us great pleasure, will it not, Louise?’

‘Oh, yes, grandfather,’ she replied; ‘I have never seen any.’

For some moments I had been cogitating how best I could propose to remain in the neighbourhood and study the environs, but I did not know how to broach this delicate subject. Here was now the opportunity ready made.

‘Well,’ I replied, ‘I desire no better, but I warn you I have nothing very first-rate. I have only sketches, and it will take me a fortnight at least to complete them. There is no painting, only drawing, as yet.’

‘Never mind, monsieur; let us see what you have got.’

‘With great pleasure,’ I said as I unfastened my knapsack. ‘I will first show you the neighbourhood of Pirmasens, but what is that to be compared to your mountains? Your Valdhorn, your Krapenfelz, those are what I should like to paint; those are scenes and landscapes!’