When I went out on the following morning, I carefully examined not only the stone steps, but also the little recess of the window. But the glow-worm had gone. I made up my mind, that if it was there again in the evening, I would take it as an omen that a closer relationship would be established between me and my beautiful neighbour.
I went straight to the schoolmaster, who had asked me to call for advice with regard to nice excursions, and who was a distant relation of hers.
It was holiday-time, and I found him in the kitchen-garden in front of the house, where he was working with an enormous rush-hat on his head. He was evidently pleased to see me. After having exchanged the usual remarks about the weather, which looked fairly settled, he asked me where I had been, and soon mentioned a walk I did not know of, and that I could not take by myself. I therefore willingly accepted his offer to accompany me directly after midday.
On the way he was—well, there is no other expression for it but the German kreuzfidel (wound up). It transpired that he had studied for a considerable time—very likely more in the public-houses than in college—and the recollections of those days were the pride of his life. He sang one ditty after another from The Students' Songbook; many of his songs showing a remarkable lack of sense, as, for instance—
"On the wall
In the hall
Sits an ancient bug;
See how well this bug can prance,
See him gaily lead the dance."
Later on he took the opportunity to sing some ditties from the years of the war. For, when I walked quickly uphill and left him behind, he always blurted out the Saxonian mocking verse from 1813—
"Be slow in advance,
Be slow in advance,
Let the Austrians' attack this time have a chance."
But if I loitered, he said—
"You Hannemann,
You go in front;
Your boots so high will bear the brunt."
That this souvenir from '64, and especially the name "Hannemann," could not be pleasing to a Danish ear, the thick-skinned German did not take into consideration; but at the same time he looked so good-natured that, in spite of some patriotic struggles, I could not be offended with him. When we were resting he usually related tales of his student life or of the war, which latter, however, were mostly of a rather peaceful order.
"Yes, there you are perfectly right, it is an excellent tobacco," he said, when he was lighting his pipe after supper. "What do you think of the strange coincidence which happened to me in connection with this tobacco? But in those days it was of a better quality than at present; it was famous throughout almost the whole of Germany—the Altstädter-Ziegel tobacco. Well, it was in those days, I think I have already told you, that I was in the Lazaretto at Flensburg after having received a bullet in my shoulder, and, as I was getting on well, they gave me permission to smoke just one small pipe. Before proceeding I really ought also to say that I was born in Altstadt, and that my mother, who lived there, frequently sent me some good things; there was no freight to pay, and she always put a packet of this excellent tobacco in the hamper. To return to my story, I get the pipe lit, and hardly has the tobacco begun to burn, before the man next to me (he was a Dane who had been taken prisoner at Düppel, where he had come too close to a bayonet), lifts his head a wee bit from the pillow, and starts sniffing; and I quite understood that the smell was not disagreeable to him, for he hugged himself with delight. I am puffing with all my might. He goes on sniffing and inhaling. 'My word,' he says. 'Why,' I reply, 'does it perhaps smell of sulphur?' 'Nothing of the kind,' he says in fairly good German; 'but I'll be hanged if it isn't Altstäder-Ziegel tobacco you are smoking.' 'Then you won't be hanged this time,' I tell him. 'By the way, how do you know Altstäder-Ziegel tobacco?' 'Well, I should think I ought to know it,' he answers, 'for I was two years in Altstadt when I travelled for my trade—I am a watchmaker. Since then I have not tasted that tobacco, and now, when smelling it once more, I feel again as if I were with my kind Master Storch at the corner of Goose Square and Smith Street.' 'Well, I never!' I say, nearly dropping the pipe. 'You can take my word for what I've told you,' he answers. 'Why, then, you were working under my own father!'—What do you think of that? And as we came to talk about it, I was able to recall him, though he had grown a big beard, a real Hannemann-beard.… Finally I gave him a pipe of tobacco, but it might have chanced that I had given him a hot bullet instead."
When this story came to an end, I took the opportunity—if it could be said to exist—of asking him about his relations, and, after having endured pages of family history, I was at last rewarded by hearing the name of Minna Jagemann—"that pretty little governess living with the von Zedlitzs', whom I suppose you have seen."
At first the information about her was of a very ordinary and uninteresting character.
Her father had been a teacher in one of the large public schools, and had died a year ago. Her mother took in lodgers, and the girl earned a little money by giving German lessons to foreigners, conversational classes, etc. She had for the present, contrary to her usual custom, accepted this situation as governess, which was very well paid; otherwise she lived with her mother in one of the smaller streets of Dresden.
All this sounded very commonplace to me, because I had conjured up a romantic history for her.
"At any rate, it is not always advisable for such an innocent girl to associate with these foreigners," he remarked, pushing down the ash in his pipe.
"Why not?" I asked with interest. "What do you mean?"
"Well, one doesn't always know with what kind of persons one may have to do, and it might lead to things that are not quite pleasant."
"Has Miss Jagemann had such an experience?"
"Indeed she has. There was a young painter, a countryman of yours, an unsteady sort of chap. He threw her over, and surely she did not deserve that."
"Is that so? Then they were engaged?"
"I don't know for certain whether they were really engaged. I haven't sufficiently inquired into the matter, but I got my information from Aunt Sophie; perhaps you remember I spoke of her, she was not all she ought to have been. Anyhow, there was some sort of love-affair between them. Every one thought they were going to be married; but he went away, and has not written since. I am not in the least surprised, for he had taken painting lessons in Paris, which is a real Sodom. Not that Dresden is quite … well, I suppose you have already noticed it yourself. But Paris, good gracious! It's something awful; and we are so hated that a German can hardly live there. In spite of this, they have to send for our beer; they can't even imitate it, much as they would like to! The other day the French again closed a factory near the frontier, because it belonged to a German. It will never work! Just you see, it won't take many years before we have to go there again. Mark my words, did you notice what Bismarck said the other day?"
He now became immersed in politics.
To tell the truth, I was at the moment much more anxious to hear what happened to the pretty little girl from Dresden, and her Danish painter, than to get the most authentic information of the day and hour on which the Germans were to enter Paris. But I asked in vain if he could remember the name of the painter.
I remained rather silent on our homeward journey, for I was very disturbed by what the schoolmaster had told me. In one way I was content to have satisfied my curiosity, and to have had my suspicions confirmed, but in another I did not like this episode, though it had nothing to do with me, not in the least and still … I now thought of the strange little incident of the pocket dictionary, which seemed to be Miss Jagemann's favourite literature, accompanying her both travelling and walking. I surmised that it was a Postillon d'amour which drove this little linguistic omnibus, where the noblest and simplest words are to be found side by side. Did she faithfully cling to a dear remembrance when learning words of the language which was this painter's mother-tongue, or had she not yet given up the hope that it also might become hers by adoption? Perhaps she did not know herself.
I thought of the little glow-worm keeping its faithful watch evening after evening on the same spot, and throwing its light out into the night for companionship.
As I came close to the stairs its spark met me from the corner of the stone steps.