# Two Little Misogynists/Chapter 3

n single file they followed the narrow path across the field whose soft dark turf was sprinkled with gay flowers. Gesima walked first, then Hänsli, then Gerold, and last the sergeant, Weber, each taller than the one in front, so that they looked like a row of organ pipes. Gesima tried to start the conversation by asking some questions, how long their holidays had been, if they had had a good time in Sentisbrugg, and so on. But she received no answer from them. Finally she turned around and passed them some chocolate. That really was tempting, but the cadets remained firm, nevertheless, and shook their heads. Sergeant Weber was not pleased by their behaviour. They ought not to tramp on in this stubborn sullen ​way, he remarked, but they ought to have fine manners and to say some pleasant things to their pretty little companion.
"We don't have fine manners," they retorted proudly.
They heard some squeaky dance-music coming from a large, lonely-looking house on the highway, on which was written in large letters: "At the Sign of the Lion: Amadeus Staempfli, proprietor." There were a clarinet, a trumpet and a bass viol. A few faces appeared at the windows.
"Hallo, Weber, where are you going? Your day's work must be over, come on in. Eva is here."
The sergeant went around the line of children and placed himself in front of them, to speak to them as follows: They were now only ten minutes' walk from Friedli's Mill, and could not possibly lose their way even on purpose. When they came through the pass out on to the highway, all they had to do was to turn to the right and follow the road straight ahead, and they would arrive at the mill.
Saying this, he turned off towards the willows, jumped over the brook, slipped across the road, and vanished into the hospitable depths of the Lion Inn. No sooner was he out of sight than the brave cadets began the attack. Gerold, with the rough observation that a hat was to be worn on the head, not behind it, pulled over Gesima's eyes the black and white tam o' shanter which she wore. But with the cap a curl fell over her brow, covering her eyes and blinding her, so that he had to come to her rescue, laboriously pushing each little hair separately back under the brim of the cap.
As soon as he had succeeded in getting rid of one, six others appeared in its place, and there seemed to be no end to it. He was still struggling when Hänsli marched up and demanded ​sharply that she should tell him the names of all the peaks of the Alps. Gesima fixed her eyes on the horizon and recited without any hesitation: "Jungfrau, Eiger, Moench, Schreckhorn, Wetterhorner, Finsteraarhorn, Blumlisalp," pointing to each one as she named it.
Hänsli followed with a keen glance to make sure that she did not try to fool him. But when each peak had been correctly named, he pronounced judgment condescendingly:
"All right, your geography is good, but now we'll see about your multiplication. Attention! How much is twelve times seven?"
Then he backed down in confusion, for she gave the answer before he could be sure what it was himself. At that point, Gerold, who had been absently gazing towards the snowcapped mountains, took up the examination.
"How high is the Finsteraarhorn?"
"The best way to find out is to go up and see."
Indignant at the flippancy of her answer, he frowned and clenched his fists threateningly.
"He'll never get that far. The top of the Faulhorn (lazy-horn) will be as high as he'll ever go," mocked Hänsli.
Gerold's wrath was now turned against Hänsli, but on the instant they heard the chimes of the Angelus, a faint far-away sound, flickering like sunshine on a shady brook. The artilleryman immediately struck up, "Hail to the golden sun of twilight." Hänsli joined in, and then Gesima took it up. Thus they came out from the pass singing on the highway, Gesima now walking in the middle with a boy on each side of her.
An enormous van, as high as a house, groaned heavily in front of them, drawn by six great Norman horses as powerful ​as elephants. The carter walked alongside, stooping and panting as if he were trying to help with the load. He complimented the children on their sweet singing, which was really a delight to hear, but at the same time he ventured a rough joke. He said they looked like the Queen of Spades between the King of Hearts and the Knave of Diamonds.
"And the joker in front," completed Gesima in a flash.
The carter praised the girl for her ready wit and asked what her name was. But this question immediately kindled a quarrel, for the boys insisted that Gesima was a hideous name, and Gesima retorted that of all the hideous names she had ever heard Gerold and Hänsli were the worst, and that they ought to be called Arthur and Oscar.
The carter remarked that he was sorry to interrupt their singing and that if they did not mind he would like to join in as well as he could.
The children were glad to have his strong voice added to theirs, and after a short discussion they all began together to sing "The Distance Calls Me."
The carter bellowed in a fearful manner, but without appearing to be aware of it. "That's wrong," announced Hänsli, every time he made a mistake. Then they decided on another song, and thus they continued, each one trying to remember whatever song might do for the concert Every time they finished a quartet, the carter walked once all around the van, shouting "Hu, Hu," to his horses in a melancholy tone and marking time with the handle his whip. Then he would return the group to receive the word of command for a new performance. Once in a while he gave the horses a short breathing space, while he looked over the wheels.
​"I'm sorry if you have to wait for me. But how do we know whether we four will ever meet again. Maybe we shan't all be alive this time next year. I am afraid we are in for a change in the weather. It's a bad sign to have the Alps look so near, it seems as if you could reach out and touch them. That sky is too red for my liking too. Looks as if a painter had spilled his paints."
The bats were fluttering about the roofs when the children with the carter arrived at Friedli's Mill. The inn-keeper's family were clustered about the high steps, like the old pictures of patriarchal groups. They beckoned to the newcomers and asked where they were going in the darkness. When the children answered that the Statthalter had told them the Landammann's carriage would be waiting for them at Friedli's Mill, they heard the news. The coachman had not known anything about that. Nobody had told him exactly what he was to do, so he had waited about half an hour on the chance, and had just driven off home, supposing that the children would stay in Schoenthal for the night.
Somebody said, "Isn't that just like the Statthalter?"
"Well, I'll order a carriage right away and have the children driven right back to Schoenthal. Maybe I'd better take them myself."
In the meantime a tall young girl, with a stately manner, had come up to the boys. "Didn't any one in Sentisbrugg give you a message for Freidli's Mill?" she whispered.
"Yes," answered Gerold, "they told me to say that everything was arranged."
"Have you any letters, by any chance?" she asked eagerly.
"Yes," he said, rummaging out the letters.
​In spite of the darkness, the young girl picked out one envelope, tore it open in feverish haste, and began to read. Then she suddenly gave a joyous start, shouted "Good," and as quick as a cat sprang up the steps to show the letter to some one. All of a sudden, every one's attitude to the children changed. The voices began: "They can exactly as well spend the night here, and start out for Bischoffshardt tomorrow, by the eight o'clock stage. They are perfectly safe here, and they won't have to get up so early in the morning as if they went back to Schoenthal to take the stage from there. And think of the fuss and excitement if they go to Schoenthal now, after dark, when nobody expects them. It would take nearly an hour to hitch up the carriage to take them. It would be just as well of course to send a stableman to Schoenthal to tell the Statthalter and Mr. Balsiger what has happened so no one will be worried. You don't mind spending the night here, do you? Everyone will look after you."
Gesima doubtfully turned toward the cadets, showing by her silence that she expected them to answer. Hänsli, excited at the prospect of unexpected adventures, punched his brother in the back, making faces at him to induce him to accept the invitation. Gerold also preferred to spend the night at Friedli's Mill rather than at Schoenthal, if only to avoid another manifestation of his godfather's violent affection. He asked anxiously, "How much will it cost? We only have a five-franc piece each."
​belong to the family from now on, and I consider you all my guests and my friends."
Before they had really had time to accept, they were led up the steps. The tall young girl whispered into their ears, "You may call me Theresa, if you like, or Aunt, if you prefer."
"I like Theresa better."
The landlord himself invited Gesima into the drawing room, and treated her as if she were the princess of the Canton. The cadets, on the other hand, asked permission to sit in the country people's sitting-room, as they said it was more like being grown up,—in with the tobacco smoke, the loud rough voices, and the shuffling boots.
There they were installed by Theresa, in a particularly choice corner, and she served their supper herself. Were those real trout? Yes, indeed. And she kept asking them about Uncle Dolf, what his expression was like lately, and so forth, requesting all kinds of details which they could not give her. When at last she had extracted all the information that she could, she went into the drawing-room to join Gesima, occasionally returning to the boys in the sitting-room, so that she was a bond between them.
Little by little, the countrymen, lounging behind their mugs, began to question the boys. Where did they come from? Where were they going? What were their names? A lean, lanky village official, scratching his head with his bony fingers, like a cockatoo's claws, asked them if their great-grandmother, his old relative and godmother, Salome of Sentisbrugg, was still living. "Why, of course she is," they answered indignantly, and he mumbled back: "Well, it isn't of course at all. More than one frog has jumped head first into the ​Schoenthal waterfall since the lovely Salome of Sentisbrugg used to run about on the castle hill with the young Schoolmaster. She used to sing 'Oho, ohee, Heaven is God's, but the world belongs to me!' Next time you want to say how-do-you-do to your great grandmother and ask her if her legs feel better, you'll have to look her up behind the church, under a rosemary bush."
The boys protested with anger. "How old do you suppose she is?" some one asked.
"Nearer ninety than eighty."
"Are you talking about old Salome of Sentisbrugg?" queried some one else. "Why she was dying St. Matthew's day. Marti, the postillion, told us so to-night."
"That's not so," shouted Hänsli, "for we spoke to her ourselves to-day."
Theresa prevented any more discussion by saying "Hush" in a loud tone, as she pointed to the boys; so the conversation ceased out of regard for them. The carter picked up his mug and came over beside the cadets, saying "Seat yourself, do," as he did so. Then he went on: "Well, what have you done with your charming little friend, Gesima, or whatever her name is?"
"She is over there in the drawing-room."
"Wait till she's twenty years old, and either one of you would give a five-pound note to escort her into Friedli's Mill again some evening. You might even be biting your nails off in rage, then, just because you sat all evening in the sitting-room instead of staying in the parlour with her. She knows what she is about, and some day she'll show you a thing or two, I'll wager." Then he sighed. "It's funny about women. ​Nobody looks at them for fifteen years or so, then all of a sudden it's as if they had a halo on their heads, or else they shine themselves like fireflies, and every one treats them like regular angels. Then the light burns out, and there you are with a hag in your house, and you'd rather do anything, work hard in the rain and the snow, or you'd rather go anywhere, and drink sour wine, than stay in your own home and have warm soup." And then as a sequel to his soliloquy, he began after a pause to philosophize on human life in general. 'It's like the Hauenstein at Sentisbrugg, you work hard to get up, and then as soon as you're there you have to turn around and come down, which is a worse job still and more dangerous. And then we all wind up at the end in the same Inn-"The Hostel of Eternal Rest."'"
At these words the village official got up, paid his bill sullenly, and stalked stiffly out of the room. "Where are you driving your calves, Xaverli?" called the carter through the open window to some one on the road.
"To the butcher at Bischoffstardt. The Landammann is giving a dinner to the assembly of the Canton on Sunday." Xaverli pulled up his cattle cart for a moment and all the calves began to bellow. The spreading rays of light that streamed out on the road from the inn lit up the wide round eyes of the parched animals and intensified their human expression and one could see their ghostly, pale tongues trying to reach and lick Xaverli's hands Then the wheels rumbled away and the bellowing ceased.
After that nobody spoke for some time. Then suddenly some one said: "Did you see him? He just slipped along the wall going towards home."
​"Who's that?"
"The Foolish Student."
"What does he do all day long in the woods?"
And then they all began to talk about the half-wit, without ill-feeling but with some indignation and a jeering attitude. How foolish his clothes looked, and the umbrella he carried as a sun-shade, his cotton trousers and gloves like a woman's. His spectacles were like an old man's, and when he read he put on two pairs, one on top the other. He had even patched up a hut in the woods Hardt, near the Althäusli, where he could idle away his time with books and pads and all sorts of foolishness. People once came upon him on the Falcon's Rock with his head down and looking at the view between his legs. He said the colours came out brighter that way!
"Let the Foolish Student alone. He doesn't do you any harm," said Theresa.
"He hates ordinary men, he despises common people, and he never has a kind word for any one. His father, the Statthalter, always says how d'ye do to any one who goes by, and he asks how the crops are; … but the Foolish Student, my goodness, he doesn't know the rye from the oats."
"It isn't proved that the best friends the people are the ones who smile at every one and flatter them," said Theresa.
"Well, all the same, he is a queer one, and he's lucky to have such a fine popular man for a father."
"The St. Cecilia Society down Niedereulenbach got after him all right."
"What for?"
"He had the nerve to make fun of the 'Rose of Tannen​heim' which they gave and spent a lot of money on, and they even went a hundred francs in debt for it."
"The same thing happened in Sentisbrugg, with their Athletic Club."
"Why, what happened there?"
"They gave an exhibition of gymnastic exercises in the town hall, and he laughed at them and said they were more vain than any silly woman. If that fine fellow Dolf had not stood up for him, it might have been serious for him, and even now I would not advise him to stroll around alone in the dark out to the Sentisbrugg school house and back. People in general leave him alone, though, they're used to him by now. Only once in a while somebody throws a stone at him after dark."
Gerold listened closely to this arraignment, and began to feel a strong desire to be the instrument of justice in punishing this scourge of the Canton. "I could be like Siegfried," he thought. "I'm ten, and that would be just the right way to begin to be a hero. It wouldn't be too simple, nor too difficult." He boasted that he would knock down every one he met, big or little, who wore spectacles, without even looking to see who they were.
A plump little man, carrying a messenger's bag, spoke up. "Don't worry about him. One of these days you'll find the Foolish Student at the bottom of the Aar." He said this with confidence and in a significant tone as if he knew more than he was willing to admit.
"I wouldn't go so far as to say that," remarked some one else conservatively, "but certainly he can't last very long. He has his mother's constitution, and all her brothers and sisters ​died of consumption. She is sure to snuff out herself pretty soon.
"I should think she would, the way her husband worries her all the time about the son.
The landlord had come in without being noticed by any one, through the kitchen door. His loud voice now broke in: "I don't like gossip in here about other people's private affairs." Then he turned to the boys, and asked them if they did not want to say good-night to their travelling companion, who was going to bed?
​giving her except a bit of pink paper. He handed this to her, and she whispered "Thank you," and made him a pretty curtsey.
In all his life nobody had ever said "Thank you" like that to him, and he was so upset by it that he began to stare at her stupidly. She took immediate advantage of his bewilderment, and slipped past him like an eel, ran to the maids who were on their way back from her room, and took refuge with them. He called good-night, in a gentle voice, but she did not answer him. So he went back downstairs to the smoking-room, feeling a little mortified.
Theresa spoke to him, "I think you had better go to bed too. You can hardly keep your eyes open."
"We are not sleepy a bit, "they both protested. Then, in order not to be put to bed against their will, they hurried out into the corridor, down the porch steps, and around the corner of the house.
The night was dark and the stars were out, but it was so warm it was almost hot. Somewhere near, out on the rocks, an owl was hooting, and the crickets were chirping madly. Their explorations led them into an immense carriage-shed crammed full of every kind of vehicle, and they climbed up on to the front seat of an enormous coach, buttoned themselves in behind the leather curtain, which came up to their necks, and all tucked up as if they were going to be shaved, snuffed with keen delight the perfume of the harness dressing.
"She is dying," they heard some one saying on the highway near by. "She is rattling now."
"What is rattling?" asked Hänsli in a whisper.
"I don't know exactly but it is something like a snore."
​"Can you rattle?"
"Nobody can rattle except when they are dying."
"Does it hurt to die?"
"Of course. If not, why should everybody cry when some one is dying?"
"What about getting married?"
"That can't hurt much anyhow. Everybody always looks happy at a wedding. And of course there is a great difference, for when any one dies it is all over for him, whereas you get over being married."
Hänsli was silent a moment, then he began again:
"Are there any animals that smell nice?"
"What a foolish question!" said Gerold, in a severe tone, especially as he didn't know how to answer.
There was a short silence again. Then Hänsli once more: "Why don't we ever see any one's grandfather jump over a stool or climb up on the roofs, nor any one's grandmother hiding in a mash-tun?"
The only reply Gerold made this time was a sleepy grumble. A long, contented silence ensued. And as the contentment lasted the silence did too. Out of doors, near the highway, a fountain splashed with steady and monotonous murmur. Very far away, in the pass, the bass viol at the Lion Inn was hobbling and coughing along in the dance music, heavy footed and clumsy as if an animated beet root were dancing jigs all around the dance hall, its roots on the ground and the tuft of green leaves waving on top. Little by little the noise of the bass viol became all mixed up with the sound of the fountain, so you couldn't tell which was which. The gush of the fountain turned into a hundred lion heads, and all their jaws opened ​and shut together, making a clapping noise that kept time with the bass viol, and then finally they all opened wide and stayed open, without making any noise at all…
Gerold saw as he slept all sorts of dream-pictures. He thought he was standing in front of the porch of Friedli's Mill, but instead of "Friedli's Mill" he saw "Hostel of Eternal Rest" written over the entrance. There was a frightful noise going on inside, something like the confusion in the factory at Schoenthal, re-echoing crashes broken in upon by the thundering roar of the Statthalter's voice, and the bleating of frightened calves. Then an endless procession of cattle going to the butcher began to go up the steps of the porch, turning on Gerold their great, sad, human eyes. At the top of the steps they stood still, and moved their heads and their legs in time to the bass viol, and then went on down the steps on the other side.
Then all of a sudden, it was not calves any more but their grandparents, their great-grandmother, their Uncle Dolf, and every one else they loved. Gerold saw himself among them looking down from the top of the steps at himself, and Hänsli behind him, making mischievous signs at him over his shoulder.
"But who is making that rattle?" In sudden terror he jumped up with a snore that ended in a cry, while a ray of light dazzled his eyes.
"Here they are, the truants!" called the landlord, laughing, and a guard, all carrying lanterns, surrounded the coach. Their nest was emptied, Theresa carrying in her arms Hänsli, who was sound asleep, and the landlord leading Gerold who tottered and staggered as he walked. On the way to their room they passed a canopied bed like the ones in the fairy tales, all hung with veils and lace curtains like little Snow ​White's. There was something white on it too, which sat up a minute, rubbed its eyes, and then with a little cry, disappeared once more under the covers.
"Good-night, Gesima," babbled Gerold, heavy with sleep.
When he cuddled down into the soft bed, his body and soul sank at once into unfathomable depths of comfort, and his dreams began to close over him again.
He thought he was sitting beside the willow-bordered brook in the pass, watching the water as it foamed towards a waterfall. His great-grandmother was sailing down the brook in a little paper boat, and she looked quite small, like a child, and not at all sick, but fresh and gay, young and lovely. As she passed she picked flowers on the banks, right and left. "Goodmorning, Granny," he said. Then she sprinkled water into his eyes with her fingers. When the water was gone and he could open them again he saw it was not his grandmother but Gesima, who turned back and laughed at him, teasing him.