Berthold Auerbach - Joseph in the Snow, and The Clockmaker. In Three Volumes. Vol. I.

When Martina, with the pitcher in her hand, opened the door, a strong blast of bitter cold wind rushed in; so she wrapped herself more closely: in the red shawl, with which she had covered her head and her throat, and went along to the well. The day was biting cold, and the water pipes all frozen; indeed there was no water left unfrozen, except in the deep well close to the church. A crowd of women and girls were standing round the well, and when the pitchers were too full, so that the water ran over, there was a great outcry, for the water froze so quickly that it made the ground like slippery ice. The early sun peeped forth for a minute into the valley, but apparently the sight did not please him, for he quickly disappeared again behind the clouds. The fields and meadows were glittering brightly with morning hoarfrost, a chilling sight; for everything freezes quickly when without a sheltering cover of snow. A thick surface of snow, however, lay on the hills.

"God be praised; you will see that these clouds will bring honest snow at last, today!"

"A blessing for the fields, for it is a sorrow to see them so yellow."

"We have always hitherto had snow at Christmas, and sledging at the New Year – " this was the kind of talk round the well. The words of the speakers issued like vapoury clouds from their lips.

"Is it true?" said an elderly woman to Martina when she joined them, "Is it true that our pastor was called to your mother-in-law's last night?"

"I think," said another, "that Röttmann would have no objection to saw up the tree that killed Vincent, and to make a coffin of it for his tigress."

"A very good thing if she were to take herself off, and then you would get your Adam."

"And then we should have a quiet Röttmännin instead of a fierce one."

"If I were you, I would pray the old woman to death. The tailor of Knuslingen knows a prayer, by which you can pray a person to death."

"No, no; you must curse them to death."

This was the discursive talk that went round. Martina, who had filled her pitcher with water, and lifted it on her head, only replied, "Don't speak in so godless a way, remember that tonight is Christmas Eve."

She went slowly homewards, as if the words, that still sounded in her ears, made her linger behind, and she shivered when it occurred to her that perhaps little Joseph had a presentiment of what was going on so far from him, and that this had made him so restless. She had inwardly reproached Adam with not suffering as she did, and at that very hour, he was perhaps enduring the most severe trial that can befall any human being – that of seeing the person you love best on earth draw their last breath with bitter hatred in their soul.

The group of women standing round the well seemed to be in no hurry, for some were leaning on their full pitchers, and some had placed them on their heads, but all were talking of Martina.

"Martina would gladly go to the parsonage today."

"She is a strange creature. Old Röttmann offered her two thousand guilders if she would give up all claims for her boy on his father, but she refused at once."

"And old Schilder-David refuses also."

"Good morning, Häspele," said some one hastily; "what are your hens doing? are they all safe and sound?"

"Is it true that you have a long-legged bird that crows in Spanish? Can you understand him?"

This was the mode of greeting to the only man who came to the well with a pitcher. It was Häspele. He wore a grey knitted jacket, and had a coloured nightcap on his head, from underneath which a jovial, merry face was seen, full of fun and good humour.

"Martina was here a few minutes ago; she is sure to come back soon," said one of the women, as she went away.

Häspele smiled his thanks, but was obliged to wait till all the women had filled their pitchers, which he did willingly, and was even goodnatured enough to help the others. Just as he had finished drawing water for himself, Martina returned, on which they mutually assisted each other, and walked a considerable way together, for Häspele was obliged to pass Martina's house, in order to reach his own. So, as they went along, Martina informed her companion that the Pastor had been summoned on the preceding night to the Röttmännin, and was not yet come home. She could not resist expressing her hope, that the Pastor might possibly succeed in softening the old woman's hard heart; but Häspele said, "Oh, do not think so. Sooner would the wolf now prowling about our woods come to my room and allow me to chain him up, as I do my goat, than the fierce Röttmännin give way. I told you already all that occurred, when I took home a new pair of boots eight days ago to Adam, and I gave you a message, that he would certainly come to see you today. I myself believe the report, which is, that you intend to set him free." Martina made no answer, but she suddenly stopped before the door of her house, and said, "Look, here comes our Pastor home."

On the opposite side of the river, for Martina's house was on this side of the ferry, a sledge was slowly driven along the high road. A man was seated beside the driver, closely wrapped in a fur cloak, and a fur cap drawn very forward over his face. The driver was comfortably smoking, and made a friendly sign with his whip to Martina, as they passed. It was one of Röttmann's farm-servants whom she knew. She returned the greeting by waving her hand, and went into the house, while Häspele also went homewards.

Just as Martina was about to shut the door, a female voice exclaimed, "Leave it open, for I want to come in too."

"Good morning, Leegart; it is so good of you to come so early," said Martina; and the sempstress, who, in spite of its being winter, wore slippers with high heels, helped to put aside the water cans, for which service Martina thanked her cordially. Leegart would not have done this for most people; any one whom she assisted in any matter unconnected with her work, might well be very proud; she considered it indeed, quite an especial favour to come at all the very day before Christmas, for she was much in request among all the women in the neighbourhood, and wherever she went to work, she was held in high respect. This feeling was evident now, from the manner in which Martina threw open the house door as wide as possible, for her to enter; she received, however, but a cool welcome within doors, for little Joseph exclaimed: "Woe's me, Leegart!"

The Pastor's wife had been standing a long time at the window, looking earnestly through the panes of glass; the road was only to be seen from a corner window, the view from the others being intercepted by the sharp gables of a projecting barn, which a peasant, from the wish to annoy a former pastor, had built on the spot; adding an unusually high roof, to block out all view from the Parsonage. Now that there was a clergyman whom they all liked, the barn unluckily could not be removed. The Pastor's wife was not able to see very far even from the unobstructed window, for this was one of those days, when twilight seems to prevail from one night to another; the sun shone dimly, like a watery yellow ball, through the thick clouds which now overspread the whole landscape. When the Pastorin saw the sledge close to the house she nodded, but did not open the window, standing still as if fixed to the spot. She would gladly have run down to welcome her husband, but she knew that he disliked any public display of emotion or excitement; he was of a shy and simple nature, and shrunk from all eager welcomes or agitated leave takings.