Uncle Titus and His Visit to the Country by Johanna Spyri

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UNCLE TITUS AND HIS VISIT TO THE COUNTRY

A Story for Children and for Those Who Love Children

Translated from the German of

JOHANNA SPYRI

by

Louise Brooks

Boston
De Wolfe, Fiske & Co
361 and 365 Washington Street

1886

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. UNDER THE LINDENS

II. LONG, LONG DAYS

III. ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HEDGE

IV. ALL SIX

V. BEFORE AND AFTER THE FLOOD

VI. A FRIGHTFUL DEED

VII. LONG-WISHED-FOR HAPPINESS

VIII. MORE CHARADES AND THEIR ANSWERS

IX. "WHAT MUST BE, MUST BE"

CHAPTER I.

UNDER THE LINDENS.

The daily promenaders who moved slowly back and forth every afternoon
under the shade of the lindens on the eastern side of the pretty town of
Karlsruhe were very much interested in the appearance of two persons who
had lately joined their ranks. It was beyond doubt that the man was very
ill. He could only move slowly and it was touching to see the care with
which his little companion tried to make herself useful to him. He
supported himself with his right hand on a stout stick, and rested his
left upon the shoulder of the child at his side, and one could see that he
needed the assistance of both. From time to time he would lift his left
hand and say gently,

"Tell me, my child, if I press too heavily upon you."

Instantly, however, the child would catch his hand and press it down
again, assuring him,

"No, no, certainly not, Papa, lean upon me still more: I do not even
notice it at all."

After they had walked back and forth for a while, they seated themselves
upon one of the benches that were placed at convenient distances under the
trees, and rested a little.

The sick man was Major Falk, who had been in Karlsruhe only a short time.
He lived before that in Hamburg with his daughter Dora, whose mother died
soon after the little girl came into the world, so that Dora had never
known any parent but her father. Naturally, therefore, the child's whole
affection was centred upon Major Falk, who had always devoted himself to
his little motherless girl with such tenderness that she had scarcely felt
the want of a mother, until the war with France broke out, and he was
obliged to go with the Army. He was away for a long time, and when at last
he returned, it was with a dangerous wound in his breast. The Major had no
near relatives in Hamburg, and he therefore lived a very retired life with
his little daughter as his only companion, but in Karlsruhe he had an
elder half-sister, married to a literary man, Mr. Titus Ehrenreich.

When Major Falk was fully convinced that his wound was incurable, he
decided to remove to Karlsruhe, in order not to be quite without help when
his increasing illness should make it necessary for him to have some aid
in the care of his eleven-year-old daughter. It did not take long to make
the move. He rented a few rooms in the neighborhood of his sister, and
spent the warm spring afternoons enjoying his regular walk under the shade
of the lindens with his little daughter as his supporter and loving
companion.

When he grew weary of walking and they sat down on a bench to rest, the
Major had always some interesting story to tell, to beguile the time, and
Dora was certain that no one in the whole world could tell such delightful
stories as her father, who was indeed in her opinion the most agreeable
and lovable of men. Her favorite tales, and those which the Major himself
took most pleasure in relating, were little incidents in the life of
Dora's mother, who was now is heaven. He loved to tell the child how
affectionate and happy her mother had always been, and how many friends
she had won for herself, and how she always brought sunshine with her
wherever she went, and how nobody ever saw her who did not feel at once
attracted to her, and how she was even now remembered by those who had
known and loved her during life.

When Major Falk once began to talk about his dearly-beloved wife, he was
apt to forget the flight of time, and often the cool evening wind first
aroused him with its chilly breath to the fact that he was lingering too
long in the outer air. Then he and his little Dora would rise from the
bench in the shade of the lindens, and slowly wander back into town, until
they stopped before a many-storied house in a narrow street, and the Major
would generally say,

"We must go up to see Uncle Titus and Aunt Ninette this afternoon, Dora."
And as they slowly climbed the steep staircase, he would add, "Softly now,
little Dora, you know your Uncle is always writing very learned books, and
we must not disturb him by any unnecessary noise, and indeed, Dora, I do
not think your Aunt is any more fond of noise than he is."

So Dora went up upon the tips of her toes as quietly as a mouse, and the
Major's ring could scarcely be heard, he pulled the bell so gently!
Generally Aunt Ninette opened the door herself, saying,

"Come in, come in, dear brother! Very softly, if you please, for you know
your brother-in-law is busy at work."

So the three moved noiselessly along the corridor and crept into the
sitting room. Uncle Titus' study was the very next room, so that the
conversation was carried on almost in whispers, but it must be said Major
Falk was less liable to forget the necessary caution against disturbing
the learned writer than Aunt Ninette herself, for that lady being
oppressed with many cares and troubles had always to break into frequent
lamentation.

When June came, it was safe and pleasant to linger late under the shade of
the lindens, but the pair in whom we are interested often turned their
steps homeward earlier than they wished, in order not to arouse Aunt
Ninette's ever-ready reproaches. But one warm evening when the sky was
covered with rosy and golden sunset clouds, the Major and Dora lingered
watching the lovely sight longer than was their wont. They sat silent hand
in hand on the bench by the side of the promenade, and Dora could not take
her eyes from her father's face as he sat with upturned look gazing into
the sky. At last she exclaimed:

"I wish you could see yourself, papa, you look all golden and beautiful. I
am sure the angels in heaven look just as you do now."

Her father smiled. "It will soon pass away from me, Dora, but I can
imagine your mother standing behind those lovely clouds and smiling down
upon us with this golden glory always upon her face."

As the Major said, it did pass away very soon; his face grew pale, and
shone no longer; the golden light faded from the sky and the shades of
night stole on. The Major rose, and Dora followed him rather sadly. The
beautiful illumination had passed too quickly.

"We shall stand again in this glory, my child, nay, in a far more
beautiful one," said her father consolingly, "when we are all together
again, your mother and you and I, where there will be no more parting and
the glory will be everlasting."

As they climbed up the high staircase to say good night to Uncle and Aunt,
the latter awaited them on the landing, making all sorts of silent signs
of alarm and distress, but she did not utter a sound until she had them
safely within the sitting room. Then, having softly closed the door, she
broke forth complainingly,

"How can you make me so uneasy, dear brother? I have been dreadfully
anxious about you. I imagined all kinds of shocking accidents that might
have happened, and made you so late in returning home! How can you be so
heedless as to forget that it is not safe for you to stay out after
sunset. Now I am sure that you have taken cold. And what will happen, who
can tell? Something dreadful, I am certain."

"Calm yourself, I beg you, dear Ninette," said the Major soothingly, as
soon as he could get in a word. "The air is so mild, so very warm, that it
could not possibly harm anybody, and the evening was glorious, perfectly
wonderful. Let me enjoy these lovely summer evenings on earth as long as I
can; it will not be very long at the farthest. What is sure to come, can
be neither delayed nor hastened much by anything I may do."

These words, however, although they were spoken in the quietest possible
tone, called forth another torrent of reproach and lamentation.

"How can you allow yourself to speak in that way? How can you say such
dreadful things?" cried the excited woman over and over again. "It will
not happen. What will become of us all; what will become of--you know what
I mean," and she cast a meaning glance at Dora. "No, Karl, it would be
more than I could bear, and we never have more trouble sent to us than we
can bear; I do not know how I should live; I could not possibly endure
it."

"My dear Ninette" said her brother quietly, "Do not forget one thing,

"'Thou art not in command,
Thou canst not shape the end;
God holds us in his hand:
God knows the best to send.'"

"Oh, of course, I know all that well enough. I know that is all true,"
assented Aunt Ninette, "but when one cannot see the end nor the help, it
is enough to kill one with anxiety. And then you have such a way of
speaking of terrible things as if they were certain to come, and I cannot
bear it, I tell you; I cannot."

"Now we will say good-night and not stand and dispute any longer, my dear
sister," said the Major, holding out his hand, "we will both try to
remember the words of the verse--'God knows the best to send.'"

"Yes, yes, I'll remember. Only don't take cold going across the street,
and step very softly as you go down the stairs, and Dora, do you hear!
Close the door very gently, and Karl, be careful of the draught, as you
cross the street!"

While the good irritating Aunt was calling after them all these
unnecessary cautions, Dora and her father had gone down the stairs and had
softly closed the house-door. They had only a narrow alley to cross to
reach their own rooms opposite.

The next afternoon, as Dora and her father seated themselves on their
favorite bench under the lindens, the child asked,

"Papa, is it possible that Aunt Ninette never knew the verse you repeated
to her last night?"

"Oh yes, my child, she has always known the lines," replied the Major. "It
is only for the moment that your good aunt allows herself to be so
overwhelmed with care and worry as to forget who governs all wisely. She
is a good woman, and in her heart she places her trust in God's goodness.
She soon comes to herself again."

Dora was silent for a while, and then she said thoughtfully,

"Papa, how can we help being 'overwhelmed with care and worry?' and
'killed with anxiety,' as Aunt Ninette said."

"By always remembering that everything comes to us from the good God, my
dear child. When we are happy, we must think of Him and thank Him; when
sorrow comes we must not be frightened and distressed, for we know that
the good God sends it, and that it will be for our good. So we shall never
be 'overwhelmed with care and worry,' for even when some bitter trouble
comes, in which we can see no help nor escape, we know that God can bring
good out of what seems to us wholly evil. Will you try to think of this,
my child? for sorrow comes to all, and you will not escape it more than
another. But God will help you if you put your trust in Him."

"Yes, I understand you, papa, and I will try to do as you say. It is far
better to trust in God, than to let one's self be overwhelmed with care
and worry.'"

"But we must not forget," continued her father, after a pause, "that we
must not only think of God, when something special happens, but in
everything that we do, we must strive to act according to His holy will.
If we never think of Him, except when we are unhappy, we shall not then be
able easily to find the way to him, and that is the greatest grief of
all."

Dora repeated that she would ask God to keep her in the right way, and as
she spoke, her father softly stroked her hand, as it lay in his. He did
not speak again for a long time, but his eyes rested so lovingly and
protectingly on his little girl, that she felt as if folded in a tender
and strengthening embrace.

The sun sank in golden radiance behind the green lindens, and slowly the
father and child wended their way towards the high house in the narrow
street.

CHAPTER II.

LONG, LONG DAYS.

It was not many days after the events mentioned in the last chapter. Dora
sat by her father's bedside, her head buried in the pillows, vainly
striving to choke down her tears and sobs. It seemed as if her heart must
break. The Major lay back on his pillow, white and still, with a peaceful
smile on his calm face. Dora could not understand it, could not take it
in, but she knew it. Her father was gone to join her mother in heaven.

In the morning her father had not come as usual to her bedside to awaken
her, so when at last she opened her eyes, she went to seek him, and she
found him still in bed, and lying so quiet that she seated herself quite
softly by his side, that she might not disturb him.

Presently the servant came up with the breakfast, and looking through the
open door into the bed-room where Dora sat by her father's bed-side, she
called out in terror,

"Oh God, he is dead! I will call your aunt, child," and hurried away.

Dora's heart seemed cut in two by these words. She put her head upon the
pillow and sobbed and wept. Presently she heard her aunt come into the
room, and she raised her head and tried to control herself, for she
dreaded the scene that she knew was coming. And it came--cries and sobs,
loud groans and lamentations. Aunt Ninette declared that she could never
bear this terrible blow; she did not know which way to turn, nor what to
do first.

In the open drawer of the table by the side of the bed, lay several
papers, and as she laid them together, meaning to lock them up, she saw a
letter addressed to herself. She opened it and read as follows:

"Dear Sister Ninette,

"I feel that I shall shall soon leave you, but I will not talk to
you about it, for the sad time will come only too quickly. One
only wish that I have greatly at heart I now lay before you, and
that is, that you will take my child under your protection for as
long as she may need your care. I shall leave very little money
behind me, but I beg you to employ this little in teaching Dora
something that will enable her, with God's help, to support
herself when she is old enough.

"Do not, my dear sister, give way to your grief; try to believe as
I believe, that God will always take our children under his
care, when we are obliged to leave them and can no longer provide
for them ourselves. Receive my heartfelt thanks for all the
kindness you have shown to me and my child. God will reward you
for it all."

Aunt Ninette read and re-read these touching lines, and could not help
growing calmer as she read. She turned to the silently weeping Dora with
these words,

"Come, my child, your home henceforth will be with us. You and I will try
to remember that all is well with your father; otherwise we shall break
down under our sorrow."

Dora arose at once and prepared to follow her aunt, but her heart was
heavy within her; she felt as if all was over and she could not live much
longer.

As she came up the stairs behind her aunt, Aunt Ninette omitted for the
first time to caution her to step lightly, and indeed there was no need
now of the usual warning when they approached Uncle Titus' room, for the
little girl was so sad, so weighed down with her sorrow as she entered her
new home, that it seemed as if she could never again utter a sound of
childish merriment.

A little room under the roof, hitherto used as a store-room, was changed
into a bed-room for Dora, though not without some complainings from Aunt
Ninette. However, the furniture was brought over from the Major's rooms,
and after a slight delay, all was comfortably arranged for the child.

When supper-time came, Dora followed her aunt, without a word, into the
dining-room, where they were joined by Uncle Titus, who however seldom
spoke, so deeply was he absorbed in his own thoughts. After supper, Dora
went up to her little room under the roof, and with her face buried in her
pillow, cried herself softly to sleep.

On the following morning she begged to be allowed to go over to look once
again at her father, and after some objection, her aunt agreed to go with
her, and they crossed the narrow street.

Dora took a silent farewell of her dear father, weeping all the time but
making no disturbance. Only when she again reached her little bed-room,
did she at last give way to her sobs without restraint, for she knew that
soon her good father would be carried away, and that she could never,
never see him again on earth.

And now began a new order of life for Dora. She had not been to school,
during the short time that she and her father had lived together in
Karlsruhe. Her father went over with her the lessons she had learned in
Hamburg, but he did not seem to care to begin any new study, preferring to
leave everything for her aunt to arrange.

It happened that one of Aunt Ninette's friends was the teacher of a
private school for girls, so that it was soon settled that Dora was to go
to her every morning to learn what she could. Also a seamstress was
engaged to teach her the art of shirt-making in the afternoon, for it was
a theory of Aunt Ninette's that the construction of shirts of all kinds
was a most useful branch of knowledge, and she proposed that Dora should
learn this art, with a view of being able to support herself with her
needle. She argued that since the shirt is the first garment to be put on
in dressing, it should be the first that one should learn to make, and
with this as a foundation, Dora could go on through the whole art of
sewing, till in time she might even arrive at the mighty feat of making
dresses! With which achievement Aunt Ninette would feel more than
satisfied, but this great end would never be reached, unless the first
steps were taken in the right direction.

So every morning Dora sat on the school-bench studying diligently, and
every afternoon on a little chair close to the seamstress' knee, sewing on
a big shirt that made her very warm and uncomfortable.

The mornings were not unpleasant; for she was in the company of other
children who were all studying, and Dora was ambitious and willing to
learn. So the hours flew quickly, for she was too busy to dwell much on
the loss of her dear father, and to think that he was gone forever. But
the afternoons were truly dreadful. She must sit through the long hot
hours, close by the seamstress, almost smothered by the big piece of
cotton cloth, which her little fingers could hardly manage, and she grew
restless and irritable, for her hands were moist, and the needle refused
to be driven through the thick cloth. How often she glanced up at the
clock on the wall during those long hours, when the minute hand was surely
stuck at half-past three, and the regular tic-tac seemed to fill the
quiet room with its sleepy droning. So hot, so still, so long were the
hours of those summer afternoons!

The silence was broken now and then by the sounds of a distant piano.
"What a happy child that must be!" thought little Dora, "who can sit at
the piano and practise exercises, and all sorts of pretty tunes!" She
could think of nothing more delightful; she listened with hungry ears, and
drank in every note that reached her. In the narrow street where the
seamstress lived she could hear the music distinctly, for no wagons
passed, and the voices of foot-passengers did not reach up so high as to
her room. So Dora listened to the sweet melodies which were her only
refreshment during those hot long hours, and even the running scales were
a pleasure to her ear. But then the thought of her father came back to
her, and she felt bitterly the terrible contrast between these hot lonely
afternoons and those which she used to spend with him under the cool shade
of the lindens. Then she thought of that glorious sunset, and of her
father, as he stood transfigured in the golden light. She remembered his
comforting words, his assurance that some day they two and the mother
would stand thus together, shining in the eternal light of Heaven. But
Dora sighed at the thought of the long weary time before she should join
them, unless indeed some accident should happen to her, or she should fall
ill and die, from this too heavy task of shirt-making. After all, her best
consolation was her father's verse; and then too, he had been so sure of
its truth:

"God holds us in his hand,
God knows the best to send."

She believed it too; and as she repeated the lines to herself, her heart
grew lighter, and even her needle moved more easily, as if inspired by the
cheering thoughts. Yet the days were long and wearisome, and their
stillness followed her when she went home to her uncle and aunt.

She reached home just in time for supper. Uncle Titus always held the
newspaper before his face, and read and ate behind its ample shelter. Aunt
Ninette spoke in whispers all the while, and asked only the most necessary
questions, in order not to disturb her husband. Dora said little; and less
every day, as she grew accustomed to this silent life. Even when she came
home from school at noon for the short interval before the time for her
sewing lessons, there was no need to caution her against noise; for the
child moved ever less and less like a living being, and grew more like a
shadow day by day.

Yet by nature she was a lively little maiden, and took so keen an interest
in all about her, that her father often used joyfully to observe it,
saying,

"That child is exactly like her dear mother; just the same movements, the
same indomitable spirit and enjoyment of life!"

But now all this vivacity seemed extinguished. Dora was very careful never
to provoke her aunt to complaints, which she dreaded exceedingly. Yet for
all her pains it would happen sometimes, most unexpectedly and when she
was least looking for a storm, that one would break over her head, and
frighten all her thoughts and words back into her childish heart; nay,
almost check the flow of youth in her veins.

One evening, she came home from her work filled with enthusiasm, by a song
she had been listening to, played by her unseen musician. Dora knew the
words well:

"Live your life merrily
While the lamp glows,
Ere it can fade and die,
Gather the rose."

Dora had often sung this song, but she had never dreamed that it could be
played on the piano, and it sounded so beautiful, so wonderful to her,
that she said to her aunt, as she entered the dining-room,

"Oh, Aunt Ninette, how delightful it must be to know how to play on the
piano! Do you think that I can ever learn it in my life?"

"Oh, in heaven's name, how can you ask me such a thing? How can you worry
me so? How could you do anything of the kind in our house? Think of the
terrible din that a piano makes! And where would the money come from if
you could find the time? Oh, Dora, where did you get hold of that
unfortunate idea? I should think I had enough to worry me already, without
your asking me such a thing as this into the bargain."

Dora hastened to assure her aunt that she had no intention of asking for
any thing, and the storm blew over. But never again did she dare even to
speak of music, no matter how eagerly she had listened to the piano,
during her long sewing lessons.

Every evening after Dora had learned all her lessons for school, while her
aunt in utter silence knitted or nodded, the child climbed up to her
little attic room; and before she closed her tiny window, she leaned out
into the night to see whether the stars were shining, and looking down
upon her from the high heavens. Five there were always up there just above
her head; they stood close together and Dora looked at them so often and
so steadily, that she began to consider them as her own special
property--or rather as friends who came every night and twinkled down into
her heart, to tell her that she was not utterly alone. One night the idea
came to her that these bright stars were loving messengers, who brought
her kisses and caresses from her dear parents. And from these heavenly
messengers the lonely child gained nightly comfort when she climbed to her
little chamber in the roof, with her feeble candle for her only companion.
She sent her prayers up to heaven through the tiny window, and received
full assurance in return, that her Father in heaven saw her, and would not
forsake her. Her father had told her that God would always help those who
trusted him and prayed to him, and she had no fear.

And so the long hot summer passed, and Autumn came. Then followed a long,
long winter with its cold and darkness; such cold that Dora often thought
that even the hot summer days were better, for she no longer dared to
open the window to look for her friends the stars, and often she could
hardly get to sleep, it was so cold in the little room, under the roof. At
last the Spring rolled round again, and the days passed one like another,
in the quiet dwelling of Uncle Titus. Dora worked harder than ever on the
big shirts, for she had learned to sew so well, that she had to help the
seamstress in earnest now. When the hot days came again, something
happened; and now Aunt Ninette had reason enough to lament. Uncle Titus
had an attack of dizziness, and the doctor was sent for.

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