The Love of Ulrich Nebendahl

etext of The Love of Ulrich
Nebendahl

By Jerome K. Jerome Scanned and proofed by Ronald Burkey
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THE LOVE OF ULRICH NEBENDAHL By JEROME K. JEROME
Author of "Paul Kelver," "Three Men in a Boat," etc., etc.
NEW YORK DODD, MEAD & COMPANY 1909
COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY JEROME K. JEROME COPYRIGHT, 1908,
BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY Published, September, 1908
THE LOVE OF ULRICH NEBENDAHL
Perhaps of all, it troubled most the Herr Pfarrer. Was he not the father
of the village? And as such did it not fall to him to see his children
marry well and suitably? marry in any case. It was the duty of every
worthy citizen to keep alive throughout the ages the sacred hearth fire,
to rear up sturdy lads and honest lassies that would serve God, and the
Fatherland. A true son of Saxon soil was the Herr Pastor
Winckelmann--kindly, simple, sentimental.
"Why, at your age, Ulrich--at your age," repeated the Herr Pastor,

setting down his beer and wiping with the back of his hand his large
uneven lips, "I was the father of a family--two boys and a girl. You
never saw her, Ulrich; so sweet, so good. We called her Maria." The
Herr Pfarrer sighed and hid his broad red face behind the raised cover
of his pewter pot.
"They must be good fun in a house, the little ones," commented Ulrich,
gazing upward with his dreamy eyes at the wreath of smoke ascending
from his long-stemmed pipe. "The little ones, always my heart goes out
to them."
"Take to yourself a wife," urged the Herr Pfarrer. "It is your duty. The
good God has given to you ample means. It is not right that you should
lead this lonely life. Bachelors make old maids; things of no use."
"That is so," Ulrich agreed. "I have often said the same unto myself. It
would be pleasant to feel one was not working merely for oneself."
"Elsa, now," went on the Herr Pfarrer, "she is a good child, pious and
economical. The price of such is above rubies."
Ulrich"s face lightened with a pleasant smile. "Aye, Elsa is a good
girl," he answered. "Her little hands--have you ever noticed them, Herr
Pastor--so soft and dimpled."
The Pfarrer pushed aside his empty pot and leaned his elbows on the
table.
"I think--I do not think--she would say no. Her mother, I have reason to
believe-- Let me sound them--discreetly." The old pastor's red face
glowed redder, yet with pleasurable anticipation; he was a born
matchmaker.
But Ulrich the wheelwright shuffled in his chair uneasily.
"A little longer," he pleaded. "Let me think it over. A man should not
marry without first being sure he loves. Things might happen. It would
not be fair to the maiden."

The Herr Pfarrer stretched his hand across the table and laid it upon
Ulrich's arm.
"It is Hedwig; twice you walked home with her last week."
"It is a lonesome way for a timid maiden; and there is the stream to
cross," explained the wheelwright.
For a moment the Herr Pastor's face had clouded, but now it cleared
again.
"Well, well, why not? Elsa would have been better in some respects,
but Hedwig--ah, yes, she, too, is a good girl a little wild perhaps--it will
wear off. Have you spoken with her?"
"Not yet."
"But you will?"
Again there fell that troubled look into those dreamy eyes. This time it
was Ulrich who, laying aside his pipe, rested his great arms upon the
wooden table.
"Now, how does a man know when he is in love?" asked Ulrich of the
Pastor who, having been married twice, should surely be experienced
upon the point. "How should he be sure that it is this woman and no
other to whom his heart has gone out?"
A commonplace-looking man was the Herr Pastor, short and fat and
bald. But there had been other days, and these had left to him a voice
that still was young; and the evening twilight screening the seared face,
Ulrich heard but the pastor's voice, which was the voice of a boy.
"She will be dearer to you than yourself. Thinking of her, all else will
be as nothing. For her you would lay down your life."
They sat in silence for a while; for the fat little Herr Pfarrer was
dreaming of the past; and long, lanky Ulrich Nebendahl, the
wheelwright, of the future.

That evening, as chance would have it, Ulrich returning to his
homestead--a rambling mill beside the river, where he dwelt