The Love of Ulrich Nebendahl | Page 2

alone with
ancient Anna--met Elsa of the dimpled hands upon the bridge that
spans the murmuring Muhlde, and talked a while with her, and said
good-night.
How sweet it had been to watch her ox-like eyes shyly seeking his, to
press her dimpled hand and feel his own great strength. Surely he loved
her better than he did himself. There could be no doubt of it. He
pictured her in trouble, in danger from the savage soldiery that came
and went like evil shadows through these pleasant Saxon valleys,
leaving death and misery behind them: burnt homesteads; wild-eyed
women, hiding their faces from the light. Would he not for her sake
give his life?
So it was made clear to him that little Elsa was his love.
Until next morning, when, raising his eyes from the whirling saw, there
stood before him Margot, laughing. Margot, mischief-loving, wayward,
that would ever be to him the baby he had played with, nursed, and
comforted. Margot weary! Had he not a thousand times carried her
sleeping in his arms. Margot in danger! At the mere thought his face
flushed an angry scarlet.
All that afternoon Ulrich communed with himself, tried to understand
himself, and could not. For Elsa and Margot and Hedwig were not the
only ones by a long way. What girl in the village did he not love, if it
came to that: Liesel, who worked so hard and lived so poorly, bullied
by her cross-grained granddam. Susanna, plain and a little crotchety,
who had never had a sweetheart to coax the thin lips into smiles. The
little ones--for so they seemed to long, lanky Ulrich, with their pleasant
ways--Ulrich smiled as he thought of them--how should a man love one
more than another?
The Herr Pfarrer shook his head and sighed.
"That is not love. Gott in Himmel! think what it would lead to? The
good God never would have arranged things so. You love one; she is

the only woman in the world for you."
"But you, yourself, Herr Pastor, you have twice been married,"
suggested the puzzled wheelwright.
"But one at a time, Ulrich--one at a time. That is a very different thing."
Why should it not come to him, alone among men? Surely it was a
beautiful thing, this love; a thing worthy of a man, without which a
man was but a useless devourer of food, cumbering the earth.
So Ulrich pondered, pausing from his work one drowsy summer's
afternoon, listening to the low song of the waters. How well he knew
the winding Muhlde's merry voice. He had worked beside it, played
beside it all his life. Often he would sit and talk to it as to an old friend,
reading answers in its changing tones.
Trudchen, seeing him idle, pushed her cold nose into his hand.
Trudchen just now was feeling clever and important. Was she not the
mother of the five most wonderful puppies in all Saxony? They
swarmed about his legs, pressing him with their little foolish heads.
Ulrich stooped and picked up one in each big hand. But this causing
jealousy and heartburning, laughing, he lay down upon a log. Then the
whole five stormed over him, biting his hair, trampling with their
clumsy paws upon his face; till suddenly they raced off in a body to
attack a floating feather. Ulrich sat up and watched them, the little
rogues, the little foolish, helpless things, that called for so much care. A
mother thrush twittered above his head. Ulrich rose and creeping on
tiptoe, peeped into the nest. But the mother bird, casting one glance
towards him, went on with her work. Whoever was afraid of Ulrich the
wheelwright! The tiny murmuring insects buzzed to and fro about his
feet. An old man, passing to his evening rest, gave him "good-day." A
zephyr whispered something to the leaves, at which they laughed, then
passed upon his way. Here and there a shadow crept out from its
hiding-place.
"If only I could marry the whole village!" laughed Ulrich to himself.

But that, of course, is nonsense!
The spring that followed let loose the dogs of war again upon the
blood-stained land, for now all Germany, taught late by common
suffering forgetfulness of local rivalries, was rushing together in a
mighty wave that would sweep French feet for ever from their hold on
German soil. Ulrich, for whom the love of woman seemed not, would
at least be the lover of his country. He, too, would march among those
brave stern hearts that, stealing like a thousand rivulets from every
German valley, were flowing north and west to join the Prussian
eagles.
But even love of country seemed denied to Ulrich of the dreamy eyes.
His wheelwright's business had called him to a town far