雙語·豪夫童話 施佩薩特林中客棧

The Inn in the Spessart

Many years ago, while yet the roads in the Spessart were in poor condition and little traveled, two young journeymen were making their way through this wooded region. The one might have been about eighteen years old, and was by trade a compass-maker; the other was a goldsmith, and, judging from his appearance, could not have been more than sixteen, and was most likely making his first journey out into the world.

Evening was coming on, and the shadows of the giant pines and beeches darkened the narrow road on which the two were walking. The compass-maker stepped bravely forward, whistling a tune, playing occasionally with Munter, his dog, and not seeming to feel much concern that the night was near, while the next inn for journeymen was still far ahead of them. But Felix, the goldsmith, began to look about him anxiously. When the wind rustled through the trees, it sounded to him as if there were steps behind him; when the bushes on either side of the road were stirred, he was sure he caught glimpses of lurking faces.

The young goldsmith was, moreover, neither superstitious nor lacking in courage. In Wuerzburg, where he had learned his trade, he passed among his fellows for a fearless youth, whose heart was in the right spot; but on this day his courage was at a singularly low ebb. He had been told so many things about the Spessart. A large band of robbers were reported as committing depredations there; many travellers had been robbed within a few weeks, and a horrible murder was spoken of as having occurred here not long before. Therefore he felt no little alarm, as they were but two in number and could not successfully resist armed robbers. How often he regretted that he had not stopped over-night at the edge of the forest, instead of agreeing to accompany the compass-maker to the next station!

“And if I am killed to-night, and lose all I have with me, you will be to blame, compass-maker, for you persuaded me to come into this terrible forest,” said he.

“Don’t be a coward,” retorted the other. “A real journeyman should never be afraid. And what is it you are afraid of? Do you think that the lordly robbers of the Spessart would do us the honor to attack and kill us? Why should they give themselves that trouble? To gain possession of the Sunday-coat in my knapsack, or the spare pennies given us by the people on our route? One would have to travel in a coach-and-four, dressed in gold and silks, before the robbers would think it worth their while to kill one.”

“Stop! Didn’t you hear somebody whistle in the woods?” exclaimed Felix, nervously.

“That was the wind whistling through the trees. Walk faster, and we shall soon be out of the wood.”

“Yes, it's all well enough for you to talk that way about not being killed,” continued the goldsmith; “they would simply ask you what you had, search you, and take away your Sunday-coat and your change. But they would kill me because I carry gold and jewelry with me.”

“Why should they kill you on that account? If four or five were to spring out of the bush there now with loaded rifles pointed at us, and politely inquire, ‘Gentlemen, what have you with you?’ or ‘If agreeable, we will help you carry it,’ or some such elegant mode of address, then you wouldn’t make a fool of yourself, but would open your knapsack and lay the yellow waist-coat, the blue coat, two shirts, and all your necklaces, bracelets, combs, and whatever you had besides, politely on the ground, and be thankful for the life they spared you.”

“You think so, do you?” responded Felix warmly. “You think I would give up the ornament I have here for my godmother, the dear lady countess? Sooner would I part with my life! Sooner would I be hacked into small pieces. Did she not take a mother's interest in me, and since my tenth year bind me out as apprentice? Has she not paid for my clothes and every thing? And now, when I am about to go to her, to carry her something of my own handiwork that she had ordered of the master;now, that I am able to give her this ornament as a sample of what I have learned; now you think I would give that up, and my yellow waistcoat as well, that she gave me? No, better death than to give to these base men the ornament intended for my godmother!”

“Don’t be a fool!” exclaimed the compass-maker. “If they were to kill you, the countess would still lose the ornament; so it would be much better for you to deliver it up and keep your life.”

Felix did not answer. Night had settled down, and by the uncertain gleam of the new moon he could not see more than five feet before him. He became more and more nervous, kept close by the side of his companion, and was uncertain whether he ought to approve of the arguments of his friend or not. Thus they continued on, side by side for another hour, when they saw a light in the distance. The young goldsmith was of opinion that they should not prematurely rejoice, as the light might come from a den of thieves; but the compass-maker informed him the robbers had their houses or caves under ground, and that this must be the inn that a man had told them of, as they entered the forest.

It was a long, low house, before which a wagon stood; and adjoining the house was a stable from which came the neighing of horses. The compass-maker beckoned his comrade to a window whose shutters were open; and by standing on their toes they were able to look into the room. In a chair before the stove slept a man whose clothes bespoke him a wagoner—very likely the owner of the cart before the door. On the other side of the stove sat a woman and a girl, spinning. Behind the table, close to the wall, sat a man with a glass of wine before him. His head was supported in his hands so that his face could not be seen. But the compass-maker judged from his clothes that he was a man of rank.

While they were peeping, a dog in the house began to bark; Munter, the compass-maker's dog, barked a reply; and a servant-girl appeared at the door and looked out at the strangers.

They were promised supper and a bed; so they entered, and laying their heavy bundles, sticks, and hats in the corner, sat down at the table with the gentleman. He looked up at their greeting, and they perceived him to be a handsome young man, who returned their greeting pleasantly.

“You are late on the road,” said he; “were you not afraid to travel through the Spessart on so dark a night? For my part, I would have stabled my horse in this tavern before I would have ridden an hour longer.”

“You are quite right in that, sir,” responded the compass-maker. “The hoof beats of a fine horse are music in the ears of these highwaymen, and lure them from a great distance; but when a couple of poor journeymen like us steal through the woods—people to whom the robbers would sooner think of making a present than of taking any thing from them—then, they do not lift a foot.”

“That is very likely,” chimed in the wagoner, who, awakened by the arrival of the journeymen, had taken a seat at the table. “They could not very well be attracted by a poor man's purse, but there have been instances of robbers killing poor people, simply out of thirst for blood, and of forcing others to join the band and serve as robbers.”

“Well, if such are the deeds of these people in the forest, then this house will not afford us very good protection,” observed the young goldsmith. “There are only four of us, or, counting the hostler, five; and if ten men were to attack us here, what could we do against them? And more than this,” he added, in a low tone, “who can guarantee that the people of this inn are honest?”

“Nothing to fear there,” returned the wagoner. “I have known this tavern for more than ten years, and have never seen any thing wrong about it. The master of the house is seldom at home; they say he carries on a wine trade; but his wife is a quiet woman who would not harm any one. No, you do them a wrong, sir.”

“And yet,” interposed the young gentleman, “I should not like to brush aside so lightly what he said. Don’t you remember the reports about those people who suddenly disappeared in this forest and left no trace behind them? Several of them had previously announced their intention of passing the night at this inn; and as two or three weeks passed by without their being heard from, they were searched for, and inquiries made at this inn, when they were assured that the missing men had never been here. It looks suspicious, to say the least.”

“God knows,” cried the compass-maker, “we should do a much more sensible thing if we were to camp out under the next best tree we came to, than to remain within these four walls, where there is no chance of running away when they are once at the door, for the windows are grated.”

All grew very thoughtful over these speeches. It did not seem so very improbable, after all, that these tavern people in the forest, be it under compulsion or of their free accord, were in league with the robbers. The nighttime seemed particularly dangerous to them, for they had all heard many stories of travellers who had been attacked and murdered in their sleep; and even if their lives were not endangered, yet most of the guests of the inn were possessed of such moderate means that the robbery of even a part of their property would have: been a very serious loss to them. They looked dolefully into their glasses. The young gentleman wished himself on the back of his horse, trotting through a safe open valley. The compass-maker wished for twelve of his sturdy comrades, armed with clubs, for a body-guard. Felix, the goldsmith, was more anxious for the safety of the ornament designed for his benefactress, than for his own life. But the wagoner, who had been blowing clouds of smoke before him, said softly: “Gentlemen, at least they shall not surprise us asleep. I, for my part, will remain awake the whole night, if one other will keep watch with me.”

“I will”—“I too,” cried the three others.

“And I could not go to sleep,” added the young gentleman.

“Well, we had better contrive some means of keeping awake,” said the wagoner. “I think while we number just four people, we might play cards, that would keep us awake and while away the time.”

“I never play cards,” said the young gentleman, “therefore you would have to count me out.”

“Nor do I know any thing about cards,” added Felix.

“What can we do, then, if we don’t play cards,” asked the compass-maker. “Sing? That wouldn’t do, for it would only attract the attention of the robbers. Give one another riddles to guess? That would not last very long. How would it do if we were to tell stories? Humorous or pathetic, true or imaginative, they would keep us awake and pass away the time as well as cards.”

“I am agreed, if you will begin,” said the young gentleman, smiling.“You gentlemen of trades visit all countries, and have something to tell;for every town has its own legends and tales.”

“Yes, certainly, one hears a great deal,” replied the compass-maker.“But, on the other hand, gentlemen like you study diligently in books, where really wonderful things are written; therefore, you would know how to tell a wiser and more entertaining story than a plain journeyman, such as one of us, could pretend to—for unless I am much mistaken you are a student, a scholar.”

“A scholar, no,” laughed the young gentleman; “but certainly a student, and am now on my way home for the vacation. But what one reads in books does not answer for the purpose of a story nearly as well as what one hears. Therefore begin, if the other gentlemen are inclined to listen.”

“Still more than with cards,” responded the wagoner, “am I pleased when I hear a good story told. I often keep my team down to a miserably slow pace, that I may listen to one who walks near by, and has a fine story to tell; and I have taken many a person into my wagon, in bad weather, with the understanding that he should tell me a story; and one of my comrades I love very dearly, for the reason that he knows stories that last for seven hours and even longer.”

“That is also my case,” added the young goldsmith. “I love stories as I do my life; and my master in Wuerzburg had to forbid me books lest I should neglect my work. So tell us something fine, compass-maker; I know that you could tell stories from now until day-break before your stock gave out.”

The compass-maker complied by emptying his glass and beginning his story.