May 27
I see that I have fallen into raptures, declamation, and parables, and have forgotten, in consequence to tell you what became of the meeting with the children. Absorbed in my artistic contemplations, which I described so inadequately in yesterday’s letter, I had been sitting on the plow for two hours. Toward evening a young woman, with a basket on her arm, came towards the children, who had not moved all that time. She called out from a distance, “You are a very good boy, Philip!” She greeted me; I thanked her, rose, and went over to her, inquiring if she were the mother of those pretty children. “Yes,” she said; and, giving the elder half a roll, she took the little one in her arms and kissed him with a mother’s tenderness. “I left my baby in Philip’s care,” she said, “and went into the town with my eldest boy to buy some white bread, some sugar, and an earthen dish, for his cereal.” I saw these various things in the basket, from which the cover had fallen. “I shall make some broth tonight for my little Hans (which was the name of the youngest): that wild fellow, the big one, broke my dish yesterday while he was scrambling with Philip for what was left of the food.” I inquired about the eldest; and she had scarcely told me that he was chasing a couple of geese in the field, when he came running up and handed Philip a hazel switch. I talked a little longer with the woman, and found that she was the daughter of the schoolmaster, and that her husband was gone on a journey into Switzerland after some money that had been left to him by a relative. “They tried to cheat him,” she said, “and would not answer his letters; so he has gone there himself. I hope he has not had an accident; I have heard nothing of him since he went.” I left the woman with regret, giving each of the children a penny and one too for the youngest, to buy some wheaten bread for his broth when she went to town next; and so we parted.
I tell you, my dear friend, when my thoughts are all upset, the sight of such a creature as this quiets my disturbed mind. She moves in a tranquil happiness within the confined circle of her existence; she makes the best of it from one day to the next; and when she sees the leaves fall, she has no other thought than that winter is approaching.
Since that time I have often gone out there. The children have become quite used to me; and each gets his bit of sugar when I drink my coffee; and in the evening they share my sour milk and bread and butter. They always get their pennies on Sundays, and if I do not get there after evening service, my landlady has orders to give it to them.
They are quite at home with me, tell me everything; and I am particularly delighted when I can watch their passions and the simple outbursts of their desires when some of the other village children are with them.
I had a great deal of trouble to satisfy the apprehensions of the mother, lest (as she says) “they should inconvenience the gentleman.”
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