Chapter XVIII - The Goatherd

(THE STORY WHICH SUGGESTED TO WASHINGTON IRVING
THE LEGEND OE HAPPY HOLLOW—RIP VAN WINKLE.)

Peter Claus, a goatherd from Sittendorf, who led his herd to pasture on the Kyffhauser, was accustomed in the evening to stop and let them rest in a place inclosed by old walls, and there to count them.

He had observed for several days that one of his finest goats, as soon as they came to this place, disappeared, and did not follow the herd till quite late. He watched it more closely, and saw that it crept through a rent in the wall. He followed and found it in a cave comfortably enjoying some oats which were falling from the roof. He looked up at seeing the rain of oats, but with all his peering, was unable to solve the mystery. At length he heard the neighing and stamping of horses overhead, from whose cribs the oats must have fallen.

While the goatherd was thus standing, lost in astonishment at hearing the sound of horses in such an uninhabited mountain, a young man suddenly appeared, who silently beckoned Peter to follow him. The goatherd ascended some steps, and came through a walled courtyard to a deep dell, inclosed by steep craggy precipices, down into which a dim light penetrated through the dense foliage of the overhanging branches. Here he found, on a well-levelled, cool grass-plot, twelve grave knightly personages playing at skittles, not one of them uttering a word. Peter was silently directed to set up the fallen skittles.

He began his task with trembling knees, when with a stolen glance he viewed the long beards and slashed doublets of the noble knights. By degrees, however, use made him bolder; he gazed around him with a more observing eye, and at length ventured to drink from a can that stood near him, the wine in which exhaled towards him a delicious fragrance. He felt as if inspired with new life, and as often as he was fatigued, he drew fresh strength from the inexhaustible wine-can. But at length he was overpowered by sleep.

When he awoke, he found himself again on the inclosed plain, where his goats had been accustomed to rest. He rubbed his eyes, but could see neither dog nor goats; he was astonished at the height of the grass, and at the sight of shrubs and trees which he had never before observed. Shaking his head, he walked on through all the ways and paths, along which he had been in the daily habit of wandering with his herd; but nowhere could he find a trace of his goats. At his feet he saw Sittendorf, and with quickened steps began to descend the mountain, for the purpose of inquiring in the village after his herd. The people he met coming from the village were all strangers to him, and differently clad, and did not even speak like his acquaintances; every one stared at him, when he inquired after his goats, and stroked their chins; he unconsciously did the same, and found, to his astonishment, that his beard was more than a foot long. He began to think that both himself and all around were bewitched; nevertheless, he recognised the mountain he had just descended as the Kyffhauser; the houses also with their gardens were familiar to him; some boys, too, when asked by a traveller the name of the place, answered: “Sittendorf”

He now walked up the village towards his own hut. He found it in a very ruinous condition: before it lay a strange herd-boy, in a ragged jacket, and by him a halffamished dog, which showed its teeth and snarled when he called to it.

He passed through an opening where once had been a door; when he entered he found all void and desolate. Like a drunken man he reeled out at the back-door, calling on wife and children by name. But no one heard— no voice answered. Soon many women and children collected round the old graybeard, all eagerly asking him what he sought. To ask before his own house after his wife and children, or after himself, appeared to him so extraordinary, that, in order to get rid of his questioners, he named the first one that recurred to his memory, “Kurt Steffen!” All were now silent and looked at each other. At length an aged woman said: “For more than twelve years he has dwelt under the Sachsenburg, but you will not get so far to-day.” “Where is Velter Meier?” “God be merciful to him,” answered an old crone, leaning on her crutches, “for more than fifteen years he has lain in that house, which he will never leave.” Shuddering, he now recognised a neighbour, though, as it seemed to him, grown suddenly old; but he had lost all desire to make further inquiries. There now pressed forward through the inquisitive crowd, a young comely woman with a boy in her arms about a year old, and a little fellow of four years holding by her hand; they were all three the image of his wife. “What is your name?” asked he with astonishment. “Maria.” “And your father’s?” “God be merciful to him, Peter Claus. It is now twenty years and more that we searched for him a whole day and night upon the Kyffhauser, the herd having come back without him. I was then seven years old.”

No longer could the goatherd dissemble: “I am Peter Claus,” he exclaimed, “and no other,” taking the boy out of his daughter’s arms. Every one stood as if petrified, until first one voice and then another exclaimed: “Yes, that is Peter Claus! Welcome, neighbour, welcome after twenty years!”