Great sadness reigned in the little Transylvanian village of Rotfemberg; Herr Feldenpflanz was dead. Here and there, as one walked in the cobblestoned streets, one saw a sudden dampness in the eyes of passers-by as his name was mentioned. Everyone was talking about him, praising his virtues, lamenting his early death; and in the eyes of many a fräulein was more than a trace of tears. He was indeed well beloved by all the village.
“Poor Herr Feldenpflanz,” said the tailor sadly, “a fine man, as honest as the day is long. And a learned man, too. He went to the University of Berlin for four years, and knew more than any other man in Rotfernberg. Yes indeed, a very fine man.”
The tailor blew his nose with vigor, and his listeners did likewise.
“And poor Fräulein Feldenpflanz! She loved her brother very dearly. She has no one else in the world. What will she do now?”
The tailor and his listeners all shook their heads sadly.
“Even now she sits beside him. For two days she has watched him, lying like life, so calm, and prays for his soul. We all know how he drifted away from God. Those wizard’s things that he did in his big, white room! Tubes full of strange vapors and lights there were, and lightning in glass balls. He always said that it was not magic—as if we had not eyes!”
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