At last we drove into the broad village street. At the right, opposite
to the first houses, lay a small pond called the village pool, on which
ducks and geese floated, and whose dark surface, glittering with many
hues, reflected the shepherd's hut. After we had passed some very fine
farmhouses, we reached the "Plan," where bright waters plashed into a
stone trough, a linden tree shaded the dancing-ground, and a pretty house
was pointed out as the schoolhouse of the village children.
A short distance farther away the church rose in the background.
But we had no time to look at it, for we were already driving up to the
institute itself, which was at the end of the village, and consisted of
two rows of houses with an open space closed at the rear by the wide
front of a large building.
The bakery, a small dwelling, and the large gymnasium were at our left;
on the right, the so-called Lower House, with the residences of the head-
masters' families, and the school and sleeping-rooms of the smaller
pupils, whom we dubbed the "Panzen," and among whom were boys only eight
and nine years old.
The large house before whose central door--to which a flight of stone
steps led--we stopped, was the Upper House, our future home.
Almost at the same moment we heard a loud noise inside, and an army of
boys came rushing down the steps. These were the "pupils," and my heart
began to throb faster.
They gathered around the Rudolstadt carriage boldly enough and stared at
us. I noticed that almost all were bareheaded. Many wore their hair
falling in long locks down their backs. The few who had any coverings
used black velvet caps, such as in Berlin would be seen only at the
theatre or in an artist's studio.
Middendorf had stepped quickly among the lads, and as they came running
up to take his hand or hang on his arm we saw how they loved him.
But we had little time for observation. Barop, the head-master, was
already hastening down the steps, welcoming my mother and ourselves with
his deep, musical tones, in a pure Westphalian dialect.
ENTERING THE INSTITUTE.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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