The Project Gutenberg eBook of Short story classics (Foreign), Vol. 3, German
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Title: Short story classics (Foreign), Vol. 3, German
Editor: William Patten
Release date: May 15, 2024 [eBook #73630]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: P. F. Collier & Son, 1907
Credits: Andrés V. Galia, María C. FQ, Andrew Butchers and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHORT STORY CLASSICS (FOREIGN), VOL. 3, GERMAN ***
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
In the plain text version text in italics is enclosed by underscores
(_italics_), small caps are represented in upper case as in SMALL CAPS
and words in bold are represented as in =bold=.
A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated
variants. For the words with both variants present the one more used
has been kept.
Obvious punctuation and other printing errors have been corrected.
The book cover was modified by the Transcriber and has been added to
the public domain.
* * * * *
[Illustration: =Hermann Sudermann=]
SHORT STORY
CLASSICS
(FOREIGN)
VOLUME THREE
GERMAN
[Illustration]
EDITED BY
William Patten
WITH
AN INTRODUCTION
AND NOTES
[Illustration]
P. F. COLLIER & SON
NEW YORK
Copyright 1907
By P. F. Collier & Son
The use of the copyrighted translations in this
collection has been authorized by the
authors or their representatives. The
translations made especially for
this collection are covered
by the general
copyright
CONTENTS-VOLUME III
PAGE
THE BROKEN CUP
JOHANN HEINRICH DANIEL ZSCHOKKE 663
CASTLE NEIDECK
WILHELM HEINRICH VON RIEHL 691
THE YOUNG GIRL OF TREPPI
PAUL JOHANN LUDWIG HEYSE 739
THE STONEBREAKERS
FERDINAND VON SAAR 793
THOU SHALT NOT KILL
LEOPOLD VON SACHER-MASOCH 839
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
RUDOLF BAUMBACH 849
GOOD BLOOD
ERNST VON WILDENBRUCH 863
DELIVERANCE
MAX SIMON NORDAU 903
A NEW-YEAR’S EVE CONFESSION
HERMANN SUDERMANN 917
BRIC-A-BRAC AND DESTINIES
GABRIELE REUTER 929
THE FUR COAT
LUDWIG FULDA 939
THE DEAD ARE SILENT
ARTHUR SCHNITZLER 955
MARGRET’S PILGRIMAGE
CLARA VIEBIG 981
THE BROKEN CUP
BY JOHANN HEINRICH DANIEL ZSCHOKKE
[Illustration]
_Unlike most of the early romantic writers of Germany, Zschokke
is still read in his own country and abroad. He was born in
Magdeburg in 1771 and died in 1848, honored throughout Germany
as liberal and patriot during the Napoleonic wars._
_After a sojourn in Switzerland as head of the Department of
Education in the Canton of Grisons and later of the Department
of Forests and Mines in the Canton of Aargau, he began to
devote himself more exclusively to literature, producing with
amazing versatility a great number of works on religion,
history, politics, and the drama. But popularity came to him
through his charming short stories, written in a rather loose
and careless style, but full of vivacity, imagination, humor,
and a broad knowledge of life and character. Many years of
literary sifting have proved “The Adventures of a New-Year’s
Eve” and “The Broken Cup” to be the most enduring and popular
of his short stories._
[Illustration]
THE BROKEN CUP
BY HEINRICH ZSCHOKKE
Translated by P. G.
Copyright, 1891, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
Author’s Note.--There is extant under this name a short piece
by the author of “Little Kate of Heilbronn.” That and the
tale which here follows originated in an incident which took
place at Bern in the year 1802. Henry Von Kleist and Ludwig
Wieland, the son of the poet, were both friends of the writer,
in whose chamber hung an engraving called _La Cruche Cassée_,
the persons and contents of which resembled the scene set forth
below, under the head of The Tribunal. The drawing, which
was full of expression, gave great delight to those who saw
it, and led to many conjectures as to its meaning. The three
friends agreed, in sport, that they would each one day commit
to writing his peculiar interpretation of its design. Wieland
promised a satire; Von Kleist threw off a comedy; and the
author of the following tale what is here given.
That Napoule is only a very little place on the bay of Cannes is true;
yet it is pretty well known through all Provence. It lies in the shade
of lofty evergreen palms, and darker orange trees; but that alone would
not make it renowned. Still they say that there are grown the most
luscious grapes, the sweetest roses, and the handsomest girls. I don’t
know but it is so; in the mean time I believe it most readily. Pity
that Napoule is so small, and can not produce more luscious grapes,
fragrant roses, and handsome maidens; especially, as we might then have
some of them transplanted to our own country.
As, ever since the foundation of Napoule, all the Napoulese women have
been beauties, so the little Marietta was a wonder of wonders, as the
chronicles of the place declare. She was called the little Marietta;
yet she was not smaller than a girl of seventeen or thereabout ought to
be, seeing that her forehead just reached up to the lips of a grown man.
The chronicles aforesaid had very good ground for speaking of Marietta.
I, had I stood in the shoes of the chronicler, would have done the
same. For Marietta, who until lately had lived with her mother Manon at
Avignon, when she came back to her birthplace, quite upset the whole
village. Verily, not the houses, but the people and their heads; and
not the heads of all the people, but of those particularly whose heads
and hearts are always in danger when in the neighborhood of two bright
eyes. I know very well that such a position is no joke.
Mother Manon would have done much better if she had remained at
Avignon. But she had been left a small inheritance, by which she
received at Napoule an estate consisting of some vine-hills, and a
house that lay in the shadow of a rock, between certain olive trees and
African acacias. This is a kind of thing which no unprovided widow ever
rejects; and, accordingly, in her own estimation, she was as rich and
happy as though she were the Countess of Provence or something like it.
So much the worse was it for the good people of Napoule. They never
suspected their misfortune, not having read in Homer how a single
pretty woman had filled all Greece and Lesser Asia with discord and war.
* * * * *
Marietta had scarcely been fourteen days in the house, between the
olive trees and the African acacias, before every young man of Napoule
knew that she lived there, and that there lived not, in all Provence, a
more charming girl than the one in that house.
Went she through the village, sweeping lightly along like a dressed-up
angel, her frock, with its pale-green bodice, and orange leaves and
rosebuds upon the bosom of it, fluttering in the breeze, and flowers
and ribbons waving about the straw bonnet, which shaded her beautiful
features--yes, then the grave old men spake out, and the young ones
were struck dumb. And everywhere, to the right and left, little windows
and doors were opened with a “Good morning,” or a “Good evening,
Marietta,” as it might be, while she nodded to the right and left with
a pleasant smile.
If Marietta walked into church, all hearts (that is, of the young
people) forgot Heaven; all eyes turned from the saints, and the
worshiping finger wandered idly among the pearls of the rosary. This
must certainly have provoked much sorrow, at least, among the more
devout.
The maidens of Napoule particularly became very pious about this time,
for they, most of all, took the matter to heart. And they were not
to be blamed for it; for since the advent of Marietta more than one
prospective groom had become cold, and more than one worshiper of some
beloved one quite inconstant. There were bickerings and reproaches on
all sides, many tears, pertinent lectures, and even rejections. The
talk was no longer of marriages, but of separations. They began to
return their pledges of troth, rings, ribbons, etc. The old persons
took part with their children; criminations and strife spread from
house to house; it was most deplorable.
Marietta is the cause of all, said the pious maidens first; then the
mothers said it; next the fathers took it up; and finally all--even
the young men. But Marietta, shielded by her modesty and innocence,
like the petals of the rosebud in its dark-green calix, did not suspect
the mischief of which she was the occasion, and continued courteous to
everybody. This touched the young men, who said, “Why condemn the pure
and harmless child--she is not guilty!” Then the fathers said the same
thing; then the mothers took it up, and finally all--even the pious
maidens. For, let who would talk with Marietta, she was sure to gain
their esteem. So before half a year had passed, everybody had spoken to
her, and everybody loved her. But she did not suspect that she was the
object of such general regard, as she had not before suspected that she
was the object of dislike. Does the violet, hidden in the downtrodden
grass, think how sweet it is?
Now every one wished to make amends for the injustice they had done
Marietta. Sympathy deepened the tenderness of their attachment.
Marietta found herself greeted everywhere in a more friendly way than
ever; she was more cordially welcomed; more heartily invited to the
rural sports and dances.
* * * * *
All men, however, are not endowed with tender sympathy; some have
hearts hardened like Pharaoh’s. This arises, no doubt, from that
natural depravity which has come upon men in consequence of the fall
of Adam, or because, at their baptism, the devil is not brought
sufficiently under subjection.
A remarkable example of this hardness of heart was given by one Colin,
the richest farmer and proprietor in Napoule, whose vineyards and
olive gardens, whose lemon and orange trees could hardly be counted
in a day. One thing particularly demonstrates the perverseness of his
disposition; he was twenty-seven years old, and had never yet asked for
what purpose girls had been created!
True, all the people, especially damsels of a certain age, willingly
forgave him this sin, and looked upon him as one of the best young
men under the sun. His fine figure, his fresh, unembarrassed manner,
his look, his laugh, enabled him to gain the favorable opinion of the
aforesaid people, who would have forgiven him, had there been occasion,
any one of the deadly sins. But the decision of such judges is not
always to be trusted.
While both old and young at Napoule had become reconciled to the
innocent Marietta, and proffered their sympathies to her, Colin was the
only one who had no pity upon the poor child. If Marietta was talked of
he became as dumb as a fish. If he met her in the street he would turn
red and white with anger, and cast sidelong glances at her of the most
malicious kind.
If at evening the young people met upon the seashore near the old
castle ruins for sprightly pastimes, or rural dances, or to sing
catches, Colin was the merriest among them. But as soon as Marietta
arrived the rascally fellow was silent, and all the gold in the world
couldn’t make him sing. What a pity, when he had such a fine voice!
Everybody listened to it so willingly, and its store of songs was
endless.
All the maidens looked kindly upon Colin, and he was friendly with all
of them. He had, as we have said, a roguish glance, which the lasses
feared and loved; and it was so sweet they would like to have had it
painted. But, as might naturally be expected, the offended Marietta
did not look graciously upon him. And in that she was perfectly right.
Whether he smiled or not, it was all the same to her. As to his roguish
glance, why she would never hear it mentioned; and therein too she
was perfectly right. When he told a tale (and he knew thousands) and
everybody listened, she nudged her neighbor, or perhaps threw tufts of
grass at Peter or Paul, and laughed and chattered, and did not listen
to Colin at all. This behavior quite provoked the proud fellow, so that
he would break off in the middle of his story and stalk sullenly away.
Revenge is sweet. The daughter of Mother Manon well knew how
to triumph. Yet Marietta was a right good child and quite too
tender-hearted. If Colin was silent, it gave her pain. If he was
downcast, she laughed no more. If he went away, she did not stay long
behind: but hurried to her home, and wept tears of repentance, more
beautiful than those of the Magdalen, although she had not sinned like
the Magdalen.
* * * * *
Father Jerome, the pastor of Napoule, was an old man of seventy, who
possessed all the virtues of a saint, and only one failing; which was,
that by reason of his advanced years, he was hard of hearing. But, on
that very account, his homilies were more acceptable to the children
of his baptism and blessing. True, he preached only of two subjects,
as if they comprehended the whole of religion. It was either “Little
children, love one another,” or it was “Mysterious are the ways of
Providence.” And truly there is so much Faith, Love, and Hope in these
that one might at a pinch be saved by them. The little children loved
one another most obediently, and trusted in the ways of Providence.
Only Colin, with his flinty heart, would know nothing of either: for
even when he professed to be friendly, he entertained the deepest
malice.
The Napoulese went to the annual market or fair of the city of Vence.
It was truly a joyful time, and though they had but little gold to buy
with, there were many goods to look at. Now Marietta and Mother Manon
went to the fair with the rest, and Colin was also there. He bought a
great many curiosities and trifles for his friends--but he would not
spend a farthing for Marietta. And yet he was always at her elbow,
though he did not speak to her, nor she to him. It was easy to see that
he was brooding over some scheme of wickedness.
Mother Manon stood gazing before a shop, when she suddenly exclaimed:
“Oh! Marietta, see that beautiful cup! A queen would not be ashamed
to raise it to her lips. Only see: the edge is of dazzling gold, and
the flowers upon it could not bloom more beautifully in the garden,
although they are only painted. And in the midst of this Paradise! pray
see, Marietta, how the apples are smiling on the trees. They are verily
tempting. And Adam can not withstand it, as the enchanting Eve offers
him one for food! And do see how prettily the little frisking lamb
skips around the old tiger, and the snow-white dove with her golden
throat stands there before the vulture, as if she would caress him!”
Marietta could not satisfy herself with looking. “Had I such a cup,
mother!” said she, “it is far too beautiful to drink out of: I would
place my flowers in it and constantly peep into Paradise. We are at the
fair in Vence, but when I look on the picture I feel as if I were in
Paradise.”
So spoke Marietta, and called her companions to the spot, to share
her admiration of the cup: but the young men soon joined the maidens,
until at length almost half the inhabitants of Napoule were assembled
before the wonderfully beautiful cup. But miraculously beautiful was it
mainly from its inestimable, translucent porcelain, with gilded handles
and glowing colors. They asked the merchant timidly: “Sir, what is the
price of it?” And he answered: “Among friends, it is worth a hundred
livres.” Then they all became silent, and went away in despair. When
the Napoulese were all gone from the front of the shop, Colin came
there by stealth, threw the merchant a hundred livres upon the counter,
had the cup put in a box well packed with cotton, and then carried it
off. What evil plans he had in view no one would have surmised.
Near Napoule, on his way home, it being already dusk, he met old
Jacques, the Justice’s servant, returning from the fields. Jacques was
a very good man, but excessively stupid.
“I will give thee money enough to get something to drink, Jacques,”
said Colin, “if thou wilt bear this box to Manon’s house, and leave it
there; and if any one should see thee, and inquire from whom the box
came, say ‘A stranger gave it to me.’ But never disclose my name, or I
will always detest thee.”
Jacques promised this, took the drink-money and the box, and went with
it toward the little dwelling between the olive trees and the African
acacias.
* * * * *
Before he arrived there he encountered his master, Justice Hautmartin,
who asked: “Jacques, what art thou carrying?”
“A box for Mother Manon. But, sir, I can not say from whom it comes.”
“Why not?”
“Because Colin would always detest me.”
“It is well that thou canst keep a secret. But it is already late;
give me the box, for I am going to-morrow to see Mother Manon; I will
deliver it to her and not betray that it came from Colin. It will save
thee a walk, and furnish me a good excuse for calling on the old lady.”
Jacques gave the box to his master, whom he was accustomed to obey
implicitly in all things. The justice bore it into his chamber, and
examined it by the light with some curiosity. On the lid was neatly
written with red chalk: “For the lovely and dear Marietta.” But
Monsieur Hautmartin well knew that this was some of Colin’s mischief,
and that some knavish trick lurked under the whole. He therefore opened
the box carefully for fear that a mouse or rat should be concealed
within. When he beheld the wondrous cup, which he had seen at Vence,
he was dreadfully shocked, for Monsieur Hautmartin was a skilful
casuist, and knew that the inventions and devices of the human heart
are evil from our youth upward. He saw at once that Colin designed
this cup as a means of bringing misfortune upon Marietta: perhaps to
give out, when it should be in her possession, that it was the present
of some successful lover in the town, or the like, so that all decent
people would thereafter keep aloof from Marietta. Therefore Monsieur
Hautmartin resolved, in order to prevent any evil reports, to profess
himself the giver. Moreover, he loved Marietta, and would gladly have
seen her observe more strictly toward himself the sayings of the
gray-headed priest Jerome, “Little children, love one another.” In
truth, Monsieur Hautmartin was a little child of fifty years old, and
Marietta did not think the saying applied particularly to him. Mother
Manon, on the contrary, thought that the justice was a clever little
child, he had gold and a high reputation from one end of Napoule to the
other. And when the justice spoke of marriage, and Marietta ran away in
affright, Mother Manon remained sitting, and had no fear for the tall,
staid gentleman. It must also be confessed there were no faults in his
person. And although Colin might be the handsomest man in the village,
yet the justice far surpassed him in two things, namely, in the number
of years, and in a very, very big nose. Yes, this nose, which always
went before the justice like a herald to proclaim his approach, was a
real elephant among human noses.
With this proboscis, his good purpose, and the cup, the justice went
the following morning to the house between the olive trees and the
African acacias.
“For the beautiful Marietta,” said he, “I hold nothing too costly.
Yesterday you admired the cup at Vence; to-day allow me, lovely
Marietta, to lay it and my devoted heart at your feet.”
Manon and Marietta were transported beyond measure when they beheld the
cup. Manon’s eyes glistened with delight, but Marietta turned and said:
“I can neither take your heart nor your cup.”
Then Mother Manon was angry, and cried out: “But I accept both heart
and cup. Oh, thou little fool, how long wilt thou despise thy good
fortune! For whom dost thou tarry? Will a count of Provence make thee
his bride, that thou scornest the Justice of Napoule? I know better how
to look after my interests. Monsieur Hautmartin, I deem it an honor to
call thee my son-in-law.”
Then Marietta went out and wept bitterly, and hated the beautiful cup
with all her heart.
But the justice, drawing the palm of his flabby hand over his nose,
spoke thus judiciously:
“Mother Manon, hurry nothing. The dove will at length, when it learns
to know me better, give way. I am not impetuous. I have some skill
among women, and before a quarter of a year passes by I will insinuate
myself into Marietta’s good graces.”
“Thy nose is too large for that,” whispered Marietta, who listened
outside the door and laughed to herself. In fact, the quarter of a year
passed by and Monsieur Hautmartin had not yet pierced the heart even
with the tip of his nose.
During this quarter of a year Marietta had other affairs to attend to.
The cup gave her much vexation and trouble, and something else besides.
For a fortnight nothing else was talked of in Napoule, and every one
said it is a present from the justice, and the marriage is already
agreed upon. Marietta solemnly declared to all her companions that she
would rather plunge to the bottom of the sea than marry the justice,
but the maidens continued to banter her all the more, saying: “Oh, how
blissful it must be to repose in the shadow of his nose!” This was her
first vexation.
Then Mother Manon had the cruelty to force Marietta to rinse out the
cup every morning at the spring under the rock and to fill it with
fresh flowers. She hoped by this to accustom Marietta to the cup and
heart of the giver. But Marietta continued to hate both the gift and
giver, and her work at the spring became an actual punishment. Second
vexation.
Then, when in the morning, she came to the spring, twice every week
she found on the rock, immediately over it, some most beautiful
flowers, handsomely arranged, all ready for the decoration of the cup.
And on the flower-stalks a strip of paper was always tied, on which
was written, “Dear Marietta.” Now no one need expect to impose upon
little Marietta as if magicians and fairies were still in the world.
Consequently she knew that both the flowers and papers must have come
from Monsieur Hautmartin. Marietta, indeed, would not smell them
because the living breath from out of the justice’s nose had perfumed
them. Nevertheless she took the flowers, because they were finer than
wild flowers, and tore the slip of paper into a thousand pieces, which
she strewed upon the spot where the flowers usually lay. But this did
not vex Justice Hautmartin, whose love was unparalleled in its kind as
his nose was in its kind. Third vexation.
At length it came out in conversation with Monsieur Hautmartin that
he was not the giver of the beautiful flowers. Then who could it be?
Marietta was utterly astounded at the unexpected discovery. Thenceforth
she took the flowers from the rock more kindly; but, further, Marietta
was--what maidens are not wont to be--very inquisitive. She conjectured
first this and then that young man in Napoule. Yet her conjectures were
in vain. She looked and listened far into the night; she rose earlier
than usual. But she looked and listened in vain. And still twice a week
in the morning the miraculous flowers lay upon the rock, and upon the
strip of paper wound round them she always read the silent sigh, “Dear
Marietta!” Such an incident would have made even the most indifferent
inquisitive. But curiosity at length became a burning pain. Fourth
vexation.
* * * * *
Now Father Jerome, on Sunday, had again preached from the text:
“Mysterious are the dispensations of Providence.” And little Marietta
thought, if Providence would only dispense that I might at length find
out who is the flower dispenser. Father Jerome was never wrong.
On a summer night, when it was far too warm to rest, Marietta awoke
very early, and could not resume her sleep. Therefore she sprang
joyously from her couch as the first streaks of dawn flashed against
the window of her little chamber, over the waves of the sea and the
Lerinian Isles, dressed herself, and went out to wash her forehead,
breast, and arms in the cool spring. She took her hat with her,
intending to take a walk by the seashore, as she knew of a retired
place for bathing.
In order to reach this retired spot, it was necessary to pass over the
rocks behind the house, and thence down through the orange and palm
trees. On this occasion Marietta could not pass through them; for,
under the youngest and most slender of the palms lay a tall young man
in profound sleep--near him a nosegay of most splendid flowers. A white
paper lay thereon, from which probably a sigh was again breathing. How
could Marietta get by there?
She stood still, trembling with fright. She would go home again.
Hardly had she retreated a couple of steps, ere she looked again at
the sleeper, and remained motionless. Yet the distance prevented her
from recognizing his face. Now the mystery was to be solved, or never.
She tripped lightly nearer to the palms; but he seemed to stir--then
she ran again toward the cottage. His movements were but the fearful
imaginings of Marietta. Now she returned again on her way toward the
palms; but his sleep might perhaps be only dissembled--swiftly she ran
toward the cottage--but who would flee for a mere probability? She trod
more boldly the path toward the palms.
With these fluctuations of her timid and joyous spirit, between fright
and curiosity, with these to-and-fro trippings between the house and
the palm-trees, she at length nearly approached the sleeper; at the
same time curiosity became more powerful than fear.
“What is he to me? My way leads me directly past him. Whether he
sleeps or wakes, I will go straight on.” So thought Manon’s daughter.
But she passed not by, but stood looking directly in the face of the
flower-giver, in order to be certain who it was. Besides, he slept as
if it were the first time in a month. And who was it? Now, who else
should it be but the arch, wicked Colin.
So it was _he_ who had annoyed the gentle maiden, and given her so much
trouble with Monsieur Hautmartin, because he bore a grudge against
her; he had been the one who had teased her with flowers, in order to
torture her curiosity. Wherefore? He hated Marietta. He behaved himself
always most shamefully toward the poor child. He avoided her when he
could; and when he could not, he grieved the good-natured little one.
With all the other maidens of Napoule he was more chatty, friendly,
courteous, than toward Marietta. Consider--he had never once asked her
to dance, and yet she danced bewitchingly.
Now there he lay, surprised, taken in the act. Revenge swelled in
Marietta’s bosom. What disgrace could she subject him to? She took the
nosegay, unloosened it, strewed his present over the sleeper in scorn.
But the paper, on which appeared again the sigh, “Dear Marietta!” she
retained, and thrust quickly into her bosom. She wished to preserve
this proof of his handwriting. Marietta was sly. Now she would go away.
But her revenge was not yet satisfied. She could not leave the place
without returning Colin’s ill-will. She took the violet-colored silken
ribbon from her hat, and threw it lightly around the sleeper’s arm
and around the tree, and with three knots tied Colin fast. Now when
he awoke, how astonished he would be! How his curiosity would torment
him to ascertain who had played him this trick! He could not possibly
know. So much the better; it served him right. She seemed to regret her
work when she had finished it. Her bosom throbbed impetuously. Indeed,
I believe that a little tear filled her eye, as she compassionately
gazed upon the guilty one. Slowly she retreated to the orange grove by
the rocks--she looked around often--slowly ascended the rocks, looking
down among the palm trees as she ascended. Then she hastened to Mother
Manon, who was calling her.
* * * * *
That very day Colin practised new mischief. What did he? He wished to
shame the poor Marietta publicly. Ah! she never thought that every one
in Napoule knew her violet-colored ribbon! Colin remembered it but too
well. Proudly he bound it around his hat, and exhibited it to the gaze
of all the world as a conquest. And male and female cried out: “He has
received it from Marietta.”--And all the maidens said angrily: “The
reprobate!” And all the young men who liked to see Marietta cried out:
“The reprobate!”
“How! Mother Manon?” shrieked the Justice Hautmartin when he came to
her house, and he shrieked so loudly that it reechoed wonderfully
through his nose. “How! do you suffer this? my betrothed presents the
young proprietor Colin with her hat-band! It is high time that we
celebrate our nuptials. When that is over, then I shall have a right to
speak.”
“You have a right!” answered Mother Manon, “if things are so, the
marriage must take place forthwith. When that is done, all will go
right.”
“But, Mother Manon, Marietta always refuses to give me her consent.”
“Prepare the marriage feast.”
“But she will not even look kindly at me; and when I seat myself at her
side, the little savage jumps up and runs away.”
“Justice, only prepare the marriage feast.”
“But if Marietta resists--”
“We will take her by surprise. We will go to Father Jerome on Monday
morning early, and he shall quietly celebrate the marriage. This we
can easily accomplished with him. I am her mother, you the first
judicial person in Napoule. He must obey. Marietta need know nothing
about it. Early on Monday morning I will send her to Father Jerome all
alone, with a message so that she will suspect nothing. Then the priest
shall speak earnestly to her. Half an hour afterward we two will come.
Then swiftly to the altar. And even if Marietta should then say No,
what does it matter? The old priest can hear nothing. But till then,
mum to Marietta and all Napoule.”
So the secret remained with the two. Marietta dreamed not of the
good luck which was in store for her. She thought only of Colin’s
wickedness, which had made her the common talk of the whole place. Oh!
how she repented her heedlessness about the ribbon; and yet in her
heart she forgave the reprobate his crime. Marietta was far too good.
She told her mother, she told all her playmates: “Colin has found my
lost band. I never gave it to him. He only wishes to vex me with it.
You all know that Colin was always ill-disposed toward me, and always
sought to mortify me!”
Ah! the poor child! she knew not what new abomination the malicious
fellow was again contriving.
* * * * *
Early in the morning Marietta went to the spring with the cup. There
were no flowers yet on the rock. It was still much too early; for the
sun had scarcely risen from the sea.
Footsteps were heard. Colin came in sight, the flowers in his
hand. Marietta became very red. Colin stammered out: “Good morning,
Marietta,” but the greeting came not from his heart.
“Why dost thou wear my ribbon so publicly, Colin?” said Marietta, and
placed the cup upon the rock. “I did not give it thee.”
“Thou didst not give it to me, dear Marietta?” asked he, and inward
rage made him deadly pale.
Marietta was ashamed of the falsehood, drooped her eyelids, and said
after a while: “Well, I did give it thee, yet thou shouldst not have
worn it. Give it back.”
Slowly he untied it; his anger was so great that he could not prevent
the tears from filling his eyes, nor the sighs from escaping his
breast.--“Dear Marietta, leave thy ribbon with me,” said he softly.
“No,” answered she.
Then his suppressed passion changed into desperation. Sighing, he
looked toward heaven, then sadly on Marietta, who, silent and abashed,
stood by the spring with downcast eyes.
He wound the violet-colored ribbon around the stalks of the flowers,
and said: “There, take them all,” and threw the flowers so spitefully
against the magnificent cup upon the rock that it was thrown down and
dashed to pieces. Maliciously he fled away.
Mother Manon, lurking behind the window, had seen and heard all. When
the cup broke, hearing and sight left her. She was scarcely able to
speak for very horror. And as she pushed with all her strength against
the narrow window, to shout after the guilty one, it gave way, and
with one crash fell to earth and was shattered in pieces.
So much ill-luck would have discomposed any other woman. But Manon soon
recovered herself. “How lucky that I was a witness to this roguery!”
exclaimed she; “he must to the justice--he shall replace both cup and
window-sash with his gold. It will give a rich dowry to Marietta.”
But when Marietta brought in the fragments of the shattered cup, when
Manon saw the Paradise lost, the good man Adam without a head, and of
Eve not a solitary limb remaining, the serpent unhurt, triumphing, the
tiger safe, but the little lamb gone even to the very tail, as if the
tiger had swallowed it, then Mother Manon screamed forth curses against
Colin, and said: “One can easily see that this _fall_ came from the
hand of the devil.”
* * * * *
She took the cup in one hand, Marietta in the other, and went, about
nine o’clock, to where Monsieur Hautmartin was wont to sit in judgment.
She there made a great outcry, and showed the broken cup and the
Paradise lost. Marietta wept bitterly.
The justice, when he saw the broken cup and his beautiful bride in
tears, flew into so violent a rage toward Colin that his nose was
as violet-colored as Marietta’s well-known hat-band. He immediately
despatched his bailiffs to bring the criminal before him.
Colin came, overwhelmed with grief. Mother Manon now repeated
her complaint with great eloquence before justice, bailiffs, and
scribes.--But Colin listened not. He stepped to Marietta and whispered
to her: “Forgive me, dear Marietta, as I forgive thee. I broke thy cup
unintentionally; but thou, thou hast broken my heart!”
“What whispering is that?” cried Justice Hautmartin, with magisterial
authority. “Harken to this accusation, and defend yourself.”
“I have naught to defend. I broke the cup against my will,” said Colin.
“That I verily believe,” said Marietta, sobbing. “I am as guilty as
he; for I offended him--then he threw the ribbon and flowers to me. He
could not help it.”
“Well!” cried Mother Manon. “Do you intend to defend him? Mr. Justice,
pronounce his sentence. He has broken the cup, and he does not deny it.”
“Since you can not deny it, Mr. Colin,” said the Justice, “you must pay
three hundred livres for the cup, for it is worth that; and then for--”
“No,” interrupted Colin, “it is not worth that. I bought it at Vence
for Marietta for a hundred livres.”
“You bought it, sir brazen face?” shrieked the Justice, and his whole
face became like Marietta’s hat-band. He could not and would not say
more, for he dreaded a disagreeable investigation of the matter.
But Colin was vexed at the imputation, and said: “I sent this cup on
the evening of the fair, by your own servant, to Marietta. There stands
Jaques in the door. Speak, Jaques, did I not give thee the box to carry
to Mother Manon?”
Monsieur Hautmartin wished to interrupt this conversation by speaking
loudly. But the simple Jaques said: “Only recollect, Justice, you took
away Colin’s box from me, and carried what was in it to Mother Manon.
The box lies there under the papers.”
Then the bailiffs were ordered to remove the simpleton; and Colin was
also directed to retire, until he should be sent for again.
“Very well, Mr. Justice,” interposed Colin, “but this business shall be
your last in Napoule. I know this, that you would ingratiate yourself
with Mother Manon and Marietta by means of my property. When you want
me, you will have to ride to Grasse to the Governor’s.” With that,
Colin departed.
Monsieur Hautmartin was quite puzzled with this affair, and in his
confusion knew not what he was about. Manon shook her head. The affair
was dark and mysterious to her. “Who will now pay me for the broken
cup?” she asked.
“To me,” said Marietta, with glowing, brightened countenance, “to _me_
it is already paid for.”
* * * * *
Colin rode that same day to the Governor at Grasse, and came back
early the next morning. But Justice Hautmartin only laughed at him,
and removed all of Mother Manon’s suspicions by swearing he would let
his nose be cut off if Colin did not pay three hundred livres for
the broken cup. He also went with Mother Manon to talk with Father
Jerome about the marriage, and impressed upon him the necessity of
earnestly setting before Marietta her duty as an obedient daughter in
not opposing the will of her mother. This the pious old man promised,
although he understood not the half of what they shouted in his ear.
When Monday morning came Mother Manon said to her daughter: “Dress
yourself handsomely, and carry this myrtle wreath to Father Jerome; he
wants it for a bride.” Marietta dressed herself in her Sunday clothes,
took the myrtle wreath unsuspiciously, and carried it to Father Jerome.
On the way Colin met her, and greeted her joyfully, though timidly; and
when she told him where she was taking the wreath, Colin said: “I am
going the same way, for I am carrying the money for the church’s tenths
to the priest.” And as they went on he took her hand silently, and both
trembled as if they designed some crime against each other.
“Hast thou forgiven me?” whispered Colin, anxiously. “Ah! Marietta,
what have I done to thee, that thou art so cruel toward me?”
She could only say: “Be quiet, Colin, you shall have the ribbon again;
and I will preserve the cup since it came from you! Did it really come
from you?”
“Ah! Marietta, canst thou doubt it? All I have I would gladly give
thee. Wilt thou, hereafter, be as kind to me as thou art to others?”
She replied not. But as she entered the parsonage she looked aside at
him, and when she saw his fine eyes filled with tears, she whispered
softly: “Dear Colin!” Then he bent down and kissed her hand. With this
the door of a chamber opened and Father Jerome, with venerable aspect,
stood before them. The young couple held fast to each other. I know not
whether this was the effect of the hand-kissing, or the awe they felt
for the sage.
Marietta handed him the myrtle wreath. He laid it upon her head and
said: “Little children, love one another;” and then urged the good
maiden, in the most touching and pathetic manner, to love Colin. For
the old gentleman, from his hardness of hearing, had either mistaken
the name of the bridegroom, or forgotten it, and thought Colin must be
the bridegroom.
Then Marietta’s heart softened under the exhortation, and with tears
and sobs she exclaimed: “Ah! I have loved him for a long time, but he
hates me.”
“I hate thee, Marietta?” cried Colin. “My soul has lived only in thee
since thou camest to Napoule. Oh! Marietta, how could I hope and
believe that thou didst love me? Does not all Napoule worship thee?”
“Why, then, dost thou avoid me, Colin, and prefer all my companions
before me?”
“Oh! Marietta, I feared and trembled with love and anxiety when I
beheld thee; I had not the courage to approach thee; and when I was
away from thee I was most miserable.”
As they talked thus with each other the good father thought they were
quarreling; and he threw his arms around them, brought them together,
and said imploringly: “Little children, love one another.”
Then Marietta sank on Colin’s breast, and Colin threw his arms around
her, and both faces beamed with rapture. They forgot the priest, the
whole world. Each was sunk into the other. Both had so completely lost
their recollection that, unwittingly, they followed the delightful
Father Jerome into the church and before the altar.
“Marietta!” sighed he.
“Colin!” sighed she.
In the church there were many devout worshipers; but they witnessed
Colin’s and Marietta’s marriage with amazement. Many ran out before the
close of the ceremony, to spread the news throughout Napoule: “Colin
and Marietta are married.”
When the solemnization was over, Father Jerome rejoiced that he had
succeeded so well, and that such little opposition had been made by the
parties. He led them into the parsonage.
* * * * *
Then Mother Manon arrived, breathless; she had waited at home a long
time for the bridegroom. He had not arrived. At the last stroke of the
clock she grew anxious and went to Monsieur Hautmartin’s. There a new
surprise awaited her. She learned that the Governor, together with
the officers of the Viguerie, had appeared and taken possession of
the accounts, chests, and papers of the justice and at the same time
arrested Monsieur Hautmartin.
“This, surely, is the work of that wicked Colin,” thought she, and
hurried to the parsonage in order to apologize to Father Jerome for
delaying the marriage. The good gray-headed old man advanced toward
her, proud of his work, and leading by the hand the newly married pair.
Now Mother Manon lost her wits and her speech in good earnest when she
learned what had happened. But Colin had more thoughts and power of
speech than in his whole previous life. He told of his love and the
broken cup, the falsehood of the justice, and how he had unmasked this
unjust magistrate in the Viguerie at Grasse. Then he besought Mother
Manon’s blessing, since all this had happened without any fault on the
part of Marietta or himself.
Father Jerome, who for a long while could not make out what had
happened, when he received a full explanation of the marriage through
mistake, piously folded his hands and exclaimed, with uplifted eyes:
“Wonderful are the dispensations of Providence!” Colin and Marietta
kissed his hands; Mother Manon, through sheer veneration of heaven,
gave the young couple her blessing, but remarked incidentally that her
head seemed turned round.
Mother Manon herself was pleased with her son-in-law when she came to
know the full extent of his property, and especially when she found
that Monsieur Hautmartin and his nose had been arrested.
“But am I then really a wife?” asked Marietta; “and really Colin’s
wife?”
Mother Manon nodded her head, and Marietta hung upon Colin’s arm. Thus
they went to Colin’s farm, to his dwelling-house, through the garden.
“Look at the flowers, Marietta,” said Colin; “how carefully I
cultivated them for your cup!”
Colin, who had not expected so pleasant an event, now prepared a
wedding feast on the spur of the occasion. Two days was it continued.
All Napoule was feasted. Who shall describe Colin’s extravagance?
The broken cup is preserved in the family to the present day as a
memorial and sacred relic.
CASTLE NEIDECK
BY WILHELM HEINRICH VON RIEHL
[Illustration]
_Popular wherever German is read, Riehl ought to be more than
a mere name among readers of English. In “Castle Neideck”
there is the old-world atmosphere, the truth to nature,
the originality, the seriousness of aim, lightened with a
sly humor, that characterize all the writings of this most
important author--including his histories of culture and
morals. Of his culture novels in general the author himself
says: “The problem of the historical novel is to display
upon the background of social conditions freely modeled
characters”--and of “Castle Neideck” in particular: “It is
entirely imaginative, based on a study of the times.”_
_Riehl was born in 1823 at Biebrich, near Wiesbaden. His
father was Castle Administrator of the place, and undoubtedly
prototype of the old schoolmaster in Castle Neideck, as, by his
son’s own account, Burg Reichenberg, near St. Goarshausen, was
prototype of Castle Neideck itself. In 1880 Riehl was ennobled,
and died in 1897._
[Illustration]
CASTLE NEIDECK
BY WILHELM VON RIEHL
Translated by A. M. Reiner.
Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.
I
In Germany there are several castles of the name of Neideck, but,
doubtless, the most beautiful is that of the principality of Westerau,
whose proud ruins looked down from the steep slate rock over the broad
plain of the Felber Valley, and far beyond to the heights of the Dill
Mountains.
On the slope of the mountains nestles the little village of Westerau:
the site of the new castle. At the time of the Seven Years’ War a part
of this was habitable, but even then most of it was roofless and a
ruin. At the back the castle was open, but the front was protected by a
moat and a drawbridge.
Fixed upon the rock like the nest of some gigantic bird, Neideck
was considered a strong, though not impregnable, fortress. It was
garrisoned by three men: a sergeant and two common soldiers; all three
were disabled. The sole defense of the fortress, one old cannon,
thundered above the valley on the prince’s birthday and whenever a
princess gave birth to a child. It is hard to tell why there was a
garrison at all; probably for no other reason than because it had not
been withdrawn; the three men had been left by a previous garrison as
the ruins had been left by a previous castle. The veterans served at
Neideck because they could not serve elsewhere. Was not that reason
enough? The three men had a roof to cover them, good air, and few
expenses.
Besides the garrison, one other, the schoolmaster, lived in the
castle. He was Philip Balzer, called “Burg” Balzer (Fortress Balzer)
to distinguish him from all other Balzers of that locality. Burg
Balzer’s quarters were in the keeper’s lodge, near the gate, and in
his quarters he kept school. The parish consisted of twelve thatched
cottages, standing at the foot of the hill of Neideck. It was too poor
to provide a regular schoolhouse, so the prince graciously permitted
the schoolmaster to use the lodge for that purpose, which answered very
well. In all there were about ten scholars, and these were huddled
together like sheep in a thunderstorm.
Philip’s father had been herdsman as well as schoolmaster: the office
had descended from father to son; but now there were so few cattle that
a child could watch them, and Philip detailed his laziest pupil for
that duty. From a pedagogic standpoint the practise was of questionable
value, for, as in summer, children prefer the open air, why, every
child made efforts to be the laziest.
The schoolmaster and the garrison would have been happy but for the
fact that their chief necessities, food and drink, were insufficient.
Their quarters were dry, the air was bracing, and their clothes
appeared to be imperishable.
This calm was broken by bad news. With November of 1757 the tide of war
came in upon them. From the watch-towers they heard the distant roar
of cannon, while the fugitive peasants could see the Prussian soldiers
foraging not far away. What could Neideck do? The men of the garrison
held a council; the sergeant suggested blowing up the castle; one of
the soldiers counseled honorable surrender; the other advised immediate
flight. The schoolmaster, who had been invited to the council, urged
resistance to the death; resistance to the point of annihilation.
During the evening of November 13 a chasseur galloped up the
mountainside with orders to “Retire to the other side of the
Schwarzach, and there join the imperial army! Take all arms and
commissary stores; destroy everything that can not be transported!”
The orders pleased the garrison; there was little to take away and
nothing to destroy. But the cannon! What could they do with that? It
had no wheels; they could not draw it after them; and, as there were no
oxen in the village, they could not haul it.
“Let us spike it!” said the sergeant; “that is done in wartime.” But
how? He did not know. To blow it up might be dangerous. Finally they
followed the advice of the schoolmaster. The well was two hundred
feet deep, and within the memory of man it had never held water. They
dropped the cannon into the well.
When they were setting out, the sergeant asked the schoolmaster where
they should find the Schwarzach. The schoolmaster gave the desired
information; critical pedagogy is supposed to follow the principle that
it is better to give any answer than to confess ignorance.
The schoolmaster refused to abandon the fortress: he watched the
soldiers sorrowfully as they marched down the hill and disappeared
like phantoms in the silence and the darkness. “They will not return,”
he mused; “I am now the sole keeper of the fort!” He drew the bridge,
barred the gates, and went into his lodge.
For a long time he had been laying in provisions: apples, nuts, prunes,
bread, bacon, and smoked beef. These, with an old dressing gown and
“Gottsched’s Critical Art of Poetry,” he carried to the western slope
of the hill. He waited an instant, listening, turning his head in all
directions, to make sure that he was alone, for the night was dark and
he could see nothing; then he climbed over a broken wall, parted the
thick branches of a thorn-bush, and crawled through an opening into an
underground passage choked with rubbish.
This passage was known only to Burg Balzer. He had found it in his
youth. In a place where the passage widened he had made a bed of
leaves, and, lying there on rainy days, many an hour, for many years,
he had dreamed his dreams. He loved to dream of the days of knighthood;
and the dim light of his hiding-place gave atmosphere to his illusions.
At times he had worked hard to clear away the rubbish and penetrate
deeper under ground. Philip thought he might find wine here. Strange
things had been found before this in secret passages! In the abandoned
cellar of a castle in Alsatia ancient wine had been found; the casks
had rotted and dropped apart, but the old wine had formed a skin. As
he went alone, Philip decided to hide in his grotto and wait for the
first shock of war to pass; he should be safer down there than with the
fugitive peasants in the woods. It was romance as well as common sense
that led him to hide there. Philip Balzer was a German schoolmaster.
“I am Burg Balzer,” he said to himself; “this is my castle! I must be
faithful; I must stand or fall with this stronghold. I am the real
warder, and to guard Neideck is my heritage. Let the Prussians blow it
up and me with it! Better, far better, to wing my flight thus than to
forsake my trust!”
To tell the exact truth, Burg Balzer was not at all afraid that he
should be blown up; from an old legend he had learned that destiny
had marked him for important work; he was to restore prosperity to
Neideck. Neideck, the ancestral home of the princes of Westerau, had
been occupied by the family until the Thirty Years’ War broke out. But
on the approach of the imperial army the princes had escaped, leaving a
strong garrison, and the peasants of the whole country had taken refuge
there. From that time onward Neideck had been known as a stronghold.
“And, in truth,” said the schoolmaster, “it has always been a fortress;
it has never been a robbers’ nest.”
There was one stain on the record, however. In the dark year, 1634,
when the castle was packed with fugitives, and provisions ran low, the
commandant of the fortress ordered his men to drive out the women and
the children, in order to “shut out useless mouths.” The victims fell
upon their knees and begged for mercy; they cried out that they had no
other refuge. The commandant was deaf to their prayers. When the gates
closed behind them, the women cursed Neideck. Three of the curses were
remembered.
First--Let Neideck be a ruin, and let every stone of that ruin bear
witness against Neideck’s lord!
Second--One hundred years shall pass before a lord of Neideck wins a
woman’s love!
Third--To the shame of man, when all men are powerless, let Neideck be
saved by a woman!
The first two curses were already fulfilled. Soon after the lord
of Neideck had abandoned the women and children to their fate, the
castle was stormed, the east wing was destroyed, and the once powerful
fortress fell into ruins. After that the reigning family lived in the
new castle in Westerau; not one of them returned to Neideck. For a time
governors and warders kept the castle; not one of them was blessed by
a woman’s love. Some of them lived and died unmarried; two had lost
their wives; while the only man among them all who had a wife was so
tormented by her that he cut his throat. The third curse was yet to
come; namely, after all the men had failed to save Neideck, the place
was to be redeemed by a woman.
Now, the schoolmaster, though not a woman, believed that he was
destined in some way to fulfill the curse and be the means of saving
the castle, and in such a way as to bring about perfect harmony.
Philip’s dreams were so ardent and so bold that he dared not speak of
them or even think about them. It was hope that made him cling to the
castle; that dispelled all fear. He lived on dreams as much as on his
prunes and bacon.
Lying on his bed of leaves the second day after the garrison’s
departure, he detected the smell of burning stubble. “It is the
village!” he thought calmly, and continued his dream. He heard cannon,
now near, now far away, and he heard other sounds, too: the clash of
arms, the pounding of horses’ hoofs, then silence fell--.
He had been underground two days and two nights; he was tired of
prunes and bacon, and of lying down and of sitting still. Early in the
morning he crept out. Just as he reached the thorn-bush he heard the
rustling of leaves, and, peering out, he saw a goat tossing his head
and nibbling the last leaves of the late autumn. The village lay in the
distance, calm and peaceful in the morning light; nor far, nor near,
was there a sign of war.
Tempted by the mellow sunlight, the schoolmaster left his hiding-place,
and saw that the peasants were returning with their chattels to the
deserted homes. He skirted the hill and entered the village from
the opposite side of the castle. In the village he learned that the
soldiers had not entered Neideck. The peasants blushed for their fears;
they had suffered cold and hunger in the woods; so had their cattle.
The camp-followers, finding the place deserted, had fired the fields.
Now the damages must be repaired! The peasants praised the schoolmaster
for his prudence; they said he had done well to remain in the castle.
Philip was modest; he disclaimed their praises; he lauded the
castle--“a stronghold even in its ruin!” There is not a man on earth
who has not faith in something! Burg Balzer had faith in his castle.
II
On February 15, 1763, twelve couriers galloped out of the courtyard
of Hubertsburgh, and, blowing their trumpets, rode hard in every
direction toward all the respective courts, announcing that the peace
treaty had been signed. A squadron of mounted messengers followed them,
proclaiming peace throughout the Roman Empire of the German nation.
The Seven Years’ War was over, and the fortress of Neideck could now
rest for generations to come. No more would the thunder of distant
cannon echo through the tower; nor need the schoolmaster fear for his
castle. He was thankful for peace; glad that they called it the peace
of Hubertsburgh, for that place, he thought, must be a little like
my own Neideck. And now Burg Balzer reigned supreme in Neideck; the
garrison did not return; the veterans’ quarters went to ruin; the roof
fell in. Philip rejoiced; to his mind ruins were unclaimed property.
“And,” thought he, “unclaimed property belongs to him who takes it!” It
seemed to him that the giant ruin was now his own. It may be that he
could not have borne the trials of his dry profession had it not been
for the mystic charm of his castle. It was his castle that made life
sweet to him. When the day was fine he kept school in the courtyard.
The elder-bush was in blossom; the blue sky floated above the crumbling
walls; the jackdaws circled above the towers; the sparrows twittered.
He was happy; the dreams of his childhood nested in his heart, and the
droning _a, b, c_ of the mischievous boys sounded to him like a spring
song.
Now and then he permitted the children to sing a hymn, and when the old
walls sent back the echoes the hymn was as full of meaning as a fugue,
and the days of old with their men of blood and iron rose before him,
while the discord in the shrill voices of the children ascended to the
skies like songs of praise. Of all hymns Philip loved best Luther’s
“_A mighty fortress is our God!_” When the hymn was ended, when the
last thin cry of the children had died away upon the air, Balzer would
explain to them that the stronghold, or fortress, was man’s best type
of the power and eternal protection of God; and that God’s fidelity to
man could not be represented better than by the image of a stronghold.
Once when an impertinent pupil reminded him that their own stronghold,
the fortress of Neideck, was going to ruin, and that new ravages were
visible every spring, Philip answered:
“If our stronghold shows weakness here and there, it does so that
we may see by the contrasting strength of its main walls and its
foundations that it was built for all eternity. That is why a
stronghold is a true image of the eternal being of God. It was in
strongholds that Luther worked; he wrote his hymn in the fortress of
Coburg and translated the Bible in the fortress of Wartburg.”
When the day was fine he took his flute, and played it as he went down
the east side of the mountain, followed by the children. Often the
teacher and his pupils wandered into the woods opposite the castle.
There Philip played his flute and the children sang and the echoes
answered, and there the schoolmaster told the stories of all the
strongholds in the country; not one of them was as remarkable as that
of Neideck!
On rainy days he kept school in the small dark lodge; the lessons were
then short, and when the children had gone home, Balzer would go down
into the dungeon or up into the watch-towers. The towers rose high
above the mass of stone and overlooked the country. A rotten bridge
stretched from the top of one tower to the top of the other. To reach
the first Philip had to go to an upper story of the adjoining building;
and to reach the second, where the tormented husband had cut his
throat, he was forced to cross this bridge. Balancing his thin body on
the decaying timbers, far above the broken roof of the castle, buffeted
by the tempest and in peril of his life, Burg Balzer would shout
strange and meaningless words, which he supposed were in the language
of the ancient Teutons: “_Heia, Weia, Weigala, Waia!_” In his mind he
was a warder of the far-off bygone days; the enemy was on its way to
Neideck, winding up through the ravines of the Dill Mountains, and his
cry was raised to warn the men within his castle. It was as difficult
to get back to reality as it was to climb the bridge!
* * * * *
Long before the war the schoolmaster had found some old straw and
fragments of a jug. Had the straw been the bed of the last prisoner
of the dungeon? and what of the jug? Balzer was tender-hearted, but it
would have pleased him to find proof that the man of his imagination
had starved to death on the straw, drinking his last, unwholesome draft
from the jug.
From brooding over his relics he went aloft, climbing from one roofless
room to another. In the “Hall of the Knights” he rested from his
efforts. Up there the arches had given way, and bits of stone and
clouds of lime-dust were sifted by the decaying joists. In the “Hall
of the Knights” he could fancy that he was exchanging opinions and
drinking wine with all the nobles of the ancient principality. From his
conference with the nobles he returned to his poor quarters, wet to the
skin, alternately shivering and burning with fever, and ate his crust
and sipped cold water and was content--far happier, perhaps, than the
knights had been over their bumpers.
Now and then, but not often, the pastor or some students and teachers
would visit the castle, and then Balzer was their guide. He knew the
story of every wall and of every crevice. If visitors gave him a few
kreutzers he was grateful. He would drop them in his little savings
bank, knowing that he should need money in accomplishing the work
appointed by destiny. One day when Mosenbruch, the learned compiler of
dictionaries, visited the castle, he disputed Balzer’s historical data;
after some discussion the savant said that no woman could save the
castle because there was no castle left to save. Philip was too angry
to answer. When Mosenbruch was ready to depart he offered his gift.
Philip rejected it. “I will not accept it,” he thought; “the money of
the castle fund must come to me from unstained hands, the hands of
people who respect the castle.”
III
Now the peasants loved the schoolmaster because he made the children
love the school. Philip was grateful for their appreciation, but he
denied that he deserved it. “I rule the village and the children by the
power of the stronghold; personally I deserve nothing!” he said firmly.
Sunday, when the day was fine, the youths and maidens flocked to the
castle, followed by their elders, and, sitting before the castle,
talked and sang. Philip told them stories of the stronghold, and
taught them songs: “Lindenschmied,” “Schüttensam,” “Falkenstein,”
the “Castle in Austria,” and “Anne of Brittany.” The people of the
neighboring villages, too, knowing what was passing on the heights,
followed those of Neideck, and then they would all sing together, the
strangers declaring that to sit in the courtyard of Neideck was far
pleasanter than to sit around the public wells in their own villages.
Among the visitors was Lizzie, the daughter of Röderbauer of Steinfurt.
Röderbauer was a rich peasant; Lizzie was his only child. She was
strong and healthy, twenty years old, and renowned for her beautiful
blond hair--hair so long that she could sit upon it!
While Philip told his stories, Lizzie gazed upon him with wide-open
eyes and half-open mouth, thinking what a wonderful man Burg Balzer
must be to know so much more than all the people round about. And yet
he was the “poor devil” of the parish! It pleased Lizzie to think how
wise he was, but it grieved her to think how poor he was; she longed
to do something to help him. Philip was not slow to note that Lizzie
was constant in her visits. Every Sunday he saw her blond hair and
her pretty face, and it was not long before he began to think of her
night and day. In his mind he addressed himself to her when he told
his romantic stories to the people; he gave her solos to sing; he sang
duets with her. At first they were friends, then their friendship got
to be known as a “love affair,” and finally, without any one knowing
it, one day they exchanged promises. It was a secret; but it was a
betrothal nevertheless. Though such things happen in other places
as well as in old castles, Philip was sure that his happiness had
come through the influences of his castle. When he appeared before
Röderbauer of Steinfurt to ask for his daughter, Röderbauer replied:
“While I live my daughter shall not get one kreutzer from me! When I am
dead she may do as she pleases!”
As Röderbauer was not far beyond the age of forty, and as he had never
been sick, not even for a day, it was plain enough that if Lizzie
waited for his death she would not at that time be a very lively bride.
However, Burg Balzer, knowing the character of rich peasants, knew that
Röderbauer was not to be moved. Strong in his love, he was equally
strong in his devotion to his castle; Philip turned from Lizzie to his
writings. “I will finish my history of Neideck,” he thought bravely,
and so as time went on he saved his money and wrote his history.
Of publishers’ methods or of authors’ chances he knew nothing.
Röderbauer respected money and cared nothing for fame--and yet--and
yet!--Balzer knew it would be by this book he would gain his wife.
Lizzie loved him; since the curse fell he had been the first warder of
Neideck to win the love of woman; so Lizzie was the woman predestined
to save the castle! How it should come to pass he knew not; he felt
that he was but an instrument; _it was to be_. Meanwhile he could love
in secret and write history in secret, and that was enough!
His appeal to Röderbauer had separated him from his betrothed, and as
he now saw her seldom he had more time to devote to his writing. So
resignation and patience and the strength to endure his disappointment
all came from the castle.
He had written and copied fifty folio sheets when one day the inspector
of schools visited Neideck. Philip had no cause to fear the visit. In
fine weather he had been sending the laziest pupil to the pasture, but
when the weather was bad they all flocked to the school, where they
drank in his teachings, and consequently knew more than the children
of other places. The inspector was an antiquary. After the examination
the two men--the master and his chief--crawled like beetles through
the ruins. The inspector listened as in a dream, while Philip, poorest
of all his teachers, told the story of the stronghold. The inspector’s
interest filled the mystic with ecstasy, and in his excitement he,
Balzer, the most timid of men, found courage to show his manuscript.
With hands trembling, with face flushed, he gave it to the inspector.
_Twenty different conjectures concerning the meaning of the name
“Neideck.” All very plausible._
And the conclusion was that the name did not signify after all: _eck_
(a corner) where _neid_ (envy) dwelt, but a corner to be envied by all
who could not live in it--_Neideck_. The inspector admired Philip’s
handwriting: the conjectural structure was somewhat uncertain; but
on that foundation Balzer had raised an edifice bolder than the
architecture of the double towers. The literary form of the manuscript
was most original, for, although Balzer had never studied literature,
his writing came as the spirit inspired it. Philip’s castle had taught
him how to write.
At that time Rousseau’s “Emile” was the book of the hour. The inspector
was an ardent follower of Jean Jacques, and he found that the active
principle of the history of Neideck was the principle of the work
of Rousseau. Though Balzer had never heard of Rousseau, yet all the
former’s methods, so it seemed to the inspector, showed the instinctive
practise of the philanthropic system of education. The analogy was so
complete that Rousseau’s book, that formed the chief intellectual diet
of the advocates of “sentimental, enlightened pedagogy,” might readily
pass as a very natural and complete supplement to the work of Balzer.
The inspector’s opinion brought tears to Philip’s eyes. “Good night,”
he called back graciously; and Philip watched him as he disappeared
farther and farther down the slope of the mountain.
“_Good night!_ What a day it has been! I have been happy!” thought
Philip--and for that, too, he thanked his castle.
IV
Four weeks after the inspector’s visit a letter came for Balzer. He was
offered the school at Ottenheim. Ottenheim lay in the rich district
of teeming pastures--“the butter district.” So the school was twice
as important as that of Neideck. That same evening, too, a neighbor
stopped at the castle to offer Balzer his congratulations on another
“streak of luck,” the death of Röderbauer. Röderbauer had climbed a
tree to pick cherries to make his celebrated cordial; he had fallen
from the tree and been picked up dead. Delicacy impelled Balzer to deny
that he saw luck in Röderbauer’s death, but in his heart he knew that
the event would make his own life easier, and he could not find any
excuse for attributing this last blessing to his castle.
He gave his pupils a three days’ vacation and set off for Ottenheim,
wondering if it would be possible to live so far from Neideck. He was
not sure of this. As he passed the new castle, the home of the heirs
and owners of Neideck, a smile of pity flitted over his lips. What a
fall; from Neideck to Westerau! History had made Neideck glorious;
Westerau had no history! A prince may build a castle, but even
Omnipotence can not give ancestry to an unfledged baron!--Philip was
shocked; pride in his castle had caused him to blaspheme; he had cast a
doubt upon Omnipotence!
Driving back these confusing thoughts, he went on across the crest of
the Dill Mountains, that looked down upon the broad green plains,
the well-kept, regularly measured meadows, the corn-fields swaying in
the wind, and the highway lined with fruit trees. Set on the verdant,
gold-flecked carpet rested the villages with red-tiled roofs. The
church spires were glittering in the sunlight. But it was tame! There
were no woods, no rocks, no stronghold. Not a ruin! The long stretch of
level land oppressed him, but he went on. Arrived at Ottenheim, he saw
the schoolroom; large, light, limewashed. The windows looked out on a
playground; from the ground sprang four slim young lindens; they looked
like brooms standing on their sticks. His heart quailed. Homesick dread
filled his soul. How could he live and teach in such a place? He turned
and fled.
At Steinfurt he stopped to salute the girl with the long, fair hair.
In her black dress, her long lashes wet with tears, Lizzie was even
prettier than when she had visited Neideck. In his dust-stained
traveling coat (he had no other) Philip followed Röderbauer’s coffin to
the grave--and the peasants envied him.
After the funeral he talked of the future with his betrothed. His
appointment to Ottenheim pleased the girl, but she knew that she had
money enough now to build in Neideck. Philip declared that he would
never live in the butter district, where there were no woods, no
rocks, no strongholds. His future, a great future, lay in Neideck. He
knew it.
“Such talk is foolish,” answered Lizzie, and they quarreled; the girl
told him that she would never live in the lodge. She called the castle
“old and ugly.” She refused to marry him. Philip protested that he
would die a bachelor rather than go to Ottenheim. He reminded Lizzie
of her visits to Neideck and of the beauty of the castle. Lizzie
answered: “I did not go there to see the castle; I went there to see
you.” That was too much! Philip set off for Neideck cut to the heart.
But he was not rash; he gave her time to think it over. After two
weeks he returned to Steinfurt--and again they quarreled. “Whoever
takes me must take my castle!” said Philip; and Lizzie answered: “If
you do not love me more than you love the castle, I do not want you!”
Philip’s heart was heavy; Lizzie thought less of the matter. Pride was
mingled with Philip’s sorrow. “The castle has done so much for me,”
thought he; “it has made me what I am. Even if I have to renounce my
love to keep my trust, I must be faithful.” So he declined the offer of
Ottenheim and continued to appear before the world as the poorest of
the schoolmasters, the head of the smallest school in Germany.
V
From the eastern wing of the Renaissance Castle in Westerau the view
over the Felber Valley was beautiful; far off one could see the rocky
height where the towers of Castle Neideck rose against the horizon.
In that wing resided Princess Isabella, the ruling prince’s younger
daughter, with her lady-in-waiting, Fräulein von Martigny.
The young Princess, only eighteen years old, often gazed longingly
toward those ancestral towers, wishing she were there, to look far out
over the open country, and then to travel through it, on and on and on.
Here, in her father’s castle, with its aristocratic ennui, she felt as
if she were in prison. I wonder which is the greater torture: a prison
window that looks out upon high walls, or one with a beautiful view
into the distance? One reminds us every hour that we are imprisoned;
the other that we can not get away. And the Princess would have liked
so much to fly away, but at her father’s court the rules of etiquette
were observed as strictly as in a Spanish convent, particularly with
regard to ladies. Isabella’s sister had entered a convent to escape the
monotony of the castle, and in the convent she had been more at ease
than in the castle.
There was some analogy between the conditions of the warder of the old
castle and the Princess of the new castle. As with all his heart Balzer
desired marriage with Lizzie, but would not buy his happiness with the
sacrifice of his castle, so with all her heart the Princess of the new
castle desired liberty--to be free from her father’s house--but she
would not buy her liberty by marriage with her cousin, Frederick, Count
Vierstein.
Everything slept at Westerau. When Isabella sat in her luxurious room
it seemed to her that all four walls were yawning, and when she walked
in the castle garden all the trees seemed to sleep, and the gods and
goddesses of stone between the trimmed hedges of hornbeam were surely
snoring. She arose in the morning at nine o’clock, because it was
necessary for her to rest from the preceding day’s ennui, and when they
put on her stockings while she was dressing, it often took half an hour
to proceed from the right to the left foot.
During the day she was never alone, not one minute; for Fräulein
von Martigny, who was not only lady-in-waiting, but took the place
of a mother, never left her side. A true feminine Minos in matters
of etiquette, the old lady was also nervous and irritable. When the
Princess had been washing and bathing during her morning toilet,
Fräulein always kept a few steps away, asserting that she would just as
easily catch cold by going near a newly washed being as by walking over
a newly washed floor.
After the dressing hour came the reading hour. Fräulein read aloud,
in French, only classical authors from the time of Louis the Great,
and the very cadence of the verses seemed to produce sleep. Then
followed the painting lesson. Court-painter Timothy Niedermeyer taught
the Princess to paint in water-colors, and every one in the family
received a bouquet in water-colors as a birthday gift. This Niedermeyer
had a fine talent, but had become a mannerist. This also was the
result of ennui, for by princely decree he had every year to deliver,
in return for his salary, twenty-four oil paintings, mostly family
portraits. There were portraits of the Princess at all ages, in every
possible position and costume; the most recent pictures showed her
as an angel with wings, among clouds; as an eighteen-year-old girl,
blowing soap-bubbles into the air, and as a shepherdess with crook,
leading a sheep by a red ribbon; these three pictures had been sent
to Vierstein, as gifts for the intended bridegroom. The Princess was,
in truth, beautiful, but her life of utter seclusion had given to
her face the soft, languid beauty of a hot-house flower, and as the
artist, with a wish to flatter, had over-refined the delicate features,
the result was that the child-angel-shepherdess head looked utterly
expressionless. Ennui is the hunger of the aristocrat; hunger is the
ennui of the common people; the painted face of the Princess showed
that she had never felt hungry, but very often bored. Isabella was to
marry the Count of Vierstein, but did not wish to do so; and the Count
of Vierstein would have nothing to do with Isabella, who was to be
his bride. They were cousins, had met as children, and Isabella had
shed many a tear over the wild boy, whose rough manner frightened and
troubled her. Later they lost sight of each other; the Count traveled
extensively and entered foreign service. The two fathers had by letter,
and on their own responsibility, betrothed their children without
consulting those who were most concerned, although the two castles were
only a day’s journey apart.
They considered such action more suitable to their rank than to permit
an engagement from love, as among ordinary people. The fine portraits
of the court-painter were intended to arouse in the reluctant Count
some interest for his unwilling bride, but they had the opposite
effect. Nor did the half-length portrait of the Count, that arrived
at the same time in Westerau, have any better success. This portrait
represented the young man as a hussar. Vierstein could not boast of
a court-painter--his court being interested only in hunting and the
army--so the picture had been painted by a traveling artist, whose
vigorous brush had given the poor Count’s face a ferocious expression.
The Princess was frightened to tears, as she had been when a child.
And Fräulein von Martigny made use of this fear to give background to
the cousin’s bad reputation. She hinted at a certain Potsdam barrack
atmosphere that Vierstein carried into sitting-room and bedrooms; that
no one over there cared for anything but soldiers, horses, dogs. For
in her heart the Fräulein shared Isabella’s aversion to this marriage,
and would have preferred to see her beloved foster child become an old
maid. Then might the Fräulein be to the end of her life Mistress of the
Robes at this dear court, whose ennui she was not sensible of, although
she did her utmost to promote it.
To be sure the painting and the painting lessons were as tiresome as
everything else in the castle, yet a certain dramatic interest was
attached to them--an interest that was woefully lacking in the rest of
the day’s proceedings, which went like clockwork--and all the clocks
in the castle were correct. Every day the Prince rode out at the same
hour, on the same road, and returned at the same minute. Breakfast was
served at eleven o’clock; at twelve o’clock they held an audience, the
Princess as well. Her lady-in-waiting was careful to impress upon her
beforehand how to open the conversation. There were only three phrases
from which to select; Isabella sometimes wished to add a fourth or
fifth, but had not the courage to do so.
They dined at three o’clock. Conversation at table, though the merest
gossip, was very solemn. Isabella discovered, in listening to it, that
the people in the town could not be quite such bores as were those in
the castle, for, at least, they furnished material for conversation.
She sometimes wished to become acquainted with the wife of one of the
officials or even of a common tradesman, but Fräulein assured her that
that would be improper as well as unpleasant. “These common people have
such a peculiar odor,” she said, taking a double dose of snuff. She
always maintained that it was one of the finest traits in the Landgrave
of Hesse, that he could not bear the odor of common people.
After dinner the whole party went out for a walk; they proceeded in
pairs, the marshal with his staff going before, two chasseurs with
their carbines closing the procession. Isabella would have preferred
an excursion to Neideck; they had even promised it to her, but they
never found time for it. Simply because there was nothing to do, the
hours were fully occupied. This never-fulfilled promise increased the
Princess’s longing to see the charmed Castle of Neideck; it became to
her the symbol of freedom, ever alluring, forever unattainable.
After the walk the Prince, following the example of Louis XIV, fed and
caressed his numerous dogs. If her father was in an unusually good
humor, Isabella received permission to pat the dogs, a thing she hated
to do. Afterward Fräulein von Martigny never failed to remind her that
as Cousin Frederick owned even a larger number of dogs, as Countess
Vierstein she would never be able to get away from dog-atmosphere.
The best comfort of the unfortunate, provided they can sleep, is
night. The Princess had a magnificent canopy-bed, with the softest of
pillows and the finest silken covers. When a child lies comfortably in
its little bed, it is often said to be lying there “like a princess.”
The saying did not originate with Princess Isabella, for she felt
no comfort even in bed. She wished to sleep in the dark, but it was
considered proper for her to have a Dutch night-lamp burning in her
own bedroom, and a German lamp in the one adjoining, where her maid
slept. And from the 15th of October to the 15th of April open fires
were kept burning throughout the night in both rooms; such were the
palace regulations. So the poor Princess often lay awake, counting the
strokes of the big castle clock and of all the other numerous clocks in
the rooms, following one another “like clockwork.” Her whole young life
seemed to her like one long sleepless night.
It was in the month of May. The nights were now growing shorter,
fortunately; but Isabella was still awake at one o’clock, staring
about her with wide-open eyes. She noticed a small red book on the
window-sill, an unusual sight in these rooms, where nothing was ever
left lying about. What kind of a book could it be? All the books in the
castle were bound in blue. She slipped out of bed to look at it.
The red cover was in bad taste and overdecorated; the leaves were
gilt-edged, but the paper was bad, like blotting paper, and the print
was poor and blurred. The title was: “Notable description and history
of the princely Castle of Neideck, brought to light by Philip Balzer,
schoolmaster and student of the history of his fatherland.”
The Princess went to bed again, and, by the light of her very good
Dutch night-lamp, began to read this little book. Scarcely had she
finished the few pages which treated of the origin and twenty-five
meanings of the name “Neideck,” when she began to feel drowsy, and when
she reached page ten she fell asleep, and slept soundly until late in
the morning.
After this she decided to read a little of the book every evening; she
also inquired as to whom it belonged and how it came to be in her room.
VI
In due time Burg Balzer finished his “history,” and even got it
printed, a harder task than the writing. There was only one printing
office in the principality, and this belonged to the court bookbinder
Zöllner in Westerau. Zöllner, owner also of a toy store and circulating
library, printed every year the “Court, State, and House Almanac
of Westerau,” and this was the extent of his printing venture; he
could never be induced to risk any other literary undertaking. Philip
had foreseen that, and offered to cover all necessary expenses with
the contents of his savings-box. The castle fund, which had been
collecting for twelve years, amounted now to exactly two florins and
eighteen kreutzers.[1] But Herr Zöllner was not satisfied. Philip,
though surprised that books could cost so much, did not lose courage.
He, knowing that peasants pay their rent partly in money and produce
the rest in manual labor and labor of their teams, proposed to the
bookbinder to pay him by the same method, to write out bills and
dunning letters, line school copybooks, and perform other tasks, until
all expenses had been paid. The bookbinder agreed, and Balzer, with a
heavy sigh, became his publisher’s drudge, as also more famous authors
have been. Piles of the bookbinder’s work were carried to Neideck
every Saturday, but the pile of Philip’s own book in Westerau remained
untouched. Philip bore his burden heroically; he was slaving for his
castle, that was enough for Philip. He had not neglected, however, to
present some elegantly bound copies to the ruling princes of his own
and adjoining lands. At first he expected a few gold snuff-boxes in
return, then, at least, some kind acknowledgment by letter; but nothing
came.
The Prince of Westerau had given the book to his valet, because it had
come uncalled for and not in proper form; all gifts from his subjects,
as long as they were of no special value, went the same way.
The valet found the book so uninteresting that he passed it on to
Isabella’s maid. The girl, feeling life at court even more tedious than
this book, first read a little in it, then forgot it, leaving it in the
Princess’s room, where, during a sleepless night, as we have seen, it
fell at last into the right hands.
The Princess was glad to hear something more definite about the
enchanted castle, and was surprised to read of all the strange events
that had taken place there--a small history of the world in itself--and
of the numerous historical monuments still in existence there. The
French books with which Fräulein von Martigny tormented her every day
took her to Rome, Athens, Mexico, and other places, for which she
cared nothing; it pleased her at last to be able to read about what
was nearest her home, about the mystery upon which she looked out from
her own windows. The beginning of the book had a soothing effect, even
helped her to sleep; later on it became more interesting, and toward
the end quite exciting. Sometimes the author was very comical, just
when he wished to be very impressive; but he always meant well, and
was very enthusiastic. The Princess became interested in an author who
could make her laugh without quite laughing at him. In the preface the
writer offers himself as guide to every visitor in Neideck, by day or
night, in rain or sunshine; and when Isabella closed the book she was
more than willing to have such a guide through the ruins--in moonshine
if possible. At times the book spoke like a prophet; for example, on
page 112, where it said quite mysteriously: “A man may build a house
or a castle, but this house or castle will build up and mold the man
who lives in it. Apparently time has come to a standstill in the old
stronghold; but only apparently, for time is not only ever moving,
but also moves others; it moves the castle toward growth and age. The
castle is really a living being, mysteriously connected with the fate
of the ruling family, of the country, and perhaps also with the fate
of a humble subject, who does not yet reveal his identity. These ruins
have their spirit; not a ghost, but _the_ spirit of the castle, put
into it by every one who, led by some vague impulse, approaches in
all sincerity so mighty a monument, receiving back from it in higher
potency what all have put there. In this way the curses of the poor
evicted women have become reality; two of these curses are already
fulfilled, and the third will surely come to pass when the predestined
lady of the castle appears, to bring for the first time after a hundred
years love and blessing, to save the castle and put men to shame. Who
is this noble lady, and when will she appear?” With this question
the book closed. As mentioned before, the Princess was much excited
by these words. Until now, to feel bored and to marry her hateful
cousin seemed to be her only vocation in life. The first she was not
responsible for, the second she intended to be fully responsible for.
But now she began to wonder if she were not called upon to save the
castle? It was not quite clear to her what there was about it to be
saved, but that did not matter. She had found her vocation in life:
she was going to save something. To begin with, she must first see the
castle.
A new spirit of insubordination awoke in her. Was it not her natural
right to see the home of her ancestors? and why should she be defrauded
of that right? For the first time she studied her own situation,
without prejudice, as a matter of principle, and she discovered that
she was kept imprisoned, led by leading-strings, bored, and made
stupid. “The house molds the person,” she had read. Yes, indeed, the
gilded cage of this tiresome castle had made a puppet of her. But that
was over now. A strong spirit of defiance began to stir in that pretty
head; Rousseau’s spirit was filling her, too, with fire and flame, and
all this through the influence of poor Burg Balzer, who knew nothing at
all about Rousseau.
It was just at this time, when the first storm of rebellion was
shaking the Princess’s world of thought, that the arrangements for her
marriage were to be completed. The visit by the young Count had been
announced three times, and three times apologies had been sent for
his not coming. The young man, just returned from his travels, could
not be induced to go to Westerau; he shuddered when he remembered
the days he had spent there as a child. In spite of this reluctance,
unflattering and unpromising as it was, the two fathers remained firm,
and the young people had to submit. The Princess, though hoping the
Count would remain at Blocksberg, was yet annoyed that he did not care
to see her. She declared to her father that she would say “No!” even
on the steps of the altar, and that no power on earth could make her
go to Vierstein. Such open rebellion had never been known before,
while the reasons with which Isabella supported her right to a voice
in the matter were simply unthinkable. The Prince ceased to recognize
his gentle daughter. He sent for her responsible guardian, Fräulein von
Martigny, to hear what she had to say about this paroxysm of revolt.
The frightened lady told him that she _had_ noticed a certain obstinacy
and extravagance in Isabella for several days; it had worried her
greatly, but she had not been able to discover the cause. The Prince,
accustomed to have everything settled according to his wishes promptly
and definitely, now commanded Fräulein von Martigny to take Isabella
for a walk in the garden. Within an hour he would look for the report
that Isabella had been brought to her senses.
But instead of coming to an understanding, the two ladies had a serious
quarrel; they did not raise their voices; their gestures were quite
within the rules of finest etiquette; but underneath it all poisoned
arrows and sharp thrusts were exchanged.
They had been walking for more than half an hour up and down, under
the orange trees in front of the castle, when suddenly they heard a
confused sound of angry voices coming from the gate. The two ladies
stopped: a man with long hair _sans_ powder and cue, in shabby clothes,
half rustic, half citified-looking, was trying to enter the castle,
while footmen were driving him back. He held a petition in his hand,
and kept calling out: “I must see the Prince! I _must_ see the Prince!”
The footmen told him that it was impossible, and would have quickly
overpowered him when, seeing the Princess, the man broke loose and ran
straight toward the ladies.
“Gracious Princess!” he cried, quite out of breath. “I am the
schoolmaster of Neideck! Help me! I must speak to your father, the
Prince! Danger is threatening!”
In great indignation Fräulein von Martigny drew the Princess away,
and the servants again laid hands on the excited man. But when
Isabella heard his name, she actually ordered the footmen to release
him. At such independence on Isabella’s part, Fräulein stood like a
statue turned to stone. Isabella now asked the schoolmaster for an
explanation. His words were not courtier-like, but they sounded all the
more natural for that. “Imagine, Princess!” he said, “the castle of
Neideck is to be demolished, blown up, leveled to the ground. It was
the steward who suggested it, and the Prince has given his assent. They
will begin work next week. Think of it! The home of your ancestors, the
country’s stronghold, the most beautiful edifice--in one word, Neideck
is to fall! And what makes the blow still more unbearable is the fact
that it is I who am the cause of it, I, who put the plan into the
steward’s head! In my history of the castle--”
“I have read it,” interrupted the Princess, smiling graciously, while
a smirk of pleased authorship passed over Philip’s rapt features. He
continued:
“In my history I explained the name of the Hasen Tower; perhaps you
know that the present steward Haas is a grandson of the one who cut his
throat in one of the rooms there. I had to tell all that, for truth is
the first duty of the historian, nothing but truth; the man who tells
only half the truth is a liar through and through. Well, the steward is
angry, and says that I have insulted his grandfather in his grave; and
that I did it in print, moreover, which is worse. He wished to dismiss
me from my position as teacher, but the inspector, my kind protector,
interfered. Now, as the steward can not send me away, he has determined
that the castle shall be destroyed. He alleges that it interferes with
the traffic. The traffic! Why, you can’t find any traffic over there,
even if you searched for it with spectacles. He asserts, too, that it
gives shelter to tramps--I am the only one who lives there; that it
threatens to collapse of itself any day. Well, then, if that is the
case, why does he want to demolish it? But those are idle pretexts; the
true reason is his grandfather’s suicide. See how one evil deed leads
to another! The Prince has agreed only because he has been falsely
informed. But I will explain everything to his Highness. If that
stronghold were destroyed, it would be a disgrace to the whole land,
and it would be not only my fault, but my death, too! Help me to an
audience, gracious Princess, an immediate audience with the Prince!”
Fräulein von Martigny called the footmen back and told them to take
that mad fellow away, but Isabella interposed: “My dear schoolmaster,
follow me!” Making a graceful motion with her fan, she advanced to the
entrance-hall and up the stairway, Balzer following with head erect.
In the mean while Fräulein was calling for _eau de lavande_, fell in a
swoon, so the footmen had to support her instead of the schoolmaster.
The Princess was taking a bold course; but one who breaks the chain
is stronger than one who has never worn it. When Isabella entered her
father’s room, the Prince thought she had come, dutifully as usual,
to submit herself to his will, with the lady who had influenced her
following. How astonished he was to see Burg Balzer’s face instead of
Fräulein von Martigny’s! He gave the imprudent man one piercing look,
whereupon Isabella began at once to explain, describing in a few words
the whole scene, and begging mercy for the castle, while Balzer fell on
his knees and, holding his petition aloft, cried: “Mercy! Mercy!”
With great self-possession the Prince touched the bell. When the valet
entered, the Prince ordered him to see that this impertinent intruder
of a schoolmaster leave the castle at once. It was done.
Alone with his daughter, he gave her a sharp lecture. Isabella
acknowledged that his reproaches were just, but was not her
intercession for the castle also just? She unfolded her reasons with
such enthusiasm that the old Prince listened in astonishment to an
eloquence never before suspected in his daughter. Fired by the spirit
of Philip’s book, she saw in the castle a living being, and prophesied
that in vain would remorse follow its destruction, as if one were to
kill a man and then call in the doctor.
But the Prince was inexorable. Though Isabella’s eloquence had made a
strong impression upon him, it was also quite different from the one
intended. He could not help thinking that if the Count only saw the
girl thus passionately excited he would like her better than he had
heretofore; he remembered, from times long past, that young people
admire strong passion. This led to another thought--only he was not
quite sure that it would be proper to express it. He said at last
in his coldest voice: “If you care so much for the castle, let us
exchange. I give you the castle and you give me your ‘Yes’ for the
Count!”
But now the Princess burned in righteous indignation. She called it
a shameless proposition, and affirmed that she would never marry her
cousin.
It was her last word. Her father, too, had nothing more to say. The
family jar was over.
After that events moved quickly. The Prince gave orders that for
criminally breaking the peace of the princely household and of the
palace the mad schoolmaster of Neideck must leave the castle within
twenty-four hours. Furthermore, the demolition of the castle must
commence as soon as possible. The Princess, too, was ordered to her
own room for an indefinite time, and the strictest watchfulness
exacted from her lady-in-waiting, for the unfortunate girl had shown
traces of a mental disorder that could be cured only by a life of
utter seclusion. As Count Vierstein was expected on the following
Sunday, the Prince wished, by any means, to prepare Isabella for his
coming, and thus to awaken love for him in her heart. His orders were
promptly executed. The dismissed schoolmaster disappeared from his
little house. He had not left the castle, however, for he was hiding
in the secret vault, where in the year 1757 he had faced the siege
without besiegers. There he spent all his days and nights, except in
the evening, when he would steal out into the village, and the peasants
would give him something to eat, keeping the matter a profound secret,
so that the steward should not continue to persecute him.
The mental condition of the poor schoolmaster, formerly so happy and
content, was pitiful. He never thought of his own misery, only of
the ruin that threatened the castle, all through his fault. He had
renounced his love, only to bring ruin to the castle; collected the
fund, only to see the castle demolished; written his history--to have
those glorious towers of Neideck blown up! Tormented by remorse, he
made up his mind, if it should ever really come to _that_, he would be
at the bridge leading to the Hasen Tower at the right moment.
VII
Princess Isabella, too, was not enjoying a very happy time of it. For
six days she did not see a human being save her maid and Fräulein von
Martigny. That old lady was preaching repentance in every possible key
and tune; Isabella did not listen. In these sermons Count Vierstein
was not mentioned as often as he should have been, but the old lady
continued to remark at frequent intervals that he would come the
following Sunday without fail. Isabella was silent. The readings from
the French classics were three times as long as usual; Isabella did not
notice it. She only thought and thought of all the suffering she had
endured in this stupid castle from her childhood on. She determined to
get away from it at any cost. Yet she did not know where to go.
Saturday night had come. Fräulein was just reading in Boileau’s tenth
epistle: “In vain do I stop you; my remonstrance is vain--go, depart!”
when a distant, dull thunder shook the air, rattling all the windows.
The old lady was startled, but kept on reading all the louder; she
knew, it seemed, what the noise meant, and was trying to divert her
prisoner’s attention. But it was not necessary: Isabella was so deep in
thought that she had no more heard the report than she had the verses
of Boileau.
It soon grew dark, and every one went to bed early, as usual. Isabella
slept very little; at four o’clock the bright sunshine awakened her
again. It was the Sunday at last on which the Count was to appear. She
looked through the open window out over the dewy landscape; her eyes
sought the distant castle, the only object which she ever watched with
interest, often with tears in her eyes; but, oh, horrible! the castle
had only one tower left! At first the Princess thought that the sun,
shining into her face, had caused an optical illusion. She ran for her
spyglass; then she recognized the sad truth: the castle had now but one
tower, the other, the Hasen Tower, had been blown up last night when
that dull report made the windows rattle.
Isabella was beside herself with grief and anger. She had firmly
believed that her father would show mercy to the castle, if only to
please her, and she hoped that such a sign of his love might lead to a
reconciliation and help her to begin a new life in her father’s house,
one more worthy of living. Such had been her thoughts during rare and
more hopeful hours. And every day she had been looking upon the still
intact castle as a promise of the future; but now, to-day, the first
tower had fallen, her father remained unmoved, and--the Count was
coming! She dressed herself, threw a shawl over her head, and stole on
tiptoe from the room, down the staircase into the castle-yard. No one
noticed her at this early hour. A small gate stood open; she hurried
out, not knowing what she was doing or whither she was going; at least,
she had once more willed something and done something. The fresh air
was inspiring, and her spirits felt uplifted on the wings of the
morning wind.
Instinctively she walked in the direction of the castle, at first
hurrying like a fugitive, but soon moderating her pace, for, though no
one recognized her, still she was attracting the attention of the few
people she happened to meet. At last she asked herself, where would she
go? Her resolution was quickly formed: to Neideck. And what then? She
did not know. But once up in the castle, she would be far away from her
own home, and for the present that was enough.
Not accustomed, however to such long tramps, she soon grew tired, her
knees shook, her eyes filled with tears; but even then she did not give
up, and two hours later arrived at Neideck, where in the castle-yard
she fell to the ground, completely exhausted. It grew dark before
her eyes; she heard the ringing of the church-bells, the humming of
bees; she noticed the fragrance of the elder blossoms, but she did not
realize where she was, and lay as in a dream.
A voice roused her. Some one asked anxiously: “What is the matter,
young woman?” She looked up. A young man in traveling clothes, with
boots and spurs, stood before her, looking at her kindly. She did not
answer, but searched him sharply with her eyes; there was something
familiar in his face, but she could not remember where she had seen it.
“What are you doing here so early in the morning?” he asked.
“I am looking for the schoolmaster,” stammered Isabella. It was all she
could think of.
“I am looking for him, too,” remarked the young man. “This Burg Balzer
is certainly a remarkable man: something of a fool, no doubt, like all
original people. But he no longer lives here; he has been dismissed
and sent away, as one of the peasants told me; sent away because he
conducted himself very improperly toward the Princess Isabella.”
“That is not true!” said Isabella. “At least, not as far as the
Princess is concerned.”
“Oh, yes,” the stranger assured her. “There is no joking with this
Isabella; she _is_ such a bore!”
“Perhaps she is more bored than boring,” replied Isabella.
The stranger looked at her attentively. “Who are you, I wonder, that
you know so much about this? Perhaps a lady’s maid from the castle?”
She stammered timidly: “Yes.” She had learned so little, did not know
how to tell even a lie.
“Well, if that is so, I wish you would tell me a little about your
mistress. I heard that she was quite a nice-looking puppet, pulled by a
string, either by her father or her lady-in-waiting. Is she not going
to marry Count Vierstein in the near future?”
“She is not quite such a puppet as you think!” cried Isabella, very
indignantly, and in quite another tone. “The string is broken; she is
_not_ going to marry this wild Count, not under any circumstances!”
“Oh, oh! Is the Count really so wild? And how do you know that?”
“He lives only among hunters, horses, dogs, and soldiers, and roams the
woods all day long!”
“So, so! And why are you roaming through old castles all alone, my
highly virtuous young woman?”
“I? Oh, I wished to see the schoolmaster and the--the tower that was
blown up yesterday,” Isabella answered, very much embarrassed.
“Well, I intended to see the tower too; the schoolmaster’s book
interested me--”
“Have you read his book? That was the reason _I_ came here,”
interrupted Isabella.
“It is an absurd book,” the stranger went on. “But the man’s feeling
for his castle is true and strong. After reading his book you feel
drawn toward this place, whether you wish to come or not.”
“That is just what happened to me,” whispered the Princess.
“There is a sentimental maid for you,” thought the stranger. “They are
becoming very frequent in our philosophical century.”
“That young man has a good heart and clear head,” thought Isabella. As
far back as she could remember he was the first person who had ever
shown her any sympathy.
“Oh, see here,” he suddenly broke out aloud and straightened himself.
“I can not play a part. I am Count Vierstein, whom you called ‘the
wild Count.’ And if I do roam about in God’s nature all day long, I
get more joy and pleasure out of it than do your pale people who live
indoors. I can see the sun rising here from this enchanted castle, as
I did to-day--and--I am furious at the people over there in Westerau
who, without further ado, are barbarous enough to blow up the home of
their ancestors. You may tell your mistress so; I shall see her myself
to-day, but shall not have much to say to her, certainly nothing about
this.”
For a while Isabella stood speechless with terror. But the Count did
not look at all wicked; in fact, he was quite handsome; and not nearly
so ill-mannered as Fräulein von Martigny had described him; on the
contrary, he seemed to her kind and very tactful. This consideration
lessened her terror. Should she tell him? But shame closed her lips.
Finally she controlled herself and whispered: “Are you really on the
way to Westerau? Several times you have been expected there, but always
in vain.”
“Well, it is a rough road, this journey after a bride!” the Count
sighed. “However, I must go through with it; my father wishes it,
and children must obey their parents, so says the Bible. But there is
a limit to our obedience; I will go to Westerau and do all that is
necessary and proper, but if I then dislike this Princess as much as I
do from a distance--and I have little doubt of that--and if she herself
intends to give me, as you say, a very decided refusal--then I can
ride back home with a light and happy heart, having done my duty. My
attendants are awaiting me down in the village. It is too early to make
a call, and I wish once more to breathe freely here in Burg Balzer’s
incomparable castle before I start on the rough road I have to travel.
There, now, you know my whole history!”
Isabella drew the shawl closer over her head and looked out into the
valley. She saw there a group of horsemen, followed by a carriage;
the horsemen were galloping toward the castle, and in the lead, as
they came nearer, she recognized her father. With an imploring cry she
turned to the Count: “Save me! That is my father there, the Prince! I
am Isabella. Save me, protect me from my father. Do not let them take
me back into that hateful castle; it would kill me!”
The Count was covered with surprise. “You are really Isabella, my dear
cousin? But you don’t look at all like your pictures, and your speech
is quite different from your letters. But why are you so afraid of your
father. Did you run away from him?”
“Yes, because he tried to make me marry--you!”
“Well,” thought the Count, “she at least has a will of her own, and
wishes to refuse me in her own way.”
“But not only on that account am I afraid,” the Princess continued,
“but because I was shut into my room as punishment for wishing to save
the castle and for taking the schoolmaster to my father on my own
responsibility!”
“On your own responsibility?” the Count repeated very cheerfully. “Then
you _did_ run away after all?” Isabella did not answer. “Why did you
not run away long ago? We would have known each other so much sooner.
And, and--are you often so excited as you are to-day?”
“Oh, no; that is only here in Neideck; below, in the castle, it is very
different.”
“You see,” said the Count, “it is the bracing air that does it! You
must be out of doors more, ride horseback, go hunting; then you will
get rosy cheeks! By the way, the air in Vierstein is much better than
it is down there in Westerau!”
But the poor girl only kept on imploring, “My father! Save me!” All at
once they heard a voice whisper, “Quick, come here, this is the best
hiding-place you can find! I wished to keep it a secret from every one,
but to save the gracious Princess I gladly sacrifice my secret, my
head, everything! Come here, the entrance is not far away.”
The Count turned and saw a strange figure, that would have made him
laugh if he had not been provoked. “What does the fellow mean?”
“Pardon me, sir, I am Burg Balzer, whom you came to see. Sitting under
the elder-bush here, I could not help hearing the whole conversation.
I beg you to forgive me! But come, waste no more time!”
“My dear friend,” answered the Count coolly, “we will look at your
vault some other time; on the contrary, you had better come over here,
where I can protect both of you. I am not used to hiding.”
The Prince rode into the castle yard; his foaming horse reared in front
of the group: Count Vierstein in the middle, at his right the Princess,
at his left Burg Balzer.
At first the Prince did not recognize the Count; then answering the
latter’s bow, he exchanged a few words with him, surprised at meeting
him here and under such circumstances. After a while the Prince turned
to Isabella: “Come here, you shameless girl!” And then to the Count:
“Unheard-of things have happened, cousin! And before I do my duty as
host, I must do my duty as father. Down there at the foot of the hill
a carriage is awaiting you, Isabella; the curtains are closely drawn.
You will step into the carriage; Fräulein von Martigny is expecting
you; everything is so arranged that you can drive home and reach your
room without being seen. A Princess of Westerau, who ran away! Who ever
heard of such a thing in the whole history of our family!”
Firmly, though very respectfully, Count Vierstein came forward.
“Forgive me, most gracious prince and cousin, if I do not give up the
Princess to you; at least, not against her will. She has placed herself
under my protection, and as a man of honor I must grant it to her.”
The Prince was astounded completely. What! Isabella had placed herself
under the Count’s protection, and at the same time had run away only to
escape the Count.
Burg Balzer, taking advantage of his bewilderment, pressed forward,
forgot his fear of horses, until almost touching that of the Prince,
and begged for mercy toward his castle. For answer the Prince called to
his outrider: “Drive this fool down the mountain with your whip!”
Again the Count interceded: “This man, too, is under my protection, and
I beg your Highness to leave him to me for the present!”
“My dear cousin,” laughed the Prince angrily, “do you claim sovereign
rights over my family and my subjects? Perhaps I am no longer master
here on my own soil!”
“Indeed,” answered the Count, “I would be very much pleased if you
would place that, too, under my protection! The castle would be a
perfect gem in my dear cousin’s dowry, and I am beginning to hope that
she may not repulse this wild fellow when once she comes to know him
better!”
“What! Courting and marriage contract here in the open road?
Preposterous!” said the Prince. But all at once he seemed to be in the
best of humors. Burg Balzer pulled the Count’s sleeve and whispered
mysteriously: “I have discovered the most beautiful place for the
wedding ceremony; it is right here under our feet.” Even the Prince was
listening now. “While I was in hiding, and having nothing else to do,
I succeeded in clearing out the rubbish from the passageway, and oh,
joy! I found a beautiful crypt under the old chapel. For centuries it
had been buried underneath, and it has three heavy antique columns, the
capitals of which are ornamented with eagles and lions--”
“A wedding in the cellar? Preposterous!” interrupted the Prince.
“You are a fool, schoolmaster! There! I have called you by mistake
‘schoolmaster’; you may be one again! A man’s word is as good as his
bond!”
As this did not seem the proper place for further discussion, the
Prince decided to lead his daughter to the carriage and to accompany
her with his attendants to the castle. The Count was to stay here about
two hours longer--perhaps visit the crypt--in order to give the people
in Westerau time to prepare a reception with all honors. Everything
else could then be arranged in proper form.
* * * * *
Four weeks later the schoolmaster, who had received by decree the
additional dignity of castellan in Neideck, ordered ten men to come
to the castle yard and raise from the well the old cannon that had
been buried there since 1757. After three days’ labor they succeeded
in dragging it out and hoisting it into its old place near the castle
gate, ready to salute at the wedding of Princess Isabella and her
cousin Frederick, which was to take place the following day in the
chapel of Castle Westerau.
While Balzer was leaning against the cannon, in a very comfortable and
contemplative frame of mind, the inspector came up the mountain, put
his hand on the schoolmaster’s shoulder, and said: “Well, schoolmaster,
what about your prophecy of the lady of high rank who was to save the
castle? It seems to me the Princess did _not_ do it after all, and the
Count did. And who are the men that have been put to shame?”
Philip replied: “Count or countess, it does not matter, so long as
the castle is saved! But it is a pity they did not let that tower
stand one day longer; it could have lasted a thousand years to come.
Prophecies never are fulfilled to the letter, or people would all be
superstitious. With regard to the humiliated men--well, what about the
steward and the Prince himself? Only one must not even think of that,
far less say so. After all, we can see in all this again how a just
power guides the fate of men as well as of castles. Neideck has always
been a good, true stronghold: in its first youth it was the cradle
of our ruling family; in the prime of its existence it was a place
of refuge for all around; now it has grown old and has retired into
private life. But even so it has given to our Princess an excellent
husband, and to a poor schoolmaster the prospect of a happy old age.
May it prosper for many years to come.”
FOOTNOTES:
[1] About eighty cents.
THE YOUNG GIRL OF TREPPI
BY PAUL JOHANN LUDWIG HEYSE
[Illustration]
_Heyse, creator in the art of poetry, fiction, and the drama,
is opposed to the new materialism._
_First known as one of Germany’s most original writers of
narrative poetry, he gradually worked his way into the short
story. Brandes, most influential of living critics, once said
of these “Novellen” of Heyse’s: “The Novelle, as he has made
it, is an entirely original and independent creation, his
actual property.”_
_Heyse was born in Berlin in 1830. After devoting himself
to the study of languages, he settled in Munich, and with a
collection of “Märchen” began that remarkable series of tales
which he has brought, as Robert König says, to such genuine
artistic perfection. Popular as they all are, the two best are
thought to be “L’Arrabiata” and “The Young Girl of Treppi,” in
which his peculiar talent, the portrayal of strong, passionate
feminine nature, is signally displayed._
_Heyse’s style has been called the most perfect of modern
Germany._
[Illustration]
THE YOUNG GIRL OF TREPPI
BY PAUL HEYSE
Translated by R. W. Howes, 3d.
Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.
On a height of the Apennines where the mountains rise between Tuscany
and the northern part of the Papal States stands a lonely village of
herdsmen called Treppi. The paths that lead up to it are none of them
accessible by wagon. The road for post and vetturino, away toward
the south, many an hour’s travel, goes winding in and out over the
mountains in a wide, roundabout course. By way of Treppi pass only
the peasants who have business with the herdsmen, and occasionally a
painter or pedestrian who wishes to avoid the highways, and during the
night-time the contrabbandieri, or smugglers, with their pack-horses
that know better than any of them the way over the rocky passes leading
to the desolate village.
It was about the middle of October, a time when the evenings on these
heights usually grow clearer. But now, after the heat of the day, a
fine mist had rolled up out of the ravines and was spreading itself
slowly over the bare, rocky outlines of the majestic highlands. It was
perhaps nine o’clock at night. In the lowly, scattered huts of stone,
which by day were guarded only by the very old women and the very young
children, still feebly glimmered the lights of their hearth-fires.
Around the hearths, over which the big kettle swung, the herdsmen and
their families lay sleeping; the dogs stretched themselves beside the
ashes; on a heap of hides some sleepless old grandmother was still
sitting up, perhaps, mechanically plying her spindle back and forth
while she mumbled prayers or rocked a child that slept restlessly in
its cradle. Through holes in the walls, as big as your hand, the night
air oozed damp and earthy, and from the hearth-fire that was quickly
burning out, smothered by the fog, the smoke choked thickly back and
rolled along the ceiling of the huts without seeming to trouble the old
woman in the least. After a while she, too, slept as well as she could,
with her eyes wide open.
In one home alone was there sign of life. Like the others, this hut
was but one story high; but the stones were better laid, the door was
wider and higher, and against the broad, square building that formed
the dwelling proper were supported various sheds, lean-tos stalls, and
a well-bricked oven. Before the door of the house stood a group of
packed horses, from whose noses a young lad was tugging away at the
empty meal-bags, while from the house came six or seven armed men out
into the mist and hastily got their horses ready. As they started, a
very old dog that was lying near the door waved his tail in a leisurely
fashion; then he lifted himself wearily from the ground and swung
slowly into the hut, where the fire was still burning brightly. By
the hearth stood his mistress, facing the fire, her straight figure
motionless, her arms hanging down by her hips. As the dog touched
her hand with his soft nose, she turned, startled out of a reverie.
“Fuoco,” she said, “poor dog, you are sick!” The dog whined and moved
his tail gratefully. Then he crept near to the hearth onto an old hide
and stretched himself there, coughing and moaning.
In the mean time some of the servants had come in and seated themselves
around the great table before the empty platters which the departing
contrabbandieri had just left. An old maid-servant now filled them
again with polenta from the great kettle, and taking her own platter
sat down with the others. As they ate, not a word was spoken; the
fire crackled, the dog moaned hoarsely in his sleep, the grave young
girl sat down on the stone slab of the hearth, leaving untouched the
small plate of polenta which the maid had placed before her, and gazed
about the hall, lost in self-forgetfulness. The mist was now standing
before the door like a white wall. But behind the edge of the crags the
half-moon rose clear into the heavens.
Up the street came a sound like the beating of hoofs and footsteps.
“Pietro!” called the young mistress of the house in a quiet, reminding
tone. A tall fellow rose quickly from the table and disappeared into
the fog.
The footsteps and voices were now heard coming nearer; at length the
horse stopped before the hut. Still a little while and three men
appeared under the doorway and entered with a curt “good evening.”
Pietro approached the young woman who was gazing without interest into
the fire. “They are two men from Porretta,” he said to her, “without
any merchandise; they are guiding a signor over the mountains, whose
passport is not in order.”
“Nina!” called the young woman. The old serving-maid got up and came
toward the hearth.
“It isn’t that they only want to eat, padrona,” continued the fellow.
“Maybe the signor can have a night’s lodging, too. He wishes to go no
farther before daybreak.”
“Make up a straw bed for him in the lean-to.” Pietro nodded and went
back to the table.
The three had taken their places without the servants deigning to give
them any particular attention. Two of them were contrabbandieri, well
armed, their cloaks thrown lightly about them, their hats drawn well
down over their foreheads. They nodded a friendly greeting to the
others, as to old acquaintances, and after they had given place to
their companion, they made the sign of the cross, and began to eat.
The gentleman who had come with them ate nothing. He removed the hat
from his high brow, passed his hand through his hair, and let his eyes
wander over the place and the company. On the walls he read the sacred
texts drawn in charcoal, saw in the corner the picture of the Madonna
with the little lamp burning before it, and close by the fowls asleep
on their perches; then the ears of corn, strung in rows, hanging from
the ceiling; a board with jugs and wicker bottles on it, hides and
baskets arranged in rows one upon the other. At last his eyes were
arrested by the young woman at the hearth. Her dark profile showed
severe and beautiful against the flickering glow of the fire, a great
mass of black braids coiled low on her neck, her hands were lying
locked together over one knee, while her other foot rested on the stone
floor of the hall. What her age was he could not guess. But by her
bearing he knew that she was mistress of the house.
“Have you any wine in the house, padrona?” he then asked. Scarcely had
he spoken these words when the young girl sprang up as if struck by
lightning, and stood rigidly by the hearth with both arms supporting
her against the ledge. At the same instant the dog, too, started out of
his sleep. A savage growl broke from his coughing breast. The stranger
saw all at once four kindling eyes fastened upon him.
“May I not ask if you have wine in the house, padrona?” he now
repeated. Before the last word was finished, the dog, howling loudly,
sprang upon him with unaccountable fury and with his teeth tore the
cloak from the man’s shoulders, and would have broken loose upon him
again and again had not a sharp command from his mistress restrained
him.
“Back, Fuoco, back! Peace, be quiet!” The dog stood in the middle
of the room, beating heavily with his tail, his eyes fixed on the
stranger. “Shut him up in the stall, Pietro!” said the young woman,
half-aloud. She stood at the hearth, rigid as always, and, as Pietro
hesitated, repeated the order. For the nightly place of the old dog had
been for years by the hearth. The servants whispered one to the other,
the dog followed reluctantly, and from without the howling and whining
penetrated unpleasantly into the room until it seemed to cease from
sheer exhaustion. In the mean time the maid-servant, at a sign from
her mistress, had brought wine. The stranger drank, handed the beaker
to his companion, and fell into silent reflection over the surprising
disturbance he had so unwittingly caused. One after the other the
servants put down their spoons and passed out with a “good night,
padrona!” At last the three were alone with their hostess and the old
serving-maid.
“The sun rises at four o’clock,” said one of the contrabbandieri to the
stranger. “Excellency, it is not necessary to start much earlier to be
at Pistoja in good time. It’s on account of the horse, that must have
his six hours’ rest.”
“Very good, my friend. Go and sleep!”
“We will awaken you, Excellency.”
“By all means,” replied the stranger. “Though Madonna knows, I do not
often sleep six hours at a stretch. Good night, Carlone; good night,
Master Giuseppe!”
The men removed their hats respectfully and stood up. One went to the
hearth and said: “Padrona, I have a message from Costanzo from Bologna,
who wants to know if it was at your house he left his knife lying last
Saturday.”
“No,” she said sharply and impatiently.
“I told him you would have sent it back to him long ago if it had been
there. And then--”
“Nina,” she broke in, “show them the way to the lean-to if they have
forgotten it.”
The maid-servant rose. “I was only going to say, Padrona,” continued
the man calmly, with a quiet twinkle in his eyes, “that this gentleman
here would not look twice at his money if you gave him a softer bed
than ours. That is what I wanted to tell you, Padrona, and now may the
Blessed Virgin send you a good night, Signora Fenice!”
With that he turned to his companion, and, like him, bowed low before
the picture in the corner, crossed himself, and with the serving-maid
both left the room. “Good night, Nina!” called the young girl. The old
woman turned at the threshold, made a sign of inquiry, then closed the
door behind her quickly and obediently. Scarcely were they alone, when
Fenice took up the brass lamp that stood at the side of the hearth and
quickly lighted it. The fire was gradually dying out in the hearth; the
three tiny, red flames of the lamp lighted only one small corner of the
room. The darkness seemed to have made the stranger drowsy, for he was
sitting at the table, his head lying on his arms, his cloak wrapped
close about him, as if he intended to pass the night that way. Then he
heard his name called; he looked up. The lamp was burning on the table
before him; opposite stood the young padrona who had called him. With
irresistible power her look drew his toward her. “Filippo,” said she,
“don’t you know me any more?” For a long time he looked searchingly
into the beautiful face which was all aglow in the light of the lamp,
and still more so from anxiety. The long, yielding eyelashes, as they
slowly lifted and fell, softened the severity of the forehead and of
the slenderly formed nose. Her mouth was a bloom of the rosiest youth;
only, when it was silent it had a touch of resignation, sorrow, and
wildness, which the dark eyes did not contradict.
And now, as she stood at the table, the stern beauty of her figure
showed itself, especially the superb lines of her neck and throat.
Nevertheless, after a minute’s thought, Filippo said:
“Truly, I do not know you, Padrona.”
“It is not possible,” she said, in a strange, deep tone of assurance.
“You have had seven years to be thinking about me. It is a long
time--surely long enough for the picture to have made an impression.”
This unlooked-for reply seemed all at once to break the spell of his
preoccupation. “Of course, my girl,” said he, “who thinks for seven
years of nothing else save the beautiful head of a young woman must
come at last to know it by heart.”
“Yes,” said she with meaning, “it is quite true, you said so then, that
you would think of nothing else.”
“Seven years ago? Seven years ago I was a light-hearted, joking fellow.
And you believed that in good faith?”
She nodded three times, earnestly. “Why should I not believe it?
Indeed, I have even learnt it through my own experience that you said
right.”
“Child,” said he with a relenting look that well became his determined
features, “I am sorry. Seven years ago, very likely, I still thought
all women knew that the tender words of men were worth little more than
the counters which we occasionally exchange for ringing gold, a matter
of course that has been expressly agreed upon beforehand. What did I
not think of you women seven years ago! Now, truly, I seldom think
of you at all. Dear child, there are things so much more important to
think about.”
She was silent, as if she understood nothing of all this and was
willing to wait quietly until he said something that really concerned
her.
“It is surely beginning to dawn upon me,” he said after a moment’s
thought, “that I have traveled over this part of the mountain before.
Perhaps I should have recognized this village and this house if it had
not been for the mist. Yes, yes, it is the place in the mountains, of
course, where the doctor sent me seven years ago, and where I stormed
up and down the most inaccessible places, like a fool.”
“I was sure of it,” she said, and a little ray of joy lighted on
her lips. “I was sure you could not have forgotten. The dog, Fuoco,
certainly did not forget it, neither his old hate of you--nor I--my
old love.” She said this so cheerfully and with such assurance that he
looked at her with increasing surprise.
“I do seem to remember now a young girl,” said he, “whom I met once
on a height of the Apennines, and who guided me to the home of her
parents. I should otherwise have been obliged to pass the night on the
cliffs. I even remember that I was pleased--”
“Yes,” she broke in, “very much!”
“But I didn’t please the maiden. I had a long conversation with her,
to which she contributed not above ten words. When I thought at last
to awaken the sleeping, sullen, sad little mouth with a kiss--I see
her now as she sprang away from me to one side and picked up a stone
in each hand, so that I hardly came off without being well stoned. If
_you_ are the maiden, how is it that you now talk to me about your old
love?”
“I was fifteen years of age, Filippo, and very shy. I was always
defiant and solitary, and did not know how to express myself. And then,
too, I was afraid of my parents, who were still living at that time,
as you afterward came to know. My father controlled many herds and
herdsmen, and this inn here. There has been little change since then.
Only he orders and scolds here no more--may his soul rest in Paradise!
And before my mother I was shyest of all. Do you not know, you were
sitting then at this very spot and praised the wine we had brought from
Pistoja? I heard no more than this. My mother was looking sharply at
me, so I went out and placed myself behind the window so that I could
still look at you. You were younger, of course, but not better looking.
You have to-day the same eyes with which you used to conquer when you
wished, and the same mysterious voice which so aroused the jealousy of
the dog, poor beast! Till then I had loved no one but him! He knew it,
that I loved you more, he knew it better than you did.”
“He was like a mad dog that night, and justly,” said Filippo. “A
wonderful night! But you had seriously bewitched me, Fenice. I know
that I had no rest when you were unwilling to return to the house
again, that I started up and went out to look for you. I caught one
glimpse of the little white kerchief you wore on your head, and then no
more of you, for you sprang into the room next to the stable.”
“That was my bedroom, Filippo. You did not dare to go in there.”
“But I was going to. I still remember how long I stood and knocked and
begged, bad fellow that I was, and thought that I should lose my head
if I could not see you once more.”
“Your head? No, your heart, you said. I remember all the circumstances,
the words, everything!”
“Yet you wished to know nothing of them then.”
“I was in a mood to die. I stood in the farthest corner and thought
that if only I could still the beating of my heart, creep to the door,
put my mouth to the crack through which you were speaking, I could feel
your breath.”
“Foolish, doting time of youth! If your mother had not come I might
have been standing there still; for in the mean time you might have
opened the door. I am almost ashamed, even now, to think how I went
away in vexation and fury, and had a long dream about you all that
night.”
“I sat up in the dark and watched,” said she. “Toward morning I fell
asleep, and when I awoke and saw the sun--where were you? No one spoke
of it to me, and I dared not ask. To see a human face was hateful to
me, just as if they had killed you so that I should not see you any
more. Out I rushed, running and then stopping still, up and down the
mountain, all the time calling for you, cursing you, for because of you
I could now love no more. At last I came down into the valley; then I
got frightened and turned back again. I had been away two days when
I got home. My father beat me and my mother would not speak to me.
They knew very well why I had run away. And the dog went with me, good
Fuoco; but when I shouted your name out into the stillness, he growled.”
There followed a pause, while the eyes of the two rested on each other.
Then Filippo spoke: “How long have your parents been dead?”
“Three years. They died that same week--may their souls rest in
Paradise! Then I went to Florence.”
“To Florence?”
“Yes, you said you were going to Florence. The wife of the café-keeper
outside the walls over there by the side of San Miniato, to her some of
the smugglers directed me. For one month I lived there, and every day
they sent into the city to make inquiries about you. In the evenings I
went down there myself and looked for you. At last we heard that you
had gone long since--no one quite knew whither.”
Filippo stood up and restlessly paced the room. Fenice turned toward
him, her eyes followed him, yet she showed no sign of agitation, such
as now moved him. Finally he came up to her, looked at her a moment,
and then said:
“And to what purpose do you confess all this to me, poveretta?”
“I have been seven years getting my courage together. Oh! if I had only
confessed to you then, it would not have caused me so much sorrow, this
cowardly heart. But I knew that you must come back, Filippo; only that
it would last for such a long time, that I did not know--that made me
sad. I am a child to speak so. Why trouble myself about what is past?
Filippo, you are there, and I am here and yours always, always!”
“Dear child,” he began softly, and then silenced what was on the tip of
his tongue. But she did not perceive how quietly and thoughtfully he
was standing before her, staring vacantly beyond her toward the wall.
She continued speaking calmly; it was as if the words had long become
familiar to her, as if she had imagined them a thousand times in her
loneliness: He will come and thus and so will you speak to him.
“I had many an opportunity to marry up here, and while I was at
Florence. I wanted you only. When they implored me and spoke honeyed
words to me, your voice sounded out of that far-away night, your
speeches that were sweeter than all other words in the world. For
several years now they have been leaving me in peace, although I am
not old yet, and am still as--fair as ever I was. It was as if they
all knew you were coming back soon.” Then again: “Where are you going
to take me now? Will you remain up here? No, for you, that will never
do. Since I was in Florence I have learned that life in the mountains
is dreary. We will sell the house and the herds, then I shall be rich.
I am tired of the wild life of these people up here. In Florence they
had to teach me all a young city woman should know, and they were
astonished how quickly I learned everything. Truly I had little time to
spare, and all my dreams kept telling me that it would be up here where
you would seek me again. I inquired, too, of a fortune-teller, and it
has all turned out just as she said.”
“And if I already have a wife?”
She looked straight at him from her full height. “You are only wishing
to prove me, Filippo! You have no wife. That, too, the fortune-teller
told me. But where you lived, that she did not know.”
“You are right, Fenice, I have no wife. But whence does she know, or
you, that I shall ever be willing to take one?”
“How could you _not_ wish for me?” said she with unshaken confidence.
“Sit down here by me, Fenice! I have much to tell you. Give me your
hand; promise that you will hear me patiently to the end, my poor
little friend!” As she did none of all these things, he continued with
a quickening pulse, standing in front of her, his eyes resting sadly
upon her, while her own, as if foreboding something that would threaten
her very life, now closed and now strayed to the ground.
“For years I have been compelled to keep away from Florence,” he began.
“As you know, there were at that time those political uprisings, that
kept wavering so long, this way and that. I am a lawyer, and so know
hosts of people, and write and receive a great number of letters
throughout the year. Added to this, I was an independent, spoke my mind
when it was necessary and was heartily hated, although I never wished
to thrust any hand of mine into their secret game. Finally it became
necessary for me to fly if I wished to escape an endless trial and
imprisonment that would be neither for profit nor purpose. I went to
Bologna, practised law for a living, and saw few people, women least
of all; for of the gay young fellow for whom you have been wearing
your heart out for seven years, there is nothing left, except that my
head, or my heart, if you will, is still ready to burst if I can not
be conquering something--in these days to be sure something other than
the bolt of a pretty girl’s bedroom door. You have heard, perhaps, how
at the last there was also a disturbance at Bologna. They had arrested
certain highly respected men, among them one whose way of living I had
known for a long time, and knew, too, that his spirit was far from
these matters. After that a miserable government undertook to reform
matters, much as if a sickness had broken out among your sheep and you
sent a wolf into the fold. But that is neither here nor there. Enough
that my friend begged me to plead his cause for him, and that I helped
him to gain his freedom. No sooner had this become known, when one day
a wretched fellow came running up to me on the street and covered me
with insults. I could not get rid of him except by thrusting him aside
with my arm against his chest, for he was intoxicated. Scarcely had I
found myself out of the crowd and had stepped into a café, when there
came toward me a relative of this man, also intoxicated, not with wine
but with venom and anger, and upbraided me as if I had been guilty of
answering words with blows, instead of doing what every man of honor
would have done. I answered as calmly as I could, for I now perceived
that the whole affair was a preconcerted plan of the government to
force me shamelessly into a duel. So one word led to another until my
enemy at last won his game. He pretended that he was obliged to go into
Tuscany, and insisted that the affair should be settled over there. I
agreed, for it was time that one of us calm members should prove to the
hot-heads that the cause of our restraint was not lack of spirit, but
simply the hopelessness of all private intrigue when opposed to such
superior power. But when, the day before yesterday, I applied for a
passport, it was refused me--unless I were willing to give my reasons;
these were the orders of the supreme authority, so they said. It was
now clear to me that they wanted either to draw me into disgrace by
causing me to miss the duel, or to force me to steal over the border in
some sort of disguise, where I could safely be caught in ambush. Then
they would have pretext enough to bring legal action against me and to
prolong the trial to suit their convenience.”
“The wretches! The God-forsaken!” broke in the young girl, and clenched
her hands.
“So nothing remained but to trust myself to the contrabbandieri in
Poretta. Early in the morning, so they tell me, we can reach Pistoja.
The duel is arranged for the afternoon, in a garden just outside of the
town.”
Impetuously she grasped his hand in both of hers. “Do not go down
there, Filippo,” she said. “They will murder you.”
“Of course, that is what they want, child, nothing less. But how do you
know it?”
“I know it here and--here!” and with her finger she touched her
forehead and her heart.
“You also are a witch, a soothsayer,” he continued, laughing. “Yes,
I think they do wish to murder me. My adversary is the best shot in
Tuscany. They have done me the honor to oppose to me a distinguished
foe. Now I, too, will not altogether disgrace myself. Yet who knows
how regular the proceedings will be? Who can tell? Or perhaps you have
magic enough to prophesy that too? But what good would it do, child? It
could not alter facts.”
“Now you must drive it out of your mind,” he continued after a short
silence, “this following the bent of your foolish old love. Perhaps
everything has had to turn out so, that I might not leave the world
until I had set you free, free from yourself and your unhappy loyalty,
poor child. Think, we may have been poorly suited to one another.
Your loyalty was given to another Filippo, a young coxcomb with giddy
lips, and carefree except for love. What would you have done with a
melancholy brooder, a hermit?” During the last half of the sentence he
spoke to himself, pacing up and down, but now he went up to her, and
as he was about to seize her by the hand he stopped, shocked by the
expression of her face. All the gentleness had gone from her manner,
all the color from her lips.
“You do not love me!” she said, slowly and dully, as if another spirit
were speaking out of her, as if she were listening to her own words in
order to learn what was really meant. Then she drew back her hand with
a cry, so that the tiny flames in the lamp threatened to go out. And
from without the ear was suddenly chilled by an angry whine and howl
from the dog.
“You do not love me, no, no!” she cried, as if beside herself. “Can you
give yourself over to death rather than into my arms? Can you speak
calmly of your death as if it were not mine, too? It were better for me
if these eyes were blind rather than see you again, and these ears had
become dumb before they were forced to hear the cruel voice by which I
live and die. Why did the dog not tear you to pieces before I knew that
you had come? Why did your foot not slip on the edge of the precipice?
Alas! Alas! Behold my sorrow, O Madonna!”
She flung herself before the picture, lay with her forehead to the
ground, her hands spread far from her, and seemed to pray.
Between the murmurs and groans of the unhappy girl the man heard
the alarm of the dog, while the moon now gained its full power and
illuminated the whole room. And now before he could collect himself or
speak a word he felt her arms about his neck again, her mouth on his
throat and hot tears falling over his face.
“Do not go to your death, Filippo!” sobbed the poor girl. “If you stay
here with me, who will ever find you? Let them talk as they will, the
crowd of murderers, the cowardly wretches, more detestable than the
wolves of the Apennines! Yes,” she said, and looked up at him through
her streaming tears, “you will stay. The Madonna has sent you to
me--that I might save you. Filippo, I do not know what angry words
I spoke, but that they were angry I felt by the icy contraction here
at my heart from which the words relieved me. Forgive me for that. It
puts me in hell to think that love can be forgotten and loyalty trodden
under foot. Let us sit down here and consider the matter. Do you wish a
new house? We will build one. A change of company? We will send every
one away, even Nina, even the old dog shall go. And if you think then
they may betray you--why we will go ourselves, even to-day, now. I
know all the paths, and before the sun rises we will be deep among the
ravines on our way toward the north, and wandering, wandering to Genoa,
to Venice, wherever you will.”
“Stop!” said he sternly. “It is enough folly. You can not be my wife,
Fenice. Even if they do not kill me to-morrow, it will not be for long,
for I know how I am in their toils.” Quietly but firmly he released his
neck from her arms.
“See! my child,” he continued, “things are unhappy enough as they
stand, and we ought not to make them worse through want of reason.
Perhaps when you hear of my death later, your eyes will be resting on a
husband and beautiful children, and you will be thankful the dead man
of this night had more wisdom than you, even as in that other night you
had more wisdom than he. Let me go to rest now. Go you, too, and take
care we do not see each other again in the morning. You have a good
reputation, as I learnt from my contrabbandieri on the way here. Should
we see each other in the morning, and should you make a scene--you
understand, my child? And now, good night, good night, Fenice!” Then
once more he begged her earnestly for her hand. But she did not give
it to him. She looked absolutely white in the moonlight; her brows and
lowered eyelashes all the darker.
“Have I not sufficiently atoned for having enjoyed seven years ago
one long night of too much happiness? And now he wills that this
thousand-times accursed happiness shall make me unhappy again, and this
time for the length of an eternity? No, no, no! I will never let him
go! I would dishonor myself before all men if he should go away and
die.”
“Did you not hear,” he broke in sharply, “that it is my will to rest?
Why do you talk with such infatuation, making yourself ill? If you can
not feel that honor must tear me from you, then you can never be fit
for me. I am no doll on your lap to be fondled and joked with. My paths
I have marked out before me, and they are too narrow for two. Show me
the hide on which I am to pass the night and then--let us forget each
other!”
“Though you drive me from you with blows, I will not leave you! If
death places himself between us, with these good arms I will save you
from him. In death and life--you are mine, Filippo!”
“Be still!” he cried aloud. The color rose suddenly to his forehead,
as with both arms he pushed the impetuous figure from him. “Be still!
And now it is over--now and forever. Am I a _thing_ that can be dragged
to any one that calls for it--to any one whose eyes take a fancy to
it? You have been sighing for me for seven years--does that give you
the right to make me untrue to myself in the eighth? If you wished to
corrupt me, your method was badly chosen. Seven years ago I loved you
because you were different from what you are to-day. If you had flown
to my neck then, and had hoped to win my heart by boldness, I would
have set boldness against boldness, as I do to-day! Now, all is over
between us, and I know that the pity that moved me before was not love.
For the last time, where is my room?”
Sharply and coldly he said this, and in the silence that followed
he felt pain at the tone of his own voice. Yet he added not a word,
wondering in the stillness that she took it so much more calmly than he
had feared. Far rather would he now have soothed some stormy outburst
of her sorrow with kinder words. But she went past him coldly, threw
open a heavy wooden door not far from the hearth, in silence pointed to
the iron bolt, and then returned to the hearth again.
He entered and bolted the door behind him. Yet for a moment he stood
standing by the door, to listen to what she might be doing. But there
was not a sound of life in the room and not a stir could be heard in
the whole house save the restlessness of the dog, the pawing of the
horses in their stalls, and the whistling of the wind without which
was fast driving away the last streaks of the mist. The moon in all
its glory was now shining in the heavens, and it flooded the room as
Filippo drew a great bunch of heather out of a hole in the wall which
served as a window. He now plainly saw he was in Fenice’s room. There
against the wall stood her neat, narrow bed, near it a chest unlocked,
a small table, a little wooden bench, the walls hung with pictures of
saints and madonnas, a little bowl of holy water under the crucifix by
the door.
He now threw himself on the hard bed and felt the storm raging within
him. A few minutes, and he raised one foot about to hasten out and tell
her that he had hurt her only that he might heal her; then he stamped
on the ground, vexed at such effeminate weakness. “It is the one thing
that remains,” he said to himself, “if crimes and misfortunes are to
increase no more. Seven years, poor child!” A heavy comb, decorated
with little pieces of metal, lay on a small table; he took it up
mechanically in his hand. This brought to mind again the abundance of
her hair, the proud neck on which it rested, the noble forehead round
which it curled, and the browned cheeks. Then he threw the tempter into
the trunk, where he saw the neat dresses, kerchiefs for the head, and
bits of finery of all sorts, folded together carefully and in order.
Slowly he let the lid fall again, and then went to the hole in the wall
and looked out.
The room lay in the rear of the house, so that none of the other huts
of Treppi obstructed his view over the chasm-cleft highlands. Opposite,
stretching behind the ravine, was the naked ridge of rocks, bathed in
the moon that must now be standing directly over the house. At one
side he saw a few sheds, past which a path ran down into the abyss.
A forlorn little pine tree, with bare twigs, was trying to take root
among the stones; besides this only heather covered the ground, with
here and there some pitiable little bush. “Surely,” said he in the
stillness, “this is not a place in which to forget what one has loved.
I would it were otherwise! Yes, yes, she who has loved me more than
finery and flirting and the whispering of cox-combs would be the right
wife for me, after all. What eyes would my old Marco make if he saw me
suddenly return from my journey with a beautiful wife. Not once would
we need to change our abode; and how unhomelike are the innumerable
corners of solitude! And it would be good for me, at times--an old
grumbler, a laughing child--but folly, folly, Filippo! What would the
poor thing do as a widow in Bologna! No, no, none of that! No new sins
added to the old mass! I will rise an hour before the others, and steal
out and away before a soul in Treppi awakes.”
He was about to turn from the window to stretch his form on the bed,
worn out from the long ride, when he saw a womanly figure move out from
the shadow of the house into the moonlight. She did not look round, but
in his mind there was no doubt that it was Fenice. With quiet steps and
long, she turned from the house in the direction of the path that led
down into the ravine. A shudder crept over him, for at the same moment
the suspicion entered his mind that she intended to harm herself.
Without a moment’s thought he sprang to the door and tore violently at
the bolt. But the old rusty iron had imbedded itself so stubbornly in
the clamps that in vain he used every effort. A cold sweat stood on
his brow; he shouted, shook, and pounded against the door with fists
and feet, but could not force it. At length he gave over and rushed
back to the window hole. The stone was already yielding to his fury
when suddenly he saw again the figure of the young girl rise on the
path and wind its way toward the hut. She was carrying something in
her hand, which by the uncertain light he could not make out, only her
face he saw distinctly; it was earnest and thoughtful, but without
passion. Not a look did she cast toward his window, and again she
disappeared into shadow, while he stood there, breathing heavily from
anxiety and exertion. He heard a distinct noise, which seemed to come
from the direction of the old dog, but it was neither bark nor whine.
The mystery oppressed him uncomfortably. He leaned his head far out of
the opening, but nothing was he conscious of save the still night in
the mountains. All at once sounded a short, sharp cry, followed by the
heart-rending moan of the dog, and then long and anxiously he listened;
not another sound the whole night long, save once when the door of the
neighboring chamber slammed and Fenice’s step could be heard on the
stone floor. In vain he stood for long at the bolted door, listening,
questioning, imploring the girl for one short word. All was quiet
next to him. He now threw himself on the bed, as in a fever, and lay
there watching and thinking, until at last a few hours before midnight
the moon sank and weariness became lord of his thousand fluctuating
thoughts. As sleep left him, a twilight surrounded Filippo; yet when
his mind was fully awake and he had raised himself in bed, he became
aware that it was not like the twilight that comes before sunrise.
From one side there stole toward him a feeble ray of sunlight, and he
soon noticed that the hole in the wall which he had left open before
he went to sleep had now become stuffed with brushwood. He pulled it
out and the full morning sun blinded him. In highest wrath at the
contrabbandieri, his sleep, and most of all at the young girl to whom
he attributed this piece of trickery, he went instantly to the door,
whose bolt now easily gave way to a moderate push, and entered the
neighboring room.
He met Fenice alone, left sitting at the hearth as if she had been long
expecting him. From her face had vanished every trace of yesterday’s
storm, not one motion of the sorrow, not so much as a line of her
violent self-control met his dark eyes.
“You have managed well that I should sleep away the hours,” he said
sharply.
“Yes,” she said, indifferently. “You were tired out. You will arrive in
Pistoja early enough, if you do not have to meet the murderers until
the afternoon.”
“I did not ask you to concern yourself about my weariness. Are you
still going to force yourself upon me? It will do you no good, girl.
Where are my men?”
“Gone.”
“Gone? Do you intend to make a fool of me? Where are they? Silly woman,
as if they would go without being paid!” And he strode hastily toward
the door, about to go out.
But Fenice remained sitting motionless, and kept speaking in the same
even tone: “I have paid them. I told them that you needed sleep and
that I would accompany you down there myself; it happens that the
supply of wine has given out and I must buy new, an hour this side of
Pistoja.”
For a moment anger prevented him from speaking. “No!” he broke out
at last, “not with you, never with you! Treacherous serpent! It is
laughable that you still think to ensnare me in your slippery coils. We
are now as completely separated as ever. I despise you that you hold
me weak and pitiable enough to be won over by these little artifices.
I will not go with you! Let me have one of your servants and then--pay
yourself for the price of the contrabbandieri.”
He threw a purse to her, and opened the door to search for some one
who might conduct him down the mountain. “Put yourself to no trouble,”
said she, “you will find none of the servants; they are all away in the
mountains. And, besides, there is no one in Treppi who could serve you.
Poor, feeble, old women, old men and children, they are still in their
huts. If you do not believe me--look!
“And apart from all else,” she continued, as he stood at the threshold
irresolute, in fury and vexation, and turned his back on her. “Why,
think you, is the way so impossible and dangerous if I guide you? I had
a dream last night by which I see that you are not intended for me.
It is true, I shall still always like you a little, and it will give
me pleasure still to chat with you for a few hours. Must I, for that
reason, be laying snares for you? You are free to go from me wherever
you will, to death or to life. Only, I would go along with you a
little way. I will swear to you, if that will appease you, that it will
be for only a short way--by my life, not so far as Pistoja. Only so far
until you have struck the right path. For if you go off on your own
account you will soon lose your way, so that you can go neither forward
nor back. You ought to know that, indeed, from your former tramps over
the mountain.”
“Pest!” he murmured, and bit his lip. But he saw that the sun was
rising, and after all, perhaps, what serious grounds had he for
anxiety? He turned about and looked at her, and believed that he could
trust the evidence of the clear-tempered look in her great eyes, that
no kind of treachery lurked behind her words. She seemed to him to have
become altogether another person since yesterday, and he had to confess
that there was a feeling of uneasiness, mingled with his surprise,
that yesterday’s attack of violent passion had passed over so soon and
without leaving a trace. He looked at her a while longer, but she gave
cause for no suspicion whatever.
“If you have grown reasonable, then,” he said, “let it be so. Come!”
Without any special sign of pleasure, she rose and said: “We must eat
first; we will not find anything on the way.” She set a plate before
him and a jug, and then she herself began to eat, standing by the
hearth, but of wine she drank not a drop. He, on the contrary, to make
a quick end of the matter, ate a few spoonfuls, gulped down the wine,
and lighted his cigar at the coals on the hearth. During all this
time not a look had he vouchsafed in her direction, but he saw as he
looked at her by chance, for she was standing near him, that there was
a bright spot on each of her cheeks and something like triumph in her
eyes. She rose impetuously, seized the jug, and at one fling shattered
it on the stone floor.
“No one else shall drink out of this,” said she, “since your lips have
hung upon it.”
He started up in surprise; for a moment the suspicion crossed his mind:
“Has she given me poison?” But immediately he preferred to believe that
it was only the dying flame left of the love-worship she had forsworn,
and without further ado he followed her out of the house.
“They have taken the horse on with them to Poretta,” she remarked, for
by his eyes he seemed to be looking for the animal. “You could not
have ridden away, either, without danger. The roads are steeper than
yesterday.”
She now went on before him, and soon they left behind them the huts
that stood out in the sharp sun, lifeless and without the tiniest cloud
of smoke issuing from the chimneys.
Now for the first time Filippo noticed the perfect majesty of the
wilderness, over which was hanging a clear, transparent sky. Their
way, scarcely discernible by the somewhat obscured traces over the
hard rocks, lay northward along a wide ridge, and now and then, where
the line of the parallel ridge opposite curved downward, a strip of
sea gleamed along the horizon on the left. Far and wide was still
no vegetation save the dwarfed mountain shrubs and the lichens. But
now they left the heights and descended into the ravine which had to
be crossed in order to mount to the opposite ridge. Here they soon
came upon the pines and oaks that sprung up in the ravine, and heard
the rushing of the waters far below. Fenice was now walking ahead,
stepping with sure foot over the firmest stones, without looking about
or speaking a word. He could not help but let his eyes hang upon her
and admire the supple power of her limbs. Her great white headkerchief
wholly concealed her face from him, but whenever it became necessary
for them to walk together side by side, he was compelled to look about
him and away from her, so forcibly did the features of the noble scene
attract him. Now, in the full sunlight, he noticed for the first time
her peculiar childlike expression, without being able to say in what
it particularly lay, as if, perhaps, there still remained something of
seven years ago in her face, while everything else had been developing.
At last he began to speak of herself, and she gave him frank,
reasonable answers. Only that her voice, which was ordinarily not hard
and hollow, as is usually the case with women reared in the mountains,
to-day was monotonous and sounded most melancholy over things of
least account. These paths over which they were traveling had of late
years been very generally frequented by political fugitives, most of
whom had, of course, rested at Treppi on the way. Filippo inquired of
the girl about them and certain others of his acquaintance whom he
described; but few of them could she call to mind, although she was
aware that the smugglers had allowed many a stranger to pass the night
at her house. Of one of these she had only too vivid a recollection.
At the description of him the blood mounted to her face and she stood
still.
“He is a bad one!” she said sullenly. “That night I woke the servants
and had him locked out of the house.”
During this talk the lawyer did not notice how high the sun was rising
and that not a glimpse of the Tuscan plain had yet appeared. He was
thinking, too, in a disconnected way, of the approaching end of the
day. It was so refreshing to be tramping along this path, overgrown
with bushes, fifty feet above the torrent, to feel the fine spray of
the waterfall dash up against his face, to see the lizards slipping
over the stones, and the graceful butterflies chasing the furtive
sunlight, that he was not once conscious of how they were wandering
up-stream and not yet turning westward at all. There was a magic in the
voice of his guide that made him forget everything that had yesterday,
in the company of the smugglers, been so incessantly in his mind. But
now, as they ascended out of the ravine, and the boundless, utterly
strange mountain wastes, with new heights and cliffs, desolate and
parched, lay before them, he awoke all at once from his day-dream,
stood still and looked into the sky. He now understood clearly that
they had been wandering in the opposite direction, and quite two hours
farther away from his goal than when they set out.
“Halt!” said Filippo. “I see in time that you have betrayed me after
all. Is that the way to Pistoja, you traitress?”
“No,” said she, fearlessly, but her eyes fell to the ground.
“Now, then, by all the power of hell, the devil can easily take lessons
and learn hypocrisy of you. A curse on my blindness!”
“Man is all-powerful, man is mightier than the devil and the angels, if
he loves,” she said in a deep, melancholy tone.
“No,” he cried, in a flash of sudden fury, “you have not triumphed yet.
Do not exult yet, overconfident girl, not yet! What a crazy girl calls
love can not break the will of a man. Turn back with me to the place
and show me the shortest way--or I will choke you with these hands--you
fool, who can not see I must hate you, you who are willing to make me
appear before all the world as a good-for-nothing.” He stepped up close
in front of her, with clenched hands; he completely forgot himself.
“Ah! Do choke me!” She spoke with a loud but trembling voice. “Only do
it, Filippo! But when you have done it, you will throw yourself over
my body and weep blood from your eyes, that you can not bring me to
life again. Your place will be here by me, you will struggle with the
vultures that try to tear my flesh to pieces; the sun will scorch you
by day, the dew of night will wet you, until you rot away as I do--but
to leave me you are utterly incapable. Do you think a poor foolish
thing that has been brought up among the mountains will throw away
seven years as easily as she does a day? I know what those years have
cost me, how dear they were, and that I am paying a good round price
when I wish to buy you with them. Should I let you go to your death?
The idea is one to be laughed at. Once turn away from me and you will
soon be aware that I am drawing you back to me forever. For in the wine
that you drank to-day there was mixed a love-charm which no man under
the sun has ever yet withstood.”
Royal she looked as she cried out these words, her arms stretched
toward him as if her hand were holding out a sceptre to one that owed
her allegiance. But he laughed at it and said: “Your love-charm has
rendered you poor service, for I never hated you more than I do at this
moment. But I am a fool to hate a fool. May you be cured as well of
your love as of your superstition, when you see me no more. I do not
need your guidance. I see over on yonder slope a shepherd’s hut with
the herd about it. There’s a fire gleaming. There they will undoubtedly
put me in the right way. Farewell, poor serpent, farewell!”
* * * * *
She answered nothing as he went away, and sat down quietly in the
ravine, in the shadow of a rock, in the gloomy green of the fir trees
that grew down by the stream, her great eyes lowered to the ground.
He had not gone long from her before he found himself without a path,
between cliffs and bushes; then, much as he might like to deny it, the
words of this strange girl kept exercising on his heart a disturbing
influence that turned his thoughts all inward. Meanwhile he kept
ever in view the heath-fire in the meadow opposite, working his way
through to reach the valley. By the position of the sun he reckoned
that it must now be about the tenth hour. But when he had climbed down
the mountain steep he found a sunless path beneath, and soon after a
narrow bridge that crossed a new mountain stream and led up along the
opposite side, and promised to open out into the meadow. He followed
this, and at first the path ran steep up, but afterward, by a great
circuit, far away to the foot of the mountain. He saw now that this
would not bring him straight to his goal; yet over the more direct
way hung inaccessible, precipitous crags, and unless he preferred to
return, he must trust himself to this path. Now he walked on briskly,
at first like one released from the fetters over yonder, and peering
out intently every once in a while for the hut that kept continually
receding. By and by, as his blood began to pulse more evenly, there
came into his mind again all the details of the scene through which he
had just passed. The picture of the beautiful girl he now saw before
him vividly, and not as before, through the mist of sudden anger. He
could not resist a feeling of profound pity. “She is over there now,”
he said to himself. “The poor, deluded child sits building castles with
her magic art. It was for that she left the hut yesterday at night,
and by the light of the moon to gather who knows what harmless herbs.
I remember; did not even my own brave smugglers, too, point out to
me some special white blossoms among the rocks, and say they were
powerful in exciting love for love? Innocent flowers, how they have
slandered you! And it was for that she shattered the jug, for that
the wine tasted so bitter on my tongue. The older innocence grows,
the stronger and more worthy of honor it becomes. How like the Cumæan
Sibyl she stood before me, so truth-compelling, almost like that Roman
as she flung her books into the fire. How beautiful and afflicted your
delusions have made you!”
The farther he went, the stronger did he feel the pathetic splendor of
her love and the power of her beauty which separation was now beginning
to make clear to him.
“I ought not to have made her suffer because she wished in perfect good
faith to save me, to set me free from my inevitable duties. I should
have taken the hand she offered me and said: ‘I love you, Fenice, and
if I am still alive, I will come back to you and take you home.’ How
blind I was not to have thought of this way out! Shame upon the lawyer!
I ought to have taken leave of her with kisses, like a bridegroom,
then she would have had no suspicion that I was deceiving her, instead
of which I have insisted with the stubborn girl and only made matters
worse.”
Now he became absorbed in the dream of such a leave-taking and fancied
he felt her breath and the touch of her fresh young lips upon his own.
It was as if he almost heard his name called. “Fenice!” he cried back
passionately, and stood still with violently beating heart. The stream
rushed beneath him, the branches of the firs hung motionless, far and
wide a shady wilderness.
Her name was again upon his lips, when just in time the shame of what
the world thinks sealed his mouth--shame and a fear as well. He struck
himself upon the brow. “Am I still so far gone that I even dream of
her while I am awake?” he cried. “Is she to prove right that no man
under the sun is able to withstand this magic? Then, indeed, I should
be worthy of nothing better than what she thought to make of me, to
be called a Squire of Dames all my life long! No, to hell with you,
beautiful, deceiving she-devil!”
He had regained for the moment his self-control, but now he saw that
he had also been led astray from his path. He could not go back unless
he was willing to run into the arms of danger. So now he concluded to
reach again, at any price, some height from which he could look about
him for the lost shepherd’s hut. The bank of the stream along which
he was walking, rushing far below, was much too steep. So he flung
his cloak over his shoulder, chose a secure footing, and at one leap
was on the other side of the ravine, whose walls came close together
here. In better spirits, he now mounted the opposite slope and soon
came out into the broad sunshine. The sun beat on his head cruelly and
his tongue was parched with thirst, as with a great effort he worked
his way up. Now all at once anxiety came upon him that in spite of all
his pains he might never reach the goal. Thicker and thicker the blood
mounted to his head; he blamed the devil’s wine that he had tossed
down in the morning, and again he had to think of the white blossoms
they had pointed out to him yesterday on the way. Here they were
growing again--his flesh crept. “If it should be true,” he thought; “if
there are powers that can master our hearts and minds and bend the will
of a man to the caprice of a maid--rather let the worst come than this
disgrace! Rather death than slavery. But no, no, no, a lie can conquer
only him who believes in it. Be a man, Filippo; forward, the height is
there before you; only a short time, and this cursed mountain with its
ghosts will lie behind you forever!”
And yet he could not cool the fever in his blood. Every stone, every
slippery place, every pine-bough hanging heavily before him was a
reminder which he had to conquer by force, with an exertion of will out
of all proportion. When at last he arrived at the height, holding on by
the last bushes and with a swing gained the top, the blood was dripping
from his eyes so, and the sudden glare of the sun so dazed him, that he
could not look about. Angrily he chafed his forehead, and lifting his
hat brushed his hand through the tangled hair. Then again he heard his
name called, this time in very truth, and started terrified toward the
spot from which they were calling him. And opposite, a few steps from
the rock, as he had left her, sat Fenice, looking at him with calm,
happy eyes.
“Have you come at last, Filippo!” she said heartily. “I expected you
sooner.”
“Phantom of Hell!” he cried, beside himself with fear, as all the
passion of longing struggled within him, “do you still mock me because
I am led astray by pain and the sun is melting everything in my brain?
Do you triumph because I am forced to see you once more, in order that
I may amuse you once more? If I have found you again, by God Almighty,
it is not because I have looked for you, and you shall lose me in spite
of it!”
She shook her head, laughing strangely. “It draws you without your
knowing it,” she said. “You would find me if all the mountains in the
world were between us, for in your wine I mixed seven drops of the
dog’s heart’s blood. Poor Fuoco! He loved me and he hated you. So the
Filippo that you once were you shall hate as you hated me and shall
have no peace again until you love me. Filippo, do you not see now that
I have conquered you? Come now, I will show you the way again to Genoa,
my beloved, my husband, my hero!”
With that she stood up, and was about to encircle him with her two
arms, when suddenly she shrank back from his face. He had become
deathly pale, except for the red in the whites of his eyes, his lips
moved without giving a sound, his hat had fallen from his head, with
his hands he hastily waved off every approach.
“A dog! a dog!” were his first painfully spoken words. “No! no! no! You
shall not conquer, demon! Better a dead man than a living dog!” At that
rang out a frightful laugh from his lips, and heavily, as if he were
struggling by force for every step, his eyes fixed staringly at the
girl, he turned, staggering, and fell headlong backward down into the
ravine which he had just left.
Before her eyes it was night; with both hands she tore at her heart and
sent out a cry that rang through the ravine like the cry of a falcon,
as she saw the tall figure disappear over the edge of the precipice.
She tottered a few steps, then stood firm and upright, her hands
always crushed against her heart. “Madonna!” she cried, without giving
a thought to anything. Always looking down ahead of her, impetuously
she now approached the ravine and began to climb down the stone wall
between the firs. Her lips, breathing heavily, murmured words without
meaning; with one hand she gripped fast her heart, with the other she
let herself down by the stones and branches. Thus, until she came to
the base of the fir trees--there he was lying. He had his eyes closed,
his forehead and hair covered with blood, his back leaning against the
trunk of a tree. His coat was torn and his right leg, moreover, seemed
to be wounded. Whether he lived she could not make out. She took him up
in both arms, then she felt that he still moved. His cloak, which he
had worn closely about his shoulders, seemed to have broken the force
of his fall. “Christ be praised!” she said, breathing once more. It was
as if the strength of a giant had come to her, as she climbed up the
steep again with the helpless man against her breast. It was long work.
Four times she laid him down among the moss and rocks, still the life
slept in him. When at last she arrived at the top with her unfortunate
burden, her own knees gave way, and she lay for a moment in a faint
and in complete unconsciousness. Then she stood up and turned away in
the direction in which lay the shepherd’s hut. When she had come near
enough she set up a shrill call throughout the width of the valley. The
echo answered first, then a human voice. She called a second time, and
then turned back without waiting for the answer. When she again came
to the helpless man, she moaned sorrowfully and dragged him into the
shadow of the rock where she had been sitting before and waiting for
him. There he found himself when consciousness feebly returned and he
first opened his eyes again. He saw two shepherds by him, one an old
man, the other a young lad of seventeen years. They were sprinkling
water in his face and rubbing his temples. His head was resting softly;
he did not know that he was lying in the lap of the young girl.
He seemed altogether to have forgotten her. He heaved a deep sigh that
shook him from head to foot, and then closed his eyes again. At last
he begged with faltering voice: “One of you good people, will you go
down--quickly--to Pistoja. They are waiting for me. May God’s mercy
reward him who tells the landlord of the Fortuna--how it is with me. I
mean--” his voice and consciousness failed again.
“I will go,” said the girl. “You two, in the meanwhile, carry the
master to Treppi, and lay him on the bed which Nina will show you. She
must call the surgeon, the old woman, and have the master healed and
bandaged by her. Lift him up, you, Tommaso, by the shoulders; you,
Beppo, by the feet. So, lift him! Softly! Softly! But stop--dip this in
water and lay it on his brow and wet it again at every spring. Do you
understand?”
She tore from her head a great piece of the linen kerchief, soaked it
and bound it about the bloody head of Filippo. Then he was lifted up,
the men bore him on to Treppi, and the girl, gazing after him with the
life entirely gone from her eyes, picked up her skirts quickly and went
along the rough path down the mountain.
* * * * *
It was about three o’clock in the afternoon when she reached Pistoja.
The Fortuna inn lay some hundred feet beyond the city, and at this, the
hour of siesta, there was but little sign of life within. In the shadow
of the broad overhanging eaves wagons were standing, unhitched, while
the drivers were asleep on the cushions; in the great smithy opposite,
all work was at rest, and through the thickly dusted trees along the
highway not a breeze was stirring. Fenice went over to the spring
in front of the house, whose stream, the only busy thing about, was
pouring down into the great stone trough, and refreshed her hands and
face. Then she drank, slow and deep, to still both thirst and hunger,
and went into the tavern.
The landlord lifted himself sleepily from the bench in the wine-room,
but lay down again when he saw that it was a girl from Treppi that
disturbed his rest.
“What do you want?” he addressed her sharply. “If you want something
to eat or some wine, go into the kitchen.”
“Are you the landlord?” she asked quietly.
“Who else but me? You know me, I should think--Baldassare Tizzi of the
Fortuna. What have you got for me, my pretty daughter?”
“A message from Signor Filippo Mannini, the lawyer.”
“Eh, eh, that’s it, is it? That’s something different, to be sure,”
and he got up quickly. “Didn’t he come himself, child? There are some
gentlemen over there waiting for him.”
“Then bring me to them.”
“Ei, ei, the sphinx! Can’t a man know what he has to say to the
gentlemen?”
“No.”
“There, there, very good, child, very good. Every one has his own
secret, this pretty stubborn-head as well as the tough skull of old
Baldassare. Eh, eh, so he is not coming; that will be very displeasing
to the gentlemen; they appear to have important business with him.” He
became silent and looked at the girl sidewise. But as she gave no sign
of taking him into her confidence, but opened the door, he put on his
straw hat and went out with her, shaking his head.
A little wine-garden lay at the back of the court through which she
passed as the old man continued breaking out into questions and
exclamations to which she returned not a word. At the end of the middle
arbor-walk lay an unpretentious summer house; the shutters were closed,
and on the inside over the glass door hung down a heavy curtain. A
few steps from the pavilion, the landlord told Fenice to wait--and he
went alone to the door, which opened at his knock. Fenice then saw the
curtain thrust aside and a pair of eyes look out at her. Then the old
man came back to her and said that the gentlemen would speak with her.
As Fenice entered the pavilion a man who had been sitting at the table
with his back to the door rose and shot a quick, piercing glance at
her. Two others remained seated on their chairs. On the table she saw
flasks of wine and glasses.
“The signor, the lawyer, is not coming, as he promised?” said the men
before whom she stood.
“Who are you, and what have you brought as evidence of your mission?”
“I am a girl from Treppi, Fenice Cattaneo, sir. Evidence? I have none,
other than that I am telling the truth.”
“Why does the signor, the lawyer, not come? We thought he was a man of
honor.”
“He is none the less honorable because he has suffered a violent fall
from the cliffs and has been wounded in the head and in the leg, so
that he has lost consciousness.”
The questioner exchanged glances with the other men, and then continued:
“You tell the truth, to be sure, Fenice Cattaneo, because you know how
to lie so badly. If he has lost consciousness, how could he send you
here to announce it to us?”
“Speech came back to him for a moment. Then he said that he was
expected at the Fortuna; that it should be made known there what had
happened to him.”
A dry laugh was audible from one of the other men.
“You see,” said the speaker, “these gentlemen here put no great faith
in your tale. Truly, it is easier to play the poet than the man of
honor.”
“If you mean, signor, that out of cowardice Signor Filippo does not
come, it is an abominable lie, which may Heaven put down to your
account,” she said firmly, and looked at each of the men in turn.
“You are warm, little one,” mocked the man. “Are you, perhaps, the very
good friend of the gentleman, the lawyer, heh?”
“No, the Madonna is witness!” said she, in her richest voice. The men
whispered together, and she heard one of them say: “The Aerie,[2] too,
is in Tuscany. You do not really believe in this trick, do you?” The
third interrupted him: “He lies no more in Treppi than--”
“Come and see for yourself,” Fenice broke into their whispering. “But
you shall not carry weapons, if I am to guide you.”
“Little fool,” said the first speaker. “Think you that we will risk our
lives for such a trim little creature as you are?”
“No, but for him; that I know.”
“Have you any other special conditions to impose, Fenice Cattaneo?”
“Yes, that a surgeon accompanies us. Is there one among you, Signori?”
She received no answer. Instead of which the three men put their heads
together. “As we came by, I saw him by chance in front of his house; it
is to be hoped that he has not yet returned to the city,” said one of
them, and then left the pavilion. He returned after a short time with a
fourth, whom the company did not seem to know.
“Will you do us the kindness of going up with us to Treppi?” The
spokesman addressed him. “You will be informed on the way what is the
business in hand.”
The other bowed silently, and they all left the pavilion. As they
passed the kitchen, Fenice provided herself with some bread and took a
few bites of it. Then she went on ahead of the company again and struck
into the path leading to the mountain. She paid no attention to her
companions, who were talking excitedly among themselves, but hurried
on as fast as she could, so that they had to call her several times
for fear they should lose her from their sight. Then she stopped and
waited, and in hopeless brooding gazed out into empty space, her hand
pressed close to her heart. So the evening wore on before they arrived
at the height.
The village of Treppi looked no livelier than usual. Only the faces of
a few children stirred in curiosity at the windows, and a few old women
appeared under their doorways as Fenice passed by with her companions.
She spoke with no one, but went straight to her home, returning the
neighbors’ greetings with a curt wave of the hand. Here before the door
stood a group of men deep in conversation, servants were busy with
packed horses, and contrabbandieri were going to and fro. When they saw
the strangers coming, there was a panic among the people. They drew
aside and let the company pass. Fenice exchanged a few words with Nina
in the great hall and then opened the door of her room. In there, in
the dimness, could be seen the wounded man, stretched out on the bed,
and kneeling on the ground beside him a very old woman of Treppi.
“How is he getting on, chiaruccia?” (chirurgeon) asked Fenice.
“Not badly, praise the Madonna!” answered the old woman, and with sharp
glances inspected the gentlemen who were entering behind the young girl.
Filippo started up from a half sleep and his pale face suddenly glowed:
“It is you!” said he.
“Yes, I am bringing the gentlemen with whom you intended to fight, that
they may see for themselves that you could not come. There’s a surgeon
here, also.”
The feeble glance of the man lying there stole slowly over the four
strange faces. “He is not among them,” he said. “I do not know any of
these gentlemen.”
As he spoke, and was about to close his eyes again, the spokesman
stepped out from among the three and said: “It is enough that we know
_you_, Signor Filippo Mannini. We have orders to wait and to arrest
you. Letters of yours have been seized, from which it appears that you
have set foot in Tuscany again not only in order to settle the duel,
but also to establish a certain society for the purpose of lending aid
to your party at Bologna. You see before you the Commissary of Police
and here are my orders.”
He drew a paper from his pocket and held it before Filippo’s face.
But the latter only stared at it, as if he understood nothing of the
matter, and fell back again into his sleep-like stupor.
“Examine the wound, Doctor”--the Commissary now turned to the surgeon.
“If his condition will allow it at all, we must carry the gentleman
down without delay. I saw some horses outside there. We can accomplish
two acts of the law at once if we take possession of them, for they are
laden with smuggled goods. It is a lucky thing one knows what sort of
people visit Treppi when one wants to know it.”
As he said this, and the surgeon approached Filippo, Fenice disappeared
from the room. The old chirurgeon remained quietly sitting and mumbling
to herself. Voices were heard without and an unusual disturbance of
going to and fro, and at the hole in the wall faces looked in and
quickly disappeared again.
“It is possible,” the surgeon now said, “for us to take him down if we
bind him tight with a twofold bandage. Frankly, he would recover more
rapidly if he were left here in this peaceful spot and in the care of
this old witch, whose medicinal herbs put the most learned physician
to shame. The fever may endanger his life on the way, and I will in no
case take the responsibility, Mr. Commissary.”
“Unnecessary, unnecessary,” replied the other. “_How_ to get rid of him
does not enter into the question. So bind your rags about him, as tight
as you can, so that none of them may slip, and then forward. We have
the moonlight and are taking a young fellow along with us as guide.
Meanwhile, go out, Molza, and secure the horses.”
The police officer whom the order concerned opened the door of the room
quickly and was about to go out when an unexpected sight turned him to
stone. The room adjoining was occupied by a crowd of village folk, at
whose head stood two contrabbandieri. Fenice was still addressing them
as the door opened. Now she stepped to the threshold of the room, and
said, with sharp emphasis:
“You will leave this room instantly, gentlemen, and without the wounded
man, or you will never see Pistoja again. No blood has ever yet flowed
in this house as long as Fenice Cattaneo has been mistress of it, and
may the Madonna prevent any such crime for all time to come. Do not
try to return, either, with more men. You still bear in mind, perhaps,
the spot where one has to climb up, one by one, the rock staircase.
A single child can defend this pass, if he rolls down the steep the
stones that lie scattered up on top as if sown there. We will place a
watch there until this gentleman is in safety. Now, go and boast abroad
of your heroism, how you have played a young girl false and wished to
murder a wounded man.”
The faces of the officers turned paler and paler, and after the last
words there followed a pause. Then, as if at a word of command, they
all three drew from their pockets the pistols that had up to now been
concealed, and deliberately the Commissary said: “We come in the name
of the law. If you do not respect it yourself, will you still hinder
others from executing it? It may cost six of you your lives if you
compel us to procure the law by force.”
A murmur passed through the crowd of the others. “Be still, friends,”
cried the resolute girl. “They dare not do it. They know that every man
they shoot will bring a sixfold death upon the murderer. You speak like
a fool,” she said, turning again to the Commissary. “The fear that sits
on your brows speaks, at least, more reasonably. Do as fear advises
you. The way is open, gentlemen!”
She stepped back and pointed with her left hand toward the front door
of the house. Those in the room whispered a few words together, then
with conciliatory bearing they walked through the excited crowd,
which with ever-increasing curses made way for them. The surgeon was
undecided which he should follow; but at an imperious nod from the
young girl, he hastily joined his companions.
This whole scene had been witnessed by the big eyes of the sick man in
the chamber, who had half risen. Now the old woman went back to him and
smoothed his pillow for him.
“Lie still, my son!” said she, “there is no danger. Sleep, sleep, poor
son, the old chiaruccia watches, and that you may be still more secure,
that is our Fenice’s care, the blessed child! Sleep, sleep!” She
crooned him to sleep with monotonous songs, like a child. But he took
the name of Fenice with him into his dreams.
* * * * *
Filippo was ten days up there in the mountains and in the care of the
old woman, slept much by night, and by day, sitting before the door,
enjoyed the clear air and the peacefulness of it all. As soon as he was
able to write again, he sent a messenger with a letter to Bologna, and
the next day received an answer. Whether welcome or unwelcome was not
to be read in his pale face. Except to his nurse and the children of
Treppi he spoke to no one, and he saw Fenice daily during the evening,
when she was kept busy about the house. At sunrise she left the house
and remained all day in the mountains. Formerly it had been otherwise,
as he gathered from her chance utterances. But even when she was at
home there was never an opportunity to speak to her. She went about in
general as if perfectly unconscious of his presence, and appeared to be
ordering her life as formerly, yet her face had become like stone and
her eyes as dead.
When Filippo, one day, enticed by the beautiful weather, had wandered
farther than usual from the house, and with the feeling of new strength
was climbing an easy height, he was startled as he turned the corner of
a rock and unexpectedly saw Fenice sitting on the moss near a spring.
She had distaff and spindle in her hands, and during the spinning
appeared to be much absorbed. At Filippo’s step she looked up, but
spoke not a word, yet the expression of her face changed, and she
quickly gathered up all her tools. Then she went away, without heeding
his call, and was soon out of sight.
The morning after this incident, he had just risen and his first
thoughts were again turned to her, when the door of his room opened and
the young girl calmly appeared before him. She remained standing at the
threshold, and signed to him imperiously with her hand, as he was about
to approach her hastily from the window.
“You are cured once more,” she said coldly. “I have spoken with the old
woman. She thinks you have strength to travel again by short day stages
and on horseback. You will leave Treppi early in the morning, and never
return. This promise I demand of you!”
“I promise it, Fenice, on one condition.”
She was silent.
“That you go with me, Fenice!” He spoke with great, uncontrolled
emotion.
A dark frown of anger overclouded her brow. But she restrained herself,
and said, holding on to the door-knob: “In what way have I deserved to
be made sport of? Make the promise without condition. I expect it on
your _honor_, Signor!”
“Will you so thrust me aside, after you have instilled your love charm
into me to the very core and made me your own forever, Fenice?”
She calmly shook her head. “There is no longer any charm between us,”
she said in a hollow voice. “You lost blood before the drink worked;
the spell is broken. And it is well that it is so, for I have done
wrong. Do not let us speak of it any more and only say that you will
go. A horse will be ready and a guide for wherever you will.”
“If it is no longer magic that binds me to you, there is surely
something else, for which you have no remedy. May God be gracious to
me--”
“Be still!” she interrupted him, and closed her lips tightly. “I am
deaf to such words as you are going to speak. If you think there is
something due to me and are trying to pity me--then go and the account
is therewith balanced. You shall not think that this poor head of mine
can learn nothing. I know now that one can not buy a human being--as
little by the pitiable services that go as a matter of course, as by
seven years of waiting--which is also a matter of course, before God.
You shall not think that you have made me unhappy. You have cured me!
Go, and take my thanks with you!”
“Answer me, before God!” he cried, beside himself, and went nearer to
her, “have I cured you also of your _love_?”
“No,” she said firmly. “What is that to you? That is my affair; you
have neither right nor power over it. Go.”
With that she stepped back and over the threshold. The next moment he
had fallen on the stones at her feet and was clasping her knees.
“If it is true, what you say,” he cried in greatest sorrow, “then save
me, receive me, take me up to you, or this brain, which only a miracle
has kept together, will burst in pieces, along with the heart that you
wish to thrust aside. My world is empty, my love the prey of hate, my
old and my new home banished me; what have I to live for, if I must
also lose you!”
Then he looked up at her and saw the bright tears breaking from her
closed eyes. Her face was still motionless; then she took a deep
breath, her eyes opened, her lips moved, still without words. At one
touch life was again blossoming in her. She bent down over him, her
strong arms lifted him up--“You are mine!” she whispered trembling. “So
will I be yours.”
* * * * *
The sun as it rose the next day saw the pair on their way to Genoa
where Filippo decided to retire before the plots of his enemies. The
tall, pale man rode upon a safe horse, which his wife was leading by
the bridle. On both sides extended in the clearness of the autumn the
heights and depths of the beautiful Apennines; eagles circled above the
ravines, and far away in the distance glistened the sea. And calm and
shining like the ocean there the future lay before the wanderers.
FOOTNOTES:
[2] Meaning Treppi among the rock-hills.
THE STONEBREAKERS
BY FERDINAND VON SAAR
[Illustration]
_“The Stonebreakers,” written in 1869, marks an epoch in German
literature--it is the first of the “Arbeiternovellen”--short
stories of real laboring life._
_The author, an Austrian nobleman, was born in Vienna in 1833.
After the Italian campaign of 1859, he devoted himself to
literature. Popularity, though late, came to him at last. In
1904 Vienna voted him an annual honorary stipend, and gave
him a recognition that no Austrian author had received since
the time of Grillparzer--he was elected to the Austrian Upper
House._
_Von Saar’s position in literature is that of creator of the
short story in Austria. His style is stately, calm, dignified,
delicate, sympathetic, polished--one of the modern masters,
with a profound knowledge of life in all its phases._
_He has written comparatively little--besides his short
stories, a few novels, dramas, idyls, occasionally touched,
as in “The Stonebreakers,” with a natural, easy, tentative
realism. He died in the latter part of 1906._
[Illustration]
THE STONEBREAKERS
BY FERDINAND VON SAAR
Translated by A. M. Reiner.
Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.
One of the most remarkable feats of civil engineering is the railway
across the Semmering, a part of the Noric Alps, forming the borderline
between the Duchy of Austria and the green plains of Styria. In
these days the impression left upon the mind is not so overpowering,
but years ago, when the road was new, travelers must have felt the
astonishment and awe of men who see for the first time before their
very eyes things believed by them to be impossible.
Along the tracks, winding about yawning abysses or deep walls of solid
rock, the trains thunder over the dizzy heights of the viaducts, or
with shrill whistle disappear into the night of seemingly endless
tunnels. Long before Mont Cenis was bored through, or the Isthmus of
Suez finished, trains of the Semmering issued from the tunnel and
reached level ground, leaving their dangers behind, hurrying onward
over the smiling meadows; surprise and awe soon changed to pride in the
progress of the times, and the traveling son of the century, leaning
back in his seat with half-closed eyes, must often have dreamed of the
further marvels to be accomplished in time to come. But few, indeed,
ever gave a thought to the thousands who, in the sweat of their brow
and exposed to every kind of danger, had blasted the rocks, rolled
the boulders, bridged the deep gorges, and, in fact, _created_ that
much-admired road that now carries us so easily from the restless,
dust-swept metropolis to the shores of the blue Adriatic.
And now I am going to tell you a short story about two of these poor
people, belonging to a class that from time immemorial has been
faithfully doing its part in the great work of universal civilization.
Alas! They have not yet reaped many of the benefits of this progress.
But it is not my intention here to paint in vivid colors the unhappy
fate of those pariahs of society who build our cathedrals and palaces,
our universities and museums; nor do I wish to enlarge on the part
which this so-called fifth class may have to play in the course of
events--that I will leave to the sociologists. I wish to show you
only a simple picture, drawn from the life of the masses whose meagre
existence, with its terrible struggle for daily bread, goes on unknown
and unnoticed, and finally passes away in some obscure corner without
leaving a trace. I only wish to show you that in a small way the
world’s great tragedies repeat themselves everywhere.
The railway across the Semmering was finished. The cyclopean noise of
the labor, the thunder of the blasting shots had died out, and the
countless and restless crowds that had gathered here, coming from
distant Bohemia, from the lowlands of Moravia and Hungary, from the
stony Karst and sunny Friuli, had moved on toward the south to continue
their labors there. The wild animals that had been driven back into
the deep woods were returning, and, as if out of curiosity, ventured
upon the road which, still unused, was resting here like a forgotten
trace of human energy in the quiet peace of the mountain. Only here
and there, separated by a two hours’ walk, perhaps, stood one of those
large log cabins which the nomads of labor had once inhabited in
swarms, and then in many cases torn down again on the eve of departure.
In these parts were still living a number of laborers who had either
been left behind or had arrived later, in order to put the finishing
touches to the railway; for there were still tracks to be laid, the
space between the rails to be filled out with crushed stone, telegraph
poles to be erected, and the masonry work on the small houses built
for the watchmen to be completed, although the graceful swallows, that
perched all day in long rows on the electric wires, had begun to build
their nests under the eaves.
On the threshold of one of these log cabins--it stood at some distance
back from the tracks, supported against a steep, rocky wall--sat a
woman. She was barefooted, had a coarse, dark kerchief over her head,
and the face underneath looked worn and showed that sallow complexion
which constant work in the hot sun gives to a naturally pale face. Her
brow was deeply lined, and around the mouth lay such a sad, forlorn
expression that it made the woman appear much older than her years,
and served to accentuate the immaturity of her form. The sun no
longer stood high in the sky; most of the mountain-tops and slopes
were already in deep shadow. But on the meadow in front of the house,
and in the tree-tops along the wooded slope at its side, there still
sparkled the bright sunshine, in which swarms of butterflies, bees, and
dragon-flies played, dancing over the gay flowers.
The lonely woman heeded none of all this grace and loveliness that
summer had spread before her; she never looked away from her work of
repairing the torn blouse of some one of the men. It was hard work,
for her rough, callous hands, which held the needle rather awkwardly,
had probably been used to only hoe and shovel. Approaching footsteps
roused her finally, and, looking up, she noticed a man coming from the
tracks toward the house; his appearance was pitiable. Over his small,
weak-looking body he wore a much tattered soldier’s coat, which, far
too long and wide, hung loosely about him, while a torn blue foraging
cap was drawn far down over his face. He swayed in walking, although he
held in his hand a knotty stick, on which he leaned heavily at times;
the small knapsack that he carried strapped to his back was too empty
to be much of a burden. As he drew nearer, his tired, colorless eyes
looked shyly and embarrassed at the woman, who was watching him. “Is
this Cabin No. 7?” he asked in a somewhat uncertain voice.
“Yes, it is,” she answered, in that strange, harsh-sounding dialect
spoken in Southern Bohemia. “What do you want?”
“I have been sent here to work.” And he showed her a slip of paper
which he held in his hand. The woman was still looking with wonder at
his strange dress and at the face so miserably pale and emaciated under
the slight growth of beard. “The foreman is not at home,” she said
at last. “He has gone down the mountain to Schottwien to get a drink
of wine. Sit down here in the mean time, if you are tired.” And with
one more look at the worn figure, she hastily took up her needle and
thread again, suddenly remembering the work in which he had interrupted
her. The man said nothing, only dragged himself a few steps farther,
and then sat down on the grass with every indication of complete
exhaustion. There he lay, while the sun sank lower and lower. Not a
sound disturbed the peace; only high up in the azure of the evening sky
a vulture was circling, emitting a long, drawn-out cry. Suddenly they
heard in the distance the singing of rough and coarse voices. The busy
woman started: “Heavens, there they are,” she said to herself, “and the
blouse is not yet finished.”
Nearer and nearer came the singing, and before long there appeared a
crowd of wild-looking fellows; in their midst, better dressed than the
others, towered a man of Herculean size. He was probably fifty years of
age; his broad and bloated face showed the effects of heavy drinking.
Under the straw hat, which he had pushed far back, his gray hair hung
in tangles. He had taken off his coat and thrown it over his left
shoulder. In his right hand, that stretched, fat but sinewy, out of the
loose sleeve, he carried a large basket, filled with provisions of all
kinds. Two of the other men carried heavy sacks with potatoes on their
backs.
“Hello! Tertschka!” (Theresa) called out the man with the basket, in a
hoarse voice; “give us some light in the house, so that we can take the
provisions into the cellar.” But when he stood before her and noticed
the blouse she was holding in her trembling grasp, he added harshly:
“Well, is it finished?”
“Not quite,” she answered timidly.
“What? Not yet?” he shouted, and his face took on a bluish hue. “Did I
not tell you that I needed it to-morrow?”
“I have worked hard all the afternoon, but I can’t sew as fast as one
who has learned to do such work.”
The gentle yet firm tone in which she said these words seemed to enrage
him all the more. “You always find some excuse!” he cried. “But I tell
you, if I don’t have that blouse to-morrow morning something will
happen to you!” Putting his basket on the ground, he made a movement
toward the frightened woman as if he were going to strike her. Just
then he noticed the man in the soldier’s coat, who was approaching
timidly. “Who is that?” the furious man asked, dropping the hand that
had been raised to deal the blow.
“He has been sent here to work,” Tertschka said, breathing heavily.
The foreman, for he it was, planted himself with all the heaviness and
importance of his big bulk before the small man, looking him over from
head to foot. “To work? Why, the fellow can’t even stand on his feet!”
“I have had a long tramp,” the other said. “I come from Ottertal.”
“That is something wonderful!” sneered the foreman, trying to read
in the dim light a slip of paper that was now passed to him by the
trembling hand. “Your name is Huber?” he asked after a while, looking
up again.
“Yes, George Huber.”
“How did you get that uniform?”
“I am a soldier on furlough.”
“What? You have served in the army?”
“Yes; seven years in the twelfth regiment. They sent me home now
because I can not get rid of the fever I caught during the siege of
Venice.”
“Oh, fever, too! Well, they take all kinds of people in the offices!
Most of them are cripples, to be used only as stone-crushers. Now,
remember,” he added, raising his fist in a threatening manner, “if you
don’t show me every evening two loads of crushed stone as a day’s work,
I will discharge you. This is not a hospital!” He took up the basket
and went into the house, followed by the others. There he unlocked a
heavy door plated all over with sheets of iron; it led into a cave
that had been blasted into the rock and was now used as a cellar.
While Tertschka held as a candle the piece of resinous pine which she
had taken from the big hearth and lighted, the provisions were packed
away. The foreman closed the door and retired behind a partition; the
others stretched themselves out on straw, chattering among themselves,
without noticing their new comrade.
George waited timidly at the entrance door; at last Tertschka went up
to him. “Go and sleep there,” she said, pointing to the straw.
He obeyed her, anxiously trying to occupy as little room as possible;
he put his knapsack under his head, used his coat as a cover, and with
a heavy sigh settled himself to sleep. Tertschka lighted a small oil
lamp and, crouching near the hearth, took up her sewing again. At last
she put the needle away and examined the blouse closely. Satisfied with
her completed task, she blew out the smoking lamp and lay down near the
hearth for the night, just as she was. Outside the summer night was
filling everything with fragrance, and down through the opening in the
roof the twinkling stars were shining into the dark room, the stillness
of which was broken only by the breathing of the sleepers.
With the first signs of dawn, life began to stir in the house, and
George awakened. He watched the men leave their crude beds, looking
for the tools that had been left leaning against the wall; then they
left the house. He, too, had risen, put on his coat, and now waited
anxiously, not knowing what to do. Tertschka, carrying a heavy hammer
with a very long handle over her shoulder, said: “The foreman is still
asleep, but I know what your work is to be. Take that other hammer,
and, if you like, you may go with me.” Together they went out into the
open air. It was cool and still; now and then a bird sang; the meadows
glittered with dew. Silently the two walked to the road, and then
along the tracks to an old stone quarry; here they found some of the
men already at work, while others were busy at the tracks with carts
and shovels. Tertschka went up a little higher with George until they
reached a hollow. “This is my place,” she said, sitting down on the
ground in the midst of stones and gravel. “I do not like to stay with
the others; they are unruly and malicious. But you may stay here, if
you like.” Without answering, he sat down. “You see, all these broken
stones have to be crushed into small pieces.” And, pointing to a pile
of them, she added: “All that I have done this week.” He pulled a large
limestone toward him and dealt it a blow with his hammer; the stone
did not break. “Strike harder,” said Tertschka; and she herself made
the stones fly in all directions by her blows. He looked at her in
astonishment and tried his strength once more. This time he had better
success, so the two were soon eagerly at work without speaking at all.
The view from the place where they sat was wonderful and extensive,
showing the gigantic heights and deep valleys of the mountain range.
Quite close to the tracks and on a level with the road, the ruins of
Castle Klamm could be seen, clinging to the rocks like an eagle’s nest.
Down below in the narrow valley lay the small town of Schottwien with
its red roofs. Behind towered the Sonnwendstein, and at its foot, on
green meadows and surrounded by trees, stood the little church, called
“Maria Schutz.” But those two busy people had no glance for the
exquisite picture; with heads bent to the ground, they hammered and
hammered incessantly, eagerly, dully. The sun climbed higher and began
to shine burning hot on their heads. George’s blows grew weaker and
weaker; at last he dropped the hammer, took off his cap, and wiped his
brow, on which the perspiration stood in large drops. Tertschka stopped
for a moment, too, and looked at him kindly. “Are you tired already?”
she asked.
“God knows, I am,” he said, almost inaudibly; “the fever has weakened
me more than I thought.”
“But why did you come here, if you are so sick and faint?” she asked.
“What else could I do? Go begging? _Never!_ I did not learn a trade,
for my father and mother died when I was a small child; so I had to
mind the geese and later the cows in our village until I was eighteen
years old. None of the peasants ever hired me for work; I was not
strong enough. The recruiting officers thought differently; they took
me and put me into the white coat, saying: ‘He is good enough to run
along in the second rank.’ Then when I was sick and miserable they
sent me home. For a time the home parish took care of me. Then they,
too, sent me away to work--to crush stones up here. Well, I do crush
stones,” he concluded, and a bitter smile passed over his face as he
again took up the hammer.
She had listened quietly; and now very gently she said: “You can never
stand such work!”
“Perhaps I can, if I could only get something to eat. I have had bad
luck lately, and since yesterday morning I have not had a morsel to
eat.”
She did not answer immediately, but took out a piece of black rye
bread, which she had wrapped into her apron, broke it and gave him the
larger piece. “Eat that!” she said.
He looked at it. “But that is yours, and you need it,” he said, gently
declining it.
“Never mind! I have enough left for myself,” she answered.
And when he made no effort to take it, she laid it on the ground close
to him. “You must be thirsty, too,” she continued. “I will get you a
drink of water; there is a good spring a little higher up.” She arose,
picked up a broken jug that was lying between the stones, and climbed
to a place above the quarry, where some fir trees were growing and a
small stream of water trickled from under the moss. She filled the jug,
drank, filled it again, and returned. George had not yet touched the
bread, but accepted the water gladly and gratefully.
“But now you must eat,” she urged him, sitting down again. “You needn’t
hesitate to take it from me.”
With rather a shamefaced manner he reached for the bread. “I suppose
you have gone through a great deal of suffering or you wouldn’t be so
kind,” he said, without looking at her, and, breaking off a small piece
of the bread, he began to eat.
“Indeed, I have. Even now I know often enough what it means to go
without food.”
He felt as if he could not swallow his piece of bread. “Even now?” he
asked after a while. “Do they pay so badly for work here?”
“I don’t receive any pay at all.”
“Why? What does that mean?”
“The foreman keeps my wages.”
“The foreman keeps your wages?”
“Yes, he is my stepfather.”
“Your stepfather?” he repeated, quite stupefied with astonishment.
“Yes; my own father met with an accident and died when I was very
young; he was killed by some falling timber and earth. After his death
my mother stayed with the foreman, who was at that time a dike laborer
like my own father; they were working together in Bohemia.”
“Oh, you are from Bohemia? That is the reason you speak with a
different accent and have such a strange name! Ter-- I can not
pronounce it.”
“Tertschka,” she said. “It means ‘Therese,’ in German.”
“Here in Austria they would call you Resi. But,” he continued, “if your
stepfather takes your wages, he must at least give you enough to eat.”
“Just enough to keep me from starving. You have no idea how stingy he
is. He himself lives well; scarcely a day passes without his drinking
too much; but to others he would not give even a drop of water unless
they paid him for it; he could see them all starve first before he
would voluntarily give them a bite to eat. So I have to content
myself with the leavings, while he keeps my wages and also the forty
florins[3] which my mother left to me. And that is not the worst. He is
brutal and malicious and beats me cruelly quite often. You saw yourself
yesterday how he lost his temper on account of the blouse I was mending
for him.”
“Yes, I did see it.”
“My poor mother he treated in the same way. I firmly believe she
sickened and finally died of consumption brought on in consequence of
a violent blow he dealt her on the chest when he came home intoxicated
and in a bad temper.”
She was silent for a while, lost in all these sad memories. Finally
George said: “If your stepfather treats you so badly, why do you stay
with him?”
“Because I know he would never let me go away,” she answered. “He needs
this poor, helpless creature whom he can torture at will. With all his
brutality and violent temper, he is, after all, just a coward. And
besides--where should I go?” she added with a deep sigh. She took up
the hammer again; George, now a little stronger, reached for his, too,
and soon they were both hard at work.
Hour after hour passed; the burning heat of midday lay oppressively
over mountains and valleys; not a sign of life anywhere, save the
monotonous click of the hammers and now and then the call of a
woodpecker and the rough singing of the men working along the tracks.
Suddenly there came the shrill sound of a bell.
“What is that?” asked George, noticing that the laborers had laid down
their tools and were walking toward the house.
“The foreman rang the bell; it is meal-time.”
“Is it time to eat?” he asked, with a faint voice. “What do you get
here?”
“Buckwheat gruel and potatoes. To-day probably some roast pork, too;
they brought some meat up yesterday.”
“It is very long since I tasted meat the last time,” he said
thoughtfully. “Who is doing the cooking here, tell me?”
“The foreman; he does not trust any one else. Besides, he likes to do
it. This work up here he cares very little about and lets it all drift.
Once in a while he goes about and inspects, never without scolding and
cursing, especially those who have not the courage to answer back. And
now I will give you a piece of advice: do not eat any meat to-day. You
are still suffering from the fever, and it might hurt you. For you must
know that man has no conscience whatever and often buys bad meat from
the butcher at Schottwien. He pays very little for it and sells it here
at a high price, for the railway officers have given him the sole right
to deal in provisions, and every one here is compelled to buy from him
all that is necessary; so he makes a great deal of money.”
“Well, there is no danger of my buying any meat,” said George bitterly.
“I have no money.”
“Oh, he would be glad enough to give you credit until Sunday, when the
wages are paid. But woe to you if you owe him money! He will not only
charge you double for everything you take, but he will force you to
drink and gamble with him until you are altogether at his mercy. You
will never see one penny of your own money and will be forever in his
power!”
George grew frightened as he listened to her. “But how can I manage to
live until Sunday?” he said, crestfallen. “To-day is only Wednesday,
and if I am not to take anything on credit I shall have to starve.”
For some minutes she busied herself with the hem of her skirt, ripping
out a part of the seam. At last she took out a crumpled paper, which
she unfolded carefully; it was one of those notes of low denomination
that circulated in Austria at that time and answered the purpose of
coin; they were called “quarters.” She passed this to George. “Take
it,” she said; “that is enough until Sunday, if you are careful. You
can return it to me little by little, taking it from your wages every
week.”
He looked at the tattered paper in her hand, speechless with emotion.
Surprise, joy, embarrassment, one after the other were reflected in his
face.
“It is all that I have,” she continued with simple confidence. “The
engineer gave it to me when he was here last month. He had forgotten
one of his instruments he had left at another station, and I had to get
it for him. Really, it would please me very much if you would take the
money. I am in constant fear of losing it; that is why I sewed it into
my skirt. If the foreman knew of it he would have taken it long ago.”
She put it into his hand, adding: “And now let us go to dinner. Don’t
forget what I told you about the meat. The flour is often musty, too;
but there will be good potatoes at least; they brought some yesterday.
And in the evening you might allow yourself a glass of gin; that will
do you good.” He got up and followed her silently; but for a few steps
he stood still, looked earnestly into her gentle, brown eyes, and said
with trembling voice:
“How can I ever thank you enough, Tertschka? No one has ever been as
kind and good to me as you are.”
“Oh, don’t speak of it,” she answered; “we ought to help one another
in this world. And, besides, you would do the same for me, I know.
You are kind, too; I saw it in your face when you came to the house
yesterday.” By this time they had reached the house. Inside they found
the others, most of them eating from broken dishes. The foreman, with
sleeves turned up and a big apron tied in front, stood by the stove,
ready to carve a large piece of roast beef. Poor George heaved an
involuntary sigh when he smelt the savory odor of the roast. All the
men looked greedily at it, and each one in turn received a large piece,
which he ate with his hand. Some of them paid in coin, but only a very
few; the others bought on credit, the foreman keeping an account in a
little book. George approached the man, holding a dish that Tertschka
had given him. At first the foreman did not recognize him, but soon he
remembered: “Oh, there is the little man who came yesterday!” he cried.
“Well, have you done any work?”
“Yes, I have crushed stones!”
“And now you want something to eat, I see. What shall I give you?”
“I would like some porridge and potatoes.”
The foreman filled his plate and took the money that George gave him.
“Of course, you want a piece of meat, too?” he said.
It was a great temptation to the poor man, but he remembered
Tertschka’s advice, and only said:
“No, I do not care for meat.”
“Oh, you are a niggard! You look starved; you ought to be glad to get
something decent to eat.”
“He has the fever,” said Tertschka; “the fat meat might hurt him;” for
she felt that George’s willpower needed support to withstand the other
man’s gruff importunity.
“Hold your tongue!” he shouted. “How do you know what is good or bad
for him! Don’t you interfere; this is none of your business!” And
turning to George, he asked again: “Well, do you want some meat or not?”
The words sounded like a command, _not_ to refuse the tempting dish,
but the man, shy as he was, took all the courage he could summon, and
answered: “She is right; I ought not to eat any meat.”
“Well, then, don’t!” the other hissed, throwing the knife aside. “I’m
not going to beg you to take it!” As George remained standing, he
asked: “What else do you want?”
“My change,” the other stammered.
“Oh, yes, yes!” the foreman shouted. “Do you think I am going to keep
your miserable pennies?” He threw him some copper coins and turned away
scornfully. The money scattered in every direction about the room.
George, with one hand occupied in holding the dish with food in it, had
some trouble in picking up his change with the other. When finally he
sat down in the corner to eat, his meagre fare had grown quite cold.
He noticed that the foreman was pouring gin from a large green bottle
into a small glass, then filling it again for the next man until nearly
all had had their turn. George consoled himself with the thought of
the treat in the evening, as Tertschka had advised. The girl too had
received her dinner, meagre as it was, and now, at her stepfather’s
command, began to wash and scrub the cooking utensils. The workmen had
already left the house and were seeking the shade outside, to stretch
their tired bodies and have a short nap. The foreman now began to make
preparations for his own meal; he took a small pan from the stove and
put it on the table, with plate, knife, and fork; to these were added a
bottle of wine and a glass. Then he sat down lazily, lifted a nice, fat
chicken from the pan, and began to eat. All at once he noticed George,
who was still sitting in the corner, with the empty dish between his
knees, considering how he might manage to help Tertschka with her work,
for secret fear of the brutal man before him made him hesitate. “What
are you sitting there for, staring at me?” he heard him shout. “Leave
the room as quick as you can! I don’t want any spies here, to watch
every mouthful I eat!”
George went out and lay down in the sun, all the shade being occupied
by the others. After a while the bell sounded for work again; the
foreman went into his room to rest. The men stretched and yawned and
went very leisurely to work, some of them, indeed, not getting up at
all, but turning over again for another nap. George and Tertschka went
quietly to the quarry, and labored hard and faithfully until evening.
During the days following they always worked together. George seemed
to improve rapidly; he had enough to eat, and the invigorating air of
this high altitude had a very lively effect upon his body, so worn
out by fever. He swung the hammer quite vigorously now, and related
to his companion his varied adventures during years of service in
the army. They were by no means gay adventures, such as might happen
in the life of a soldier of spirit; for, unfortunately, his shy and
hangdog manner had caused him a great deal of trouble, so that he had
seen only the dark side of a profession in which so many others find
pleasure and excitement. He told her of his sufferings at the time
he was a raw recruit, and when the tyranny of the corporal made life
not worth living; of long nights of picket duty in snow and ice, of
tiresome marches, followed by camping in rain and storm, and then--most
interesting of all--of the time during the siege of Venice, when he
stood with his regiment before Fort Malghera, where so many hundreds of
them had died of typhoid and cholera. Tertschka listened attentively,
although she understood only half of what he told her. It was all so
far removed from her own life that she could not even picture any of
it to herself. How could she imagine a city built in the water! Even
the word “ocean” meant nothing more to her than did a vague, far-away
cloud. Yet instinctively she felt that George’s life had been full
of trouble, and in turn she told him all that she remembered of the
sadness and misery in her own dull and monotonous existence. So they
consoled each other, and were glad that they could go to work every
morning together, and spend the long sunny days in the quiet quarry.
Often they missed the call of the dinner-bell, or were startled by it,
vexed because it compelled them to leave a solitude that had become so
dear to them, and go down and mix with the rowdy men at the house.
But the time was not long during which these two were being drawn
closer and closer together by their poverty, as others are by joy
and pleasure and exuberance of life. Whether the foreman received
information concerning them from some malevolent person or perhaps
guessed at the state of affairs with the instinct of a bad heart,
matters not; at any rate, one day he suddenly surprised them. “What are
you doing here all by yourselves?” he cried. “Away with you to your
comrades, you poor thing, where you belong!” With a gesture of command,
he pointed toward the lower part of the quarry. George, dumb with
fright, obeyed.
“And you, you spiteful creature,” turning to Tertschka, “it seems to me
you are too warm a friend of that cripple there? Just wait, I will cure
you! If I see you together again, he shall be discharged and you shall
not see daylight for many a day.”
So they were separated, rudely and suddenly. After that George was made
to work on the tracks, and when he and Tertschka met in the house at
noon or at sundown, they did not dare even to look at each other, far
less exchange words. For the foreman observed them closely, and the
others, too, seemed to take a kind of malicious pleasure in watching
them.
One evening--it was a Saturday--the foreman and some of his companions
had gone to an inn in one of the villages not far away; the other men
had settled down to a game of cards, as usual, after receiving their
weekly wages. As the noise and excitement grew louder and boisterous,
George took courage to approach Tertschka, who was sitting on an old
wooden box in her accustomed corner, her face buried in her hands.
“Tertschka,” he said softly, taking a small, leather bag from his
pocket, “here is the rest of the money that I owe you.” And he put some
kreutzers[4] into her lap.
“Oh, never mind,” she answered; “you had better keep it, you may need
it.”
“What for?” he asked, disappointed. “All pleasure is gone for me since
I can not work with you any more.”
“Yes, I feel the same,” she answered.
After a while he began again: “I wonder why he separated us? It must be
a matter of utter indifference to him whether we sit together or not,
as long as we do our work well.” She was silent. At last she said:
“He is a bad man, and can not bear to see any one else having a good
time. He never allows one to go to church, yet he knows I can pray only
when I am kneeling before the altar. How often he has scolded my mother
because she wouldn’t for anything miss going to church on Sunday, and
always took me with her; _he_, indeed, knows no God or religion. But
to-morrow I shall go to Schottwien, no matter what he says or does;
I don’t wish to become quite heathen among all these drunkards and
gamblers.”
She arose, opened the box on which she had been sitting, took out a
woolen jacket, a calico skirt, and a pair of heavy shoes; also a faded,
red kerchief and an old rosary with a cross of brass on it. All these
things she laid carefully over the contents of the box, and closed the
cover again.
George watched her. “I, too, have not been to church for a long time,”
he said. “Wouldn’t it be fine if I could go with you to-morrow?”
“Yes, but it’s impossible.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” he answered. “The foreman need not
know of it. We might leave here, each alone on a different road, and
then meet down in the valley.”
She considered the plan. “You are right, it can be done. But you must
start long before me. Close to the house, on the left side, is a narrow
path, almost hidden under the trees, that leads directly down into the
valley. When you come to the wooden cross on the wayside, wait for me
there. But you had better leave me now,” she added, becoming anxious;
“the others may notice our talking together.”
He went back, threw himself on the straw, and fell asleep in the midst
of the noisy quarreling of the gamblers.
The next morning, when George descended along the path of which
Tertschka had told him, the world was full of bright sunshine. He
looked eagerly ahead to find the cross in the valley, where they were
to meet, and soon he saw it, toppling over and half rotten, surrounded
by a few pine saplings. When he reached the spot he sat down on a
moss-grown rock, which was lying in front of the cross, forming a
natural praying-stool. The deep quiet of the Sabbath rested over
everything; even the bees did not seem to be humming exactly as they
flew over the dark-blue gentians that grew here in plenty. George felt
himself listening to something, he knew not what, but it seemed like a
solemn, yet gentle, ringing of bells, high above him in the air. But
soon he became impatient. He walked about, picking gentians and other
flowers, yellow and white, and thought as he looked at the nosegay in
his hand: “I will give these to Tertschka when she comes.” Finally he
plucked some ferns and put them into his cap, where they waved like
feathers. Now he saw a dress fluttering in the wind on top of the hill,
and quickly he ran to meet her.
“Here I am,” she said, a little out of breath. “I got away more easily
than I expected.”
George looked at her. She was without the kerchief which she always
wore over her head; her hair was parted simply and braided, and the red
of her neckerchief shed a soft glow over her face. The dark jacket,
somewhat broad, and the light skirt, both looked well on her. “How nice
you look,” he said slowly. She blushed. “All these things belonged to
my mother,” she told him, stroking the stiff skirt, that it might fall
a little more gracefully. “I wear them so seldom, that is why they keep
so well.”
“Here are some flowers that I picked for you,” said George. She took
the bouquet which he had been hiding behind his back, and was about
to pin it to her jacket, but it was too large, so she carried it in
her hand, around which she had wound the rosary. Then they walked
on through green meadows and fields, where the grain had been cut
and shocked, until they came to Schottwien. Here there was great
excitement; it was kermess (a sort of church fair), and the street was
filled with vehicles and people in holiday attire. Booths had been
built near the church, where all kinds of things were displayed for
sale: kerchiefs and pipes, knives and beads of glass or wax, cooking
utensils, gingerbread, and toys for the children. George and Tertschka
looked admiringly at all these fine things, and George felt tempted
to buy a pipe. He had smoked when he was a soldier; later, during his
illness, he had to give it up, but now he thought, since he was earning
his bread again, and neither drank nor gambled, he could allow himself
the luxury.
Tertschka encouraged him when he told her of it, adding that she would
go on while he made his purchase. “In the village church,” she said,
“there are too many people, but about half an hour farther on is a
lonely little church, where I have been before, and wish to go again
to-day.” She referred to the church called “Maria Schutz,” at the foot
of the Sonnwendstein.
George made his way through groups of hagglers and onlookers, and
succeeded in buying a neat little pipe, with a porcelain bowl with gay
tassels hanging from it. Suddenly a glittering ornament of yellow glass
beads attracted his attention; he could not help thinking how nice it
would look around Tertschka’s neck. As the price was not too high, he
bought it and put it into his pocket after wrapping it carefully in
paper. With the few kreutzers left from his florin he bought a large
heart of gingerbread, and some tobacco, and then, happy with all his
treasures, he hastened after Tertschka. He showed her first the pipe,
which she duly admired. Then he gave her the gingerbread heart; it
had a picture on it of another small heart, pierced by an arrow, the
whole surrounded by a wreath of flowers. “That is for you!” he said.
She looked at it quietly, thanked him, and with a pleased smile put it
between the bouquet and the rosary. “I have something else for you,” he
continued, drawing the little parcel from his pocket, and showing her
the glittering beads. “Oh, how can you spend so much money for me!” she
exclaimed, but her face beamed with happy surprise and joy. “I should
like to spend everything I have for you,” he said with fervor. “Please
put it on now; it will be so becoming to you!” She pushed everything
that she was carrying into his hands and then tried to fasten the
ornament around her neck, but did not succeed very well. “Let me do
it,” he said, and giving everything back to her again he stepped behind
her, gently pushed away her braids, and fastened the clasp. “So, that
is done!” With a happy smile he looked at her. Then they walked on,
and soon reached the little chapel almost hidden under some fine, old
linden trees. Here were only a few people worshiping; an old priest was
officiating; he read mass in a rather indifferent manner. Tertschka
knelt down in one of the last rows of seats, set her flowers and the
gingerbread heart in front of her, and then folded her hands in prayer.
George remained standing behind her. A strange feeling crept into his
heart while in this quiet place, filled with a soft light that fell
through the high arched windows; he heard the murmuring of the priest,
the bell of the sacristan; his heart bowed in worship, but he could
not say a prayer; he only looked steadily at Tertschka, whose lips
were moving. The service was short; the priest spoke the blessing,
and the worshipers left. Only Tertschka did not move; the sexton grew
impatient and jingled his keys; at last she rose, crossed herself, and
went to the door, followed by George. Golden sunlight greeted them
outdoors, and not far from the chapel a prosperous-looking inn, with a
great bunch of fir branches over the door, seemed very inviting. “Are
you going home directly,” asked George as Tertschka was turning toward
Schottwien again.
“Well, where else could we go?” she answered.
“Over there into the inn. I think we might allow ourselves a treat
to-day, Tertschka. Who knows when we may have such a chance again!”
“Well, if you wish it! Only the foreman will bully when I return so
late. But you are right, we may never again go out together.”
They walked toward the inn. In front of it, on a small knoll, stood
an old beech tree, spreading its gigantic branches over a number of
roughly hewn tables and benches. No one was sitting there at the time;
everything was quiet; but in the house they seemed very busy. At last
the landlord appeared, in snowy-white shirt sleeves, a small velvet
cap on his head. He glanced at his rather odd-looking guests; but at
George’s order he brought a large glass of wine, bread, and meat, put
it on the table where they were sitting, asked for his money, and then
hurried back into the house. George pushed the plate toward Tertschka,
who cut the meat into small pieces; then they divided the bread and
began to eat, Tertschka using the knife, George the fork, for they had
been served with one set only. The wine, too, they drank in turns out
of the same glass. When they had finished eating, George lighted his
pipe and contentedly watched the blue ringlets of smoke as they curled
into the sunny air.
“Now, Tertschka,” he said at last, “we never dreamed yesterday morning
that so much pleasure was in store for us; did we?”
“No,” she answered, “I never expected that!”
It was almost noontime. Suddenly there came the sound of horns and
clarinets from the distance. The innkeeper came rushing out of the
house, and called to the servants: “Hurry up, the bridal party is
coming, and we have not yet set the tables.” His orders were carried
out instantly, and but just in time, for the procession was already in
sight, preceded by a noisy crowd of boys and youths from the village.
The musicians marched at the head, then followed the bride and groom,
and behind them came all the relatives and other invited guests, and,
of course, a large crowd of curious onlookers. In a moment the tables
were all occupied, and soon eating, drinking, and making merry were in
full swing, while the musicians played with great spirit. With what
strange sensations the two watched all this gaiety. At first it was the
crowd that excited their curiosity, but afterward Tertschka gave all
her attention to the bride. She was very handsome, indeed; probably
the daughter of a rich peasant. She wore a tight-fitting bodice of
black velvet, that showed off her fine figure to great advantage; a
chain of pure gold was wound five or six times about her neck, and the
myrtle wreath in her blond hair, that fell in two heavy braids over her
back, looked like a crown over her proud and rather stern face. The
groom was very good looking too; quite contrary to the usual fashion
among peasants, he wore a slight mustache, while his green felt hat,
ornamented with chamois-beard and eagle’s down, aroused George’s envy.
After a time, however, George and Tertschka began to feel oppressed
with a sense of loneliness among all these gay people, many of whom
looked askance at them, as if to ask: “What business have you here?”
Finally Tertschka turned to George: “Let us go away; we don’t belong
here! Come, let us sit down near the edge of the woods; we can see
everything from there, and listen to the music too!” They went toward
the dark pine woods that covered the hill on the other side of a sunny
meadow; there they sat down on the slope and listened to the cheerful
sound of the music, that drifted across the fields to them in subdued
strains. Suddenly it stopped; they saw the people rising from their
seats to form a half-circle; then the violins began again. “Oh, the
bride and groom are dancing alone,” cried Tertschka. And so it was. In
measured time, circling gracefully, the two slender figures danced on
the greensward.
“How happy they seem!” Tertschka continued, unconsciously leaning on
George’s shoulder. “Just look at them!”
“Yes, they are happy people,” he answered dreamily, but without looking
toward them. “When will our wedding day come, Tertschka?”
“Oh, George!” she said faintly, and stooped to pick a red flower that
was growing near her.
“Resi”--it was the first time he called her so--“Resi, if you only knew
how I love you!” and, shy and trembling, he put his arm around her.
She did not answer, but in her eyes, as she looked at him, there lay
a world of happiness. Fast and furious came the sound of music from
the inn, and the bridal couple, intoxicated by the strains and by the
shouting and clapping all about them, were dancing themselves into a
delirium. George drew the girl to his heart, and their lips met in one
long, passionate kiss.
My intention is to tell you this simple story just as it happened.
Shall I try to describe the bliss that had come into the life of those
two people? I would rather not attempt it. However, they had to conceal
their new-found happiness as if it were a sin; yet it glowed in their
souls all the warmer for that. With a humility inborn and constantly
developed by their hard life they were content to greet each other with
a stolen smile or press their hands in secret whenever they met in
the morning, at noon, and in the evening. It seemed almost as if the
foreman had relaxed his watchfulness, and they soon began to lose all
fear of discovery, or even of his suspecting their walk to Schottwien.
Sometimes as George came from the tracks to the quarry with his
wheelbarrow to get the crushed stones, he would even dare to run up to
Tertschka for a moment, and then the lovers forgot the world in a quick
embrace and a kiss. One morning he had greeted her in this way when
they suddenly heard a footstep quite close to them, and turning quickly
in terror they saw the foreman standing there, his face distorted with
fury.
“At last you are caught, you thieves!” he yelled. “Is that the way to
obey me? You thought I did not notice what was going on, but I tell
you I knew all the time of your doings last Sunday, and only waited
to catch you in the act! I shall make you pay for all this!” And he
seized George by the back of the neck, and with brutal force swung him
to the ground some distance away, where he fell among the stones. “Take
your stones down, you jailbird, then pack your belongings and go! If
you dare come near me again, I will beat you till I break every bone in
your body!” With these words he ran shoving the man, already stunned
from the fall, headlong down the hill; then he went back to Tertschka,
and stared at her a long time with fury and malice in his eyes. At last
he hissed: “You miserable wretch, you; I shall talk to you later!” and,
muttering to himself, went away.
Dazed, almost unconscious, George picked himself up and went on to his
place of work; mechanically he emptied the wheelbarrow; then he sat
down on a stone and stared into space, unable to think. The clouds that
had covered the sky early in the morning had become darker and heavier;
a cold autumn wind blew through the trees and a penetrating rain began
to fall. George did not feel the drops that beat into his face; sparks
of fire danced before his eyes and hot and cold shudders shook him from
head to foot. Gradually a realization of the insult to himself mingled
with the burning sense of the injustice that was being done to both
him and Tertschka. He was to be driven away from one who belonged to
him by right of sacred bond! who had a right to do that? No one! And
the longer he thought of it, the more his timid, long suffering heart
rebelled, and a wonderful strength, a holy courage, began to kindle in
him, ready to face and fight any power on earth that dared to take his
loved one from him. His insignificant features took on an expression
of firm resolve, and his eyes shone with a strange fire. At last he
arose and walked up to the place where he knew he would find Tertschka;
the others looked at him in wonder. The girl sat and wept. “Do not cry,
Resi,” he said; and there was a new and strong ring in his voice.
She did not answer. He gently lifted her head, but she only began to
weep the more passionately.
“Do not cry,” he repeated, “It had to be, I suppose. But it is all
right, and we know now what to do.”
She looked straight before her.
“He has sent me away--and you will go with me!”
She did not seem to hear him.
“Down there, somewhere in Carniola, they are building a railway; we can
easily find work there.”
She shook her head slowly.
“You won’t, Resi? And see, one more thing. I have been told that
soldiers who have served their time and have gone through the war may
claim a position as watchman on a railway track. I shall send in a
petition, and perhaps if I succeed we shall have one of those little
houses by the tracks and live in it as husband and wife. And even
if that should fail,” he added quickly--for she had not yet given a
sign of consent, only kept on weeping more than ever--“well, then, we
shall have to submit and work hard for a few years and save as much as
possible. But just say one word, Resi!”
“Oh,” she moaned, “what you say is all beautiful and right, but you
forget that the man will never let me go!”
“He _must_ let you go. You are no longer a child. You don’t belong to
him. You are a laborer here, like all the rest of them, and can go when
and wherever you please!”
“Believe me, George, he will _not_ let me go; never, and certainly not
with _you_. I have not spoken about it before”--the red blood colored
her face deeply--“but I must tell you now. Even when my mother was
still living, he pursued me with his hateful caresses; I threatened to
tell my mother, and he kept away for a time. But last summer he left
the others at the inn one evening and came home alone; he tried to make
love to me and promised to marry me. But I told him what I thought of
him, and now he hates me and tries to get his revenge wherever he can.”
George grew pale to the lips and the breath struggled in his breast.
“The scoundrel!” he panted. “And to think of your staying here with
him! Never! You go with me, and I would like to know how he can prevent
it!”
“George, beware of him! He is capable of murdering any one weaker than
himself!”
“I am not afraid of him.” And George drew up his slight figure until he
looked like a different man. “He attacked me from behind and unawares;
but now I shall be on my guard. Let us go to him, and quietly and
firmly tell him of our resolution. You will see how he gives in; for,
wicked as he may be, he _must_ see that he has neither right nor power
to keep you.”
She wrung her hands in despair.
“Resi, take courage!” he said very earnestly. “Will you let me go
alone?” She flew to him and clasped her hands around his neck.
“Well, then”--and he gently stroked her hair--“let us go!” Together
they slowly walked toward the house; she with a heart full of anguish
and fear of what she knew was about to happen; he full of confidence
and indomitable courage. As they crossed the threshold, they saw
the foreman sitting at the table peeling potatoes. He looked almost
startled, seeing them enter together, but soon his surprise changed to
anger and fury.
“What do you want here, you two?” he cried, half rising and grasping
the knife firmly, as if for battle.
“You discharged me,” George answered coolly, “and I am come to get my
things and to tell you that Tertschka goes with me.”
The foreman made a motion as if to throw himself upon George, but
involuntarily drew back again before the quiet, determined face of the
latter.
“I have nothing to say to such talk,” he growled.
“You need not say anything,” said George. “Tertschka is free to come
and go as she pleases.” The foreman laughed. George continued: “Now
take what belongs to you, Resi,” and, turning to look for his own
knapsack, “then let us go.”
The heart of the other man labored heavily. For a moment he evidently
did not know what to do. Irresolutely he looked at Tertschka, who could
not conceal her fear, then quick as a flash as she was going toward
her trunk he rushed at her and pushed her down into the cellar through
the half-open door. He locked it and put the key into his pocket.
“There, that is my answer,” he stuttered, trembling all over with
excitement, while he sat down at the table again, pretending to go on
with his work.
This had all happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, that George did
not have time to prevent it. But he controlled himself at once, and
without a sign of haste, strapping the knapsack to his back, he walked
leisurely toward the table where the man sat. “Let Tertschka out of the
cellar!”
The hands of the foreman shook. And as George repeated his demand for
the third time, vehemently, the man sprang up and clenched his fist.
“Go at once--go!” he cried, “or--”
“Or what?” asked George calmly. “I am not afraid of you, though you are
stronger than I am. It was easy enough to knock me down before, for I
was then as defenseless as Tertschka is now, but now we stand face to
face.”
The man’s color grew livid; hate, revengefulness, cowardice, struggled
in his face. His fury almost choked him, and his hands shook as he
stretched them out to seize something, he knew not what. George noticed
all this, and his courage grew in consequence. “I advise you to give up
freely what is mine,” he said, “or I will take it by force.”
At that moment some of the men entered; it was almost noon. Instinct
had probably told them that something unusual was going on, and they
did not wish to miss it. Their presence had a stimulating effect upon
the furious man; he felt safer, and his cowardice, of which he was well
aware, now grew to temerity, by reason of this very fear of detection.
“Did you hear that?” he cried, addressing the men; “this miserable
fellow dares to threaten me because I locked Tertschka in so that she
could not run away with him.”
“Don’t insult us,” cried George, whose blood was mounting in spite
of himself. “We are two honest people. You have no right to lock up
Tertschka!”
“What? I have no right? Why, the girl was brought up by me!”
“God have pity on her if she was brought up by you! I shall say no
more; I will spare you before all these people!” And with that he
pointed toward the men, who were watching the growing quarrel with a
kind of dull pleasure.
“Listen to the dog! He will spare me, will he! Seize him and throw him
out!” The men looked at each other irresolutely, but they did not move.
Behind the cellar door there was an audible moaning.
“Do you see?” continued George with rising excitement, “no one thinks
of laying hands on me. For the last time I tell you, set Tertschka
free--or I will take the hammer to it.”
“Out, you thief! or I will send for the police!”
“Let them come,” cried George, in a passion. “Then we shall see who is
in the right. They will find out why you locked Tertschka in; how you
maltreated the poor girl for years, made her life miserable with your
shameful proposals, and took away her hard-earned wages as well as
the money her mother left to her--to say nothing of that poor woman’s
death, which is on your conscience, too! And they will also discover
how you treat the poor, defenseless workmen here, how you grow fat on
the sweat and blood of their labor--!” George stopped. The weight and
truth of these accusations filled the foreman’s cup to overflowing,
and he completely lost all self-control. His face took on the color
of death, foam stood on his lips, his eyes started almost out of his
head, and with a cry that might have come from a wounded steer he
threw himself upon George with knife swinging in air. The latter had
seized the hammer, and now brought it down with a thud upon the other’s
breast. The foreman swayed and fell moaning to the ground, the dark
blood streaming from his mouth. For a moment there was silence; a mute,
desolate horror held all present. George stood there like David by the
body of Goliath.
“Resi, Resi!” he called suddenly, breaking open the cellar door with a
few sharp blows. “You are free!”
“Jesu Maria!” she cried, hastening out and beating her hands together
as she gazed at the dead man. “He is dead! Oh, George! George! They
will take you to prison now and convict you for murder!”
“Let them; I will answer them. These people here will bear me witness
that he attacked me with a knife. Go down,” addressing the men, “and
tell them that the laborer George Huber has killed the foreman.”
It was some time before any one could make up his mind to go. George
sat down with Tertschka in front of the house; she wept constantly.
Sometimes he gently stroked her face. At last two gentlemen from the
railway offices appeared and a policeman. “We will have to give him up
to the authorities,” said the policeman. “He is a soldier on furlough.”
The policeman tried to comfort poor, heartbroken Tertschka, telling her
that the affair would not look very black for the prisoner if the facts
were reported correctly. He even allowed her to sit at his side in
the post-chaise in which they were to take George to Wiener-Neustadt.
So they rode out into the night, while the rain fell in torrents,
and the dead man, whom they had left behind, was taken to his last
resting-place.
A military prison is a prison just like any other, with the exception
that those who find themselves in it carry old, tattered uniforms on
their backs. One finds there soldiers of every rank and color, and as
these all feel themselves members of one profession, so more peace
and harmony rules among them than is apt to be the case elsewhere,
especially since the maintenance of the various differences in rank
results in a certain kind of order and discipline. However, a prison
is, and always will be, a sad, gloomy place, and it is not to be
wondered at that George did not feel easy at heart when he arrived
there on that dark night. A cross-looking turnkey had locked him into
a room already overcrowded and in complete darkness. There was no
straw mattress ready for him, so he stretched himself out on the bare
wooden floor. All about him were men sleeping, but he could not sleep.
During the long, sad drive from the station his buoyant courage had
begun to fail, and now doubt and worry crept into his heart. And when
the morning dawned, and its pale light fell on the bare, dirty walls
and unpleasant faces of his fellow prisoners, the seriousness of his
situation oppressed him more and more. Not that he feared so much
the result of his deed--he did not repent, he had been attacked and
had only defended his life--but he saw the dead man before him, saw
him lying in his blood, pale and stiff; and his warm heart, so full
of sympathy for others, felt pity even for that man, and regretted
sorely that all this had to come about. Unfortunately days and weeks
passed without a summons to the court-room, without any indication of
an investigation or trial. Added to this worry about his own future
was a great anxiety with regard to Tertschka, of whose fate he knew
nothing whatever, and whose companionship he missed sadly. Through the
efforts of the honest policeman the poor girl had found lodgings and
even work among the masons on some new building. No one who saw her
carrying buckets filled with brick or mortar would have guessed that
her heart was nearly breaking with sorrow and grief. In the evening,
when work was finished, or on Sundays and holidays, she wandered about
that part of the barracks where the prison stood, and looked up to the
barred and shuttered windows, trying to catch a glimpse of George’s
face somewhere. Several times she had been scolded by a sentry and
driven away. In her distress she finally appealed to the guard at the
gate, and begged him to tell her where George Huber was; she wanted
to speak to him. They only laughed and jeered at her. One day an
amiable-looking non-commissioned officer took pity on her and promised
to find out where the prisoner was lodged and tell him of her wish. She
herself was not allowed to speak to him without permission from the
judge-advocate. It would be well for her to see that gentleman, but
she must do so early in the morning; during the day he could never be
found at home. The very next Sunday, then, Tertschka dressed herself
in her woolen jacket and calico skirt and went early in the morning to
the judge-advocate’s house, which the officer had pointed out to her.
She had to wait in the hall a long time, for the gentleman was still
asleep, so she was told. At last he came from his room, dressed to go
out, and asked hurriedly what she wished. He scarcely listened to what
she had to say, told her that permission to see prisoners could be
given only in very rare cases; but she need not worry, the whole affair
would soon come to a close. She went away without much comfort. Again
week after week went by and no progress in poor George’s affair. To
tell the truth, the judge was a gay young man, more interested in the
beautiful ladies of the town than in his legal documents, and anything
that concerned soldiers on furlough he particularly liked to put off
as long as possible. Tertschka’s heart filled with ever-increasing
anxiety; she spoke again to the amiable man who had advised her before.
He considered there was nothing left for her to do but to see the
Colonel of the barracks. To be sure, he was a very grave, stern man,
yet he was always ready to help others. She decided to follow the
officer’s advice again, and went to see the commandant. There, too,
she had to wait a long time, yet not in the hall, but in a warm room.
As it was a cold winter’s day, she felt grateful for this. In the next
room she heard the click of sabres; some officers then stepped out
and went away, looking somewhat depressed, as she thought. After a
while the door opened again. A fine-looking man with a slightly gray
mustache looked out, and asked in a gruff tone what she wanted. She was
frightened and began to cry; then his manner changed, and he asked her
kindly to come in and sit down. He listened in silence to her petition.
After she had finished, he questioned her a little and made her tell
the whole story. She did so in a very simple, often awkward, manner;
but her warm, true heart spoke out of every word so frankly that the
Colonel seemed deeply touched. Finally he laid his hand very gently
on her shoulder and told her to be of good cheer; he gave his word of
honor that the matter should be attended to immediately. With a load
lifted from her heart she left him. The Colonel, however, walked up and
down in his room, deep in thought, clicking his spurs together from
time to time. At last he called an orderly and sent him with a message
to the judge-advocate. He had to wait a long time before that young
gentleman appeared, looking quite flushed and bowing low.
“I have been told,” began the Colonel, “that about four months ago a
soldier on furlough--his name is George Huber--was brought here for
court-martial.”
The judge put his hand to his brow, as if to reflect.
“Yes, yes, George Huber!--a case of manslaughter.”
“I wish to have the trial brought to a speedy end.”
“Easy enough,” the other one said, evidently quite relieved. “It is a
very ordinary story. We let the man run the gantlet a few times, and
the matter is settled.”
“My dear sir,” answered the Colonel, “that would be a very superficial
and arbitrary mode of procedure. And I am most anxious to see this
case handled with the greatest care. Allow me to remark--with all
respect for your judicial knowledge and experience--that there are
very exceptional circumstances involved in this case; I have convinced
myself of that.” The Colonel drew his eyebrows close together at these
words; the judge knew what that meant, bowed in silence and departed.
He went straightway to his office, and, as he did not lack ability and
quick insight, had the matter soon sifted, examined the witnesses,
Tertschka among them, and the court-martial pronounced the following
sentence: George Huber, soldier on furlough, of the Twelfth Regiment,
is guilty of manslaughter and sentenced to one year of hard labor.
Considering that there were extenuating circumstances, also that his
conduct during the time of service in the army has been irreproachable,
the long term of imprisonment while awaiting trial is considered
punishment enough.
The young judge’s face flushed a little; but it flushed even more when
he took the sentence to the Colonel for approval, and the Colonel,
after reading the paper, said with a smile: “Now and then even
negligence of duty may bring about good results.”
Two days later the Colonel sent for George and Tertschka. He looked
at them long and silently, asked a few questions, and advised them to
stay in town for the present. He would see that they found work enough
to earn a living; later on they would hear from him again. After they
had gone, the Colonel again walked up and down the room, as he had
done the day before, clicking his spurs together from time to time.
Strange thoughts were passing through his mind. Many years ago he had
been deeply in love with a beautiful, fair woman, and had been very
unhappy. Not that the lady rejected his love--such a disappointment
his proud, young heart could have overcome--but he had been cruelly
deceived in his most sacred feelings; and that had filled him with
a lasting bitterness and an unnatural contempt for the whole sex, a
contempt which he very plainly liked to show. He was anxious for the
world to know that he did not believe in love, and now, after so long
and passionately upholding this opinion in opposition to a gentle voice
in his inmost heart, these two poor, half-starved people were proving
to him the real existence of love, love in all its depths, devotion and
tenderness, in its holiness and strength!
* * * * *
Over there, where the grizzly railroad tracks wind in and out along the
banks of the rushing Mur, past green meadows and fertile fields, not
far from the Castle of Ehrenhausen, which looks down from its wooded
height on the town of the same name, stands a lonely little house,
belonging to one of the watchmen of the railway. Back of the house is
a small piece of land, planted with corn and vegetables, while in
front there is a little flower garden, where mallows and sunflowers
bloom, fenced in by a hedge of beans. In this house, whose peaceful
charm delights all travelers, George and Tertschka have been living now
as man and wife for more than fifteen years. It is scarcely necessary
to say that the stern colonel assisted in settling them there. The
couple look little older than they did when we first met them. Though
dividing the duties of a very responsible service, they still find
time and opportunity to take care of their little piece of land, of a
goat, and several chickens, and to bring up two flaxen-haired children,
latecomers, but very welcome, who sprout up merrily behind the bean
hedge. Sometimes they have a quiet hour to themselves, when they sit
down, hand in hand, on the bench before the door, and, looking out
toward the setting sun, remember gladly the day when they first met on
the heights of the Semmering. Again they live through the sorrows and
joys of the past to the moment, the terrible moment, when a cruel fate
seemed to be crushing them forever, which yet has led them at last to
this peace and happiness. And if across the path of their memories a
dark shadow still lingers, they call their children, that come nestling
so close to their hearts and look out with their big eyes so innocently
into the world as if there were never a strange and changeable fate
pursuing man from generation to generation as long as he finds breath
on this old earth.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] A florin is 48-1/2 cents.
[4] An Austrian kreutzer is equal to about half a cent.
THOU SHALT NOT KILL
BY LEOPOLD VON SACHER-MASOCH
[Illustration]
_Leopold, Chevalier de Sacher-Masoch, was born in 1836 at
Lemberg, capital of Galicia, where his father was chief of
police. He died at Lindheim, Hesse, in 1895. He studied at
Prague and at the Gratz University, where later he became
professor of history._
_The success of his first romance, “A Galician Story,”
published in 1858, induced the author to resign his
professorship here, but he afterward accepted another chair at
the University at Lemberg._
_The best of his tales, most of which are short stories,
are those that present Galician life or little Russian, or
Jewish, all lighted by a graceful, keen, but amiable humor and
sympathy--a man of the world’s tolerance for all phases of
human nature._
_The word “Masochism” has been invented to characterize
a unique species of erotic character frequently found in
Sacher-Masoch’s stories._
[Illustration]
THOU SHALT NOT KILL
BY LEOPOLD VON SACHER-MASOCH
Translated by Harriet Lieber Cohen.
Copyrighted by Harriet Lieber Cohen.
Countess Mara Barovic was the Circe, Omphale, and Semiramis of the
mountainous part of Croatia.
Old and young (men, be it understood) were at her feet; and this
despite the fact that she was regarded as plain-looking rather than
pretty. Her ugliness, however, was the sort that strikes attention,
attracts consideration, and excites interest. Moreover, she boasted a
“past” that cast a halo about the present.
It was rumored that one of her lovers had “accidentally” shot her
husband while out hunting, and that this accident had occurred at a
time when the Count had become “embarrassing.”
Besides, she was original.
If it be true that woman is a work of art, as a celebrated poet has
said, it must be borne in mind that in these days the agreeable and
pleasing in art is no longer “the thing.” Cruel, unadorned truth is
preferred to draped loveliness, in love as well as in art.
The Countess belonged to the type demanded by the modern school. By her
two most ardent admirers, Baron Kronenfels and Mr. De Broda, she was
termed respectively the iconoclast and the naturalist.
She mounted her horse like a hussar, was a dashing whip, and indulged
a passionate fondness for hunting. One of her favorite pastimes was
roaming field and forest in the picturesque costume of the Croatian
peasant; and she could apply the horsewhip as dexterously and
mercilessly to her creditors as to her refractory horses.
The fair lady was head over ears in debt. There was nothing she could
longer call her own, not even the furniture in Chateau Granic, not even
the false braid which adorned her well-poised little head.
The young aristocrats who danced attendance upon her ladyship explained
the preference displayed by this Croatian Circe for the “wise men of
the East”--as they called Kronenfels and De Broda--by the brilliant
financial position of her two Jewish admirers.
Of the two, Baron Kronenfels’s noble birth rested upon the more ancient
foundation, and for that reason, perhaps, he enjoyed a certain priority
in the fair lady’s preference. De Broda was a mere sapling in the
forest of aristocracy, having been but recently ennobled. The unfeigned
adoration he displayed for his armorial bearings made him the butt of
endless practical jokes. His coat-of-arms glittered wherever it could
find a resting-place. It shone upon the collar of his dog; it was
emblazoned on his cigarettes, made especially for him at Laferme’s.
Despite certain differences of taste, Kronenfels and De Broda were good
friends, good comrades as well, for they were both officers in the
Reserve. But how often does friendship stand its ground against the
whispers of jealousy, especially when a woman’s favor is the prize at
stake? The relationship between the two grew strained and unnatural,
and they were both secretly conscious that they were walking along
a path where the least deviation from the centre would result in a
catastrophe.
* * * * *
The long-looked-for altercation took place one evening at the club.
Wine had been flowing freely, the betting had been high. Countess Mara
was the subject under discussion, and Baron Roukavina was telling an
amusing story in that lady’s eventful life.
She had not paid her taxes for years, was threatened with an execution,
and had been moving heaven and earth to avert the impending disgrace.
She had gone to Agram, from there to Buda-Pesth, importuning ministers,
seeking favor with deputies, and had actually got so far as to ask an
audience of the king. She had received hopeful promises everywhere, but
the danger hung heavier over her head with the passing of every hour.
At this particular juncture, Baron Meyerbach called on her, and offered
to settle her troubles. Meyerbach was an intelligent fellow, with a
good heart, and a purse with the proverbial open mouth; but Hungarian
aristocracy could not receive him within its inner circle for the
simple reason that he was a Jew.
“Have you so much influence?” asked the Countess. Her breath was almost
taken away by the offer.
“Do not inquire too closely into my _modus operandi_, Countess,” said
the Baron. “It must be sufficient for you to know that my success is
assured.”
“And what do you ask in exchange for this service?”
“Simply this: that for the next two weeks you will take a walk with me
every day for an hour in Vaitzen Street; that you will skate with me an
hour in the park; and that each evening you will give me the privilege
of escorting you to a different theatre.”
“And is that all?”
“All.”
The Countess yielded willingly to the Baron’s terms. At the end of
the fortnight, she received a receipt in full for the payment of her
taxes--thirty-two thousand florins--and Baron Meyerbach found Hungarian
aristocracy ready to receive him with open arms even within its most
inner of inner circles. The Countess had launched him.
The story closed in a burst of laughter, and the diplomat Meyerbach’s
health was drunk repeatedly and variously.
Of all the convivial party, De Broda alone was silent. Finally, with
Goethe’s words in mind, he said in a low voice: “Everybody seeks money,
and everybody clings to it.”
Kronenfels flung his cards noisily on the table, looked savagely at De
Broda, and said, with an ugly frown: “Do you imply by that that such a
woman as Countess Mara Barovic would willingly let herself be blinded
by money?”
De Broda shrugged his shoulders.
Springing from his seat, the Baron cried out, scornfully: “You are a
Jew.”
For a moment, participants and listeners seemed paralyzed with
astonishment; then De Broda, every nerve tingling with rage, hurled
angrily back at his assailant: “You are another!”
A challenge to a duel was the result of the quarrel. Seconds were
chosen on the spot, the weapons were to be pistols, and the oak forest
near De Granic was to witness the affair early the following morning.
* * * * *
De Broda had gone home. He was arranging his papers in order, when
Rabbi Solomon Zuckermandel walked into his sanctum.
“You are going to fight?” were the old man’s first words.
“Yes.”
“And with a Jew? No, Mr. De Broda; you can not, you dare not shoot a
man! You will not do it.”
“Pardon me, Rabbi Solomon, but my knowledge is somewhat deeper than
yours in affairs of honor.”
“Do you think so!” replied the old man, with an indulgent smile. “Ah,
well, we shall see. You think we can wash our honor only in blood? My
dear Mr. De Broda, spotless honor needs no washing; and if it has a
blemish, it can not be effaced even by blood. The Baron called you a
Jew. Is that an insult?”
“In the sense he attached to the word, yes.”
“Not so. Neither in that sense nor in any other. Does the name of
soldier become an insult because soldiers have deserted their flag? The
Jews we call to mind when the word ‘Jew’ is used in reproach are those
who have forsaken their standard. They are no longer Jews. Judaism is
the fear of the Lord, love of liberty, love of the family and humanity.
The honor of the Jew consists not in spilling blood, but in acting
uprightly and doing good.”
“You are right; but--”
“No, no. No ‘buts.’ When God in the midst of thunder and lightning gave
the Tables of the Law to Moses on Mount Sinai, there were no ‘buts’; He
said: ‘_Thou shalt not kill!_’ You are a Jew, Mr. De Broda. In other
words: Man, thou shalt not kill!”
The young fellow turned toward the window. The rabbi should not see his
emotion. But the Jewish heart was touched, and the old man who gave no
thought to title and coat-of-arms had conquered the aristocrat’s pride
and prejudice.
* * * * *
Midnight had struck when Rabbi Solomon reached Kronenfels’s quarters.
The letter he handed the Baron from his adversary read as follows:
“Dear Sir--You have insulted me grossly in calling me a Jew
in the presence of a number of gentlemen, and have added to
the insult, as it were, by making it at a time when Mr. De
Treitschke in Berlin has spoken of the Jews as the schlamassl
[the plague of the Germans]. You are, however, an only son,
the pride of your family, and I should like to avoid our
meeting for to-morrow. You have often seen me hit the ace at a
good range; and you know as well that I am no phrase-maker. I
propose, therefore, that we shall both shoot in the air, and
that we shall mutually exchange our word of honor not to speak
of this arrangement.
“Broda.”
Kronenfels held the letter to the rabbi.
“What is to be done?” he asked, with a smile.
“Mr. De Broda has proved himself a true Jew,” responded Zuckermandel,
gently. “Do not let him surpass you. Prove to him that you, too, are
of a race which, boasting the most ancient civilization, is above all
others from the humanitarian standpoint.”
Kronenfels wrote some hurried lines which Rabbi Solomon conveyed to Mr.
De Broda before daybreak. The Baron’s answer was couched in these words:
“Dear Sir--I was about to address you when I received your note.
“I, too, should deeply regret having a mortal encounter with a
young man upon whom so many hopes are placed.
“I accept your proposition.
“Moreover, between ourselves be it said, we are Jews--in other
words, descendants of ancestors whose house is more ancient
than that of the Lichtensteins or Auerspergs, ancestors who
have transmitted to us two qualities which Mr. De Treitschke
could scarcely possess, being as it were the offshoot of a
somewhat recent civilization: and these are, repugnance to shed
blood, and the ‘rachmonni’[5] of the Jewish heart.
“Kronenfels.”
The duel took place at six o’clock in the morning, the venerable oaks
of De Granic forest casting an air of solemnity over the bloodless
scene. The adversaries kept their word; the pistols were discharged
in the air; and the witnesses declared that honorable satisfaction
had been made. As De Broda and Kronenfels were shaking hands with
hearty good-will, the brushwood parted, and old Rabbi Solomon slowly
approached the young men. Raising his arms in benediction, he said,
and the light of happiness beamed from his eyes: “Gentlemen, you are
Jews!”
FOOTNOTES:
[5] The exact translation of “rachmonni” is “merciful.” It is used as a
name of God, because the Jew does not pronounce the proper name of God
except in his prayers.
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
BY RUDOLF BAUMBACH
[Illustration]
_Baumbach is to-day preeminent in that field of romantic short story
where the earlier German writers loved to dream and weave their
symbolic figures out of the threads of human nature and the colors of
mysticism._
_Baumbach, born in Kranichfeld, Thuringia, in 1840, was for a time
student of natural sciences at Heidelberg and other universities, but
preferring the life of a traveler to that of a student of books, he
spent much of his life abroad before settling down as court councilor
at Meiningen._
_His first literary success was a collection of poetical tales, fresh,
rich in coloring, pictures of South German folk-life, sound, true, and
sympathetic, and not so deep as to submerge the outlines of the plot._
[Illustration]
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
BY RUDOLF BAUMBACH
Translated by Minnie B. Hudson.
Copyright, 1891, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
It was on the day of the summer solstice, and the glow of midday lay
on the corn-fields. At times a fresh wind swept over from the mountain
forest near; then the stalks bent low, and the poppies on the edge of
the field scattered their delicate petals. Crickets and grasshoppers
chirped in the grain, and from the blackthorn on the roadside the
goldhammer once in a while let her gentle call be heard.
Through the corn-field, which extended from the valley to the mountain,
walked, in the narrow path, a young woman of slender yet strong figure.
She wore the customary plaited skirt, and, for protection against the
sun’s rays, a red kerchief; on her left arm hung a basket, and in her
right hand she carried a stone jug.
As the goldhammer in the thorn-hedge became aware of her presence he
fluttered to the highest twig and called softly: “Maiden, maiden, how
do you flourish?” But the bird was mistaken. The blond Greta was no
maiden, but a young wife, and now was on her way to her husband, who
felled wood in the forest above.
When the fair one had reached the border of the forest she stood
listening, and soon the strokes of a woodman’s ax told her where to
turn her steps. It was not long before she saw her husband, who felled
a pine tree with mighty strokes, and, with joyful voice, she called to
him.
“Remain standing where thou art,” responded he. “The tree will fall
directly.” And the pine tree gave a deep sigh, bowed itself, and sank
crashing to the earth.
Now Greta came nearer, and the sunburnt woodcutter took his young wife
in his arms and kissed her fondly. Then she sat down on the trunk of
the tree, and took the food from the basket she had brought. Here Hans
laid down the bread from his hand, took his ax, and said: “I have
forgotten something,” stepped in the direction of the fallen pine, and
cut three crosses in the wood.
“Why dost thou that, Hans?” asked the wife.
“That was done on account of the wood-sprites,” explained the husband.
“The poor creatures have a wicked enemy, who is the wild hunter. Day
and night he waylays them and hunts them with his dogs. But if the
pursued little women succeed in escaping to such a tree-trunk, then the
wild huntsman can not harm them, because of the three crosses.”
The young wife’s eyes grew large. “Hast thou ever met a wood-sprite?”
asked she, curious.
“No. They only rarely let themselves be seen. But to-day is the
solstice, when they become visible.” And suddenly he called with a loud
voice into the forest: “Wood-sprite, appear!”
He had only done this in order to tease his wife; but, on the holy
midsummer day, one should not jest about such things.
At once a little woman, a yard high, delicate of form and very
beautiful of face, stood before the pair. She wore a long white
garment, and in her golden hair a spray of mistletoe.
Hans and Greta were very much frightened. They rose up hastily from
their seats, and Greta made a bow, the best she could do.
“You have called me at a good time,” said the wood-sprite, and pointed
with forefinger to the orb of the sun, that stood almost over her
head, “and a good deed”--here the little woman pointed to the marked
tree-stump--“is the other reason. Gold and silver have I not to give
away, but I know of something better. Come with me; it will do you no
harm, and take your jug: you will be able to make use of it.”
So she spoke and led the way. Hans shouldered his woodman’s ax, Greta
took up the stone jug, and both followed the little woman. She had a
walk like a duck, and Greta plucked her husband’s sleeve, pointed to
the waddling little woman, and would have whispered something into his
ear, but Hans laid his forefinger on her mouth. Nothing hurts a sprite
more than to have a person ridicule their gait. They have feet like a
duck, and therefore they wear long, flowing garments to hide them.
After a short time the three arrived at a clearing. Very old trees
stood in a circle around the meadow; out of the grass arose lilies and
bluebells, and great butterflies rested thereon, waving their wings
to and fro. And Hans, who thought he knew the whole forest, could not
remember to have ever crossed this place.
On the edge of the meadow stood a small house. The walls were covered
with the bark of trees, and the roof was shingled with the scales of
pine cones, and each scale was fastened down by a rose-thorn. Here the
wood-sprite was at home.
She led her guests behind the house, and pointed to a spring whose
water gushed silently from the black earth. Succulent coltsfoot and
irises grew on its brink, and over its surface danced green and gold
dragon-flies.
“That is the fountain of youth,” said the wood-sprite. “A bath in its
water turns an old man into a boy and an old woman into a girl. But if
one drinks the water then does it ward off old age until death. Fill
your jug and carry it home. But be economical with this precious water;
a drop on each Sunday is enough to keep you young. And yet again: As
soon as thou, Hans, dost cast thy eye on a strange woman, or thou,
Greta, on a strange man, then the water loses its virtue. That mark
you. Now fill your jug and fare you well.”
So spoke the wood-sprite, refusing the thanks of the lucky couple, and
went into the house. Greta filled the jug with the water of youth, and
then they hastened home as quickly as they could to their cottage.
Arrived at home, Hans poured the water into a bottle and sealed it with
fir resin. “For the present,” he remarked, “we do not find the water of
youth necessary, and we can economize. The time will come, indeed, when
we will need it.” And then they placed the bottle in the cupboard where
they kept their treasures: a couple of old coins, a garnet chain on
which hung a golden penny, and two silver spoons. But Greta took great
care that the water lost not its virtue.
And how they did take themselves in hand! When the young forester went
by the garden before the house and exchanged a greeting with Greta,
as indeed had been his custom, then Greta looked not up from her
vegetable-bed. And when Hans sat in the evening in “The White Stag,”
and the pretty Lisi brought him wine, then he made a face like a cat
during a storm; and finally he did not go any more to the inn, but
remained at home with his wife. Thus the water must certainly retain
its magic power.
So there passed for the young couple a year of love and happiness, when
to the two came a third. In the cradle a chubby boy kicked and cried,
so that the father’s heart leaped for joy. “Now,” thought he, “is the
time come for us to open the bottle. What thinkest thou, Greta? A drop
of the water of youth would do thee good.”
The wife agreed to the proposition, and Hans went into the room where
the magic potion was preserved. With hands trembling with joy he loosed
the cork and--Oh, wo, wo!--the bottle slipped from his hands, and the
water of youth poured over the floor. He came near falling to the
floor, he was so frightened over the misfortune. What was he to do now?
His wife must on no account learn what had happened; she might die from
fright.
Perhaps he could tell her later what he had done; perhaps, also, he
might find the fountain of youth again (which he had certainly sought
in vain), and he might replace the loss. He hastily filled a new
bottle, which was just like the first, with well-water, and well-water
it was also that he gave his wife.
“Ah, how it refreshes and strengthens one!” said Greta; “take a drop
also, dear Hans.”
And Hans obeyed and praised the virtue of the magic potion, and from
that time each one took a drop every Sunday when the church-bell was
ringing. And Greta bloomed like a rose, and Hans’s veins swelled with
health and strength. But he postponed the confession of his deed from
day to day, for he hoped in his heart to yet find the water of youth;
but roam through the forest as he would he could not discover the
meadow where the wood-sprite lived.
Thus passed some years. A small maiden joined the little boy, and Frau
Greta’s once round chin had become double. She herself certainly saw it
not, for the mirror was not yet in existence in those days. Hans saw
it, indeed, but avoided speaking of it, and redoubled his love for his
portly wife.
Then there happened a misfortune. At least Greta held it to be such. As
she swept the house one day the small Peter, her eldest, came upon the
cupboard in which stood the bottle with the supposed water of youth and
clumsily overthrew the bottle, so that it broke and the contents were
spilled.
“Oh, thou gracious Heaven!” lamented the mother. “It is lucky, though,
that Hans is not at home.” With trembling hands she gathered up the
fragments from the floor and replaced the bottle by another, which
she filled with ordinary water. “Certainly the deception will soon
be found out, for now is it all over with the everlasting youth.
Alas, alas!” But for the present she did not wish to tell her husband
anything about it.
Again considerable time passed, and the couple lived together as on the
day when the priest had joined their hands in marriage.
Each one carefully avoided letting the other know that youth was past,
and each Sunday conscientiously took the magic drop.
Then it happened that one morning a gray hair remained between Hans’s
fingers as he combed his hair. And he thought: “Now is the time for me
to tell the truth to my wife.” With a heavy heart, he began: “Greta, it
seems to me that our water of youth has lost its strength. Look there!
I have found a gray hair. I am getting old.”
Greta was frightened, but composed herself, and, forcing a loud laugh,
cried: “A gray hair! When I was a little girl, ten years old, I had
even then a gray lock amid my hair. The like has frequently happened.
Thou hast lately dressed a badger; perhaps something has happened to
your hair from the fat, for badger’s fat, you know, colors the hair
gray. No, dear Hans, the water has not lost its old virtue, or”--here
she cast an anxious glance on him--“or perhaps thou also findest that I
am growing old?”
Now Hans laughed very loudly. “Thou, old! Thou bloomest, indeed, like a
peony!” And then he threw his arms about her and gave her a kiss. But
when he was alone he said, with quiet thankfulness: “God be thanked!
She knows not that we are getting old. Now it matters not.”
And similarly thought the wife.
On the evening of the same day the young folks of the village danced to
the fiddle of a wandering musician, and no couple wheeled more merrily
under the linden than Hans and Greta.
The peasant women made sarcastic remarks, to be sure; but the two heard
nothing of the ridicule in their happiness.
After that it happened in the fall, as Hans with his family was eating
a Martinmas goose, that Frau Greta broke a tooth. There was great
lamenting, for she was so proud of her white teeth.
And when the couple were alone together the wife said, in an unsteady
voice: “This misfortune would not have occurred if the water--”
But at this Hans blurted out: “You think the water is good for
everything. Has it not often happened before that a child has broken
out a tooth by cracking a nut? What hast thou against the excellent
water? Art thou not fresh and sound as a rose? Or perhaps thou hast
turned thine eyes upon another that thou mistrustest the virtue of the
water?”
Then the wife laughed, wiped the tears from her cheeks, and kissed her
husband so that the breath almost left him. But in the afternoon, when
they sat on the stone bench before the house door and sang two-part
songs about true love, the passers-by said: “The silly old people!”
However, the happy ones heard them not.
So passed many years. The house had become too small for the children.
They had gone forth, had married and had children of their own. The two
old people were again alone, and were as dear to each other as on their
wedding day; and every Sunday, when the church-bell rang, each drank a
drop from the flask.
Then once again the day of the summer solstice drew near. On the
evening before, Hans and Greta sat before their door and looked toward
the heights where the St. John’s fire blazed, and from the distance
sounded the mirth of the young fellows and maids, who stirred the fire
and sprang through its flames in couples.
Then the wife said: “Dear Hans, I would like to go once more to the
forest. If thou desirest it also, then will we start early in the
morning. But thou must waken me early, for when the elder blossoms the
young women like to sleep until the sun is high in the heavens.”
Hans agreed. On the next morning he wakened his wife, and they went
together into the forest. They walked like lovers, and each gave a
careful heed to the steps of the other.
When Hans cautiously jumped over the root of a tree, the wife said:
“Ah, Hans, thou leapest indeed like a young kid!” and when Greta
timidly stepped over a little ditch, her husband laughed and cried:
“Tuck up your dress, Greta! Jump!” And then they selected an old pine
tree, feasting in its shade on what Greta had brought with her.
“It was here,” said Hans, “where the wood-sprite appeared to us that
day, and there yonder must lie the forest meadow with the fountain of
youth. But I have never again found the meadow and the spring.”
“And, God be thanked! that has mattered not,” hastily interrupted
Greta. “For our flask is still far from being empty.”
“Certainly, certainly,” nodded Hans. “But yet it would please me if
we could see the good wood-sprite once again, and thank her for our
good fortune. Come--let us go and seek her. Perhaps I will be as lucky
to-day as formerly.”
Then they set out and went deeper into the forest, and after a quarter
of an hour saw there, before their eyes, the sunny forest meadow.
Lilies and bluebells bloomed in the grass, gay-colored butterflies
flew to and fro, and on the edge of the forest stood also the little
house, just as in years before. They went toward the house with beating
hearts, and best of all, there was indeed the fountain of youth at
hand, and dragon-flies, in green and gold, hovered over it.
Hans and Greta stepped to the brim of the spring. They embraced each
other and stooped over the water; and from out the clear surface of the
spring there confronted them two gray heads with friendly, wrinkled
faces.
Then hot tears fell from the eyes of the old couple, and they stood
stammering and sobbing in mutual guilt. It required a long time before
it became clear to them that each had deluded and for long years had
lovingly deceived the other.
“Thou hast also known that we have both grown old?” cried out Hans,
joyfully.
“Of course, of course,” laughed the wife, amid tears.
“And I, also,” rejoiced old Hans. Then he took his wife and kissed her
as on the day she had said “Yes” to him.
Then the forest-sprite suddenly stood before them, as if she had sprung
out of the earth.
“Welcome,” said she. “You have not appeared before me for a long time.
But--but,” continued the little woman, and threatened with her finger,
“you have kept a bad home with the water of youth. Wrinkles and gray
hair! Ah, ah! Now,” continued she again, “that is easy to remedy,
and you are come at a good hour. Quick! Spring into the fountain of
youth; it is not deep; dip your gray heads under; then you shall see a
miracle. The bath will restore to you youthful vigor and beauty. But
quick, before the sun sinks!”
Hans and Greta looked at each other. “Wilt thou?” asked the husband, in
an uncertain voice.
“Never,” answered Greta, quickly. “Oh, if thou only knowest how happy
I am, that at last I may be old! And, also, it would be impossible on
account of our children and grandchildren. No, gracious forest-sprite,
a thousand thanks for your good deed, but we remain as we are. Is it
not so, Hans?”
“Yes,” nodded Hans, “we remain old. If thou couldst but know, Greta,
how well your gray hair becomes you.”
“As you will,” said the wood-sprite, a little vexed. “There is no
ceremony here.” So speaking, she went into the house and locked the
door behind her.
But the old couple kissed each other anew. Then they stepped homeward,
arm in arm, through the forest, and the midsummer sun shed a golden
light upon their gray heads.
GOOD BLOOD
BY ERNST VON WILDENBRUCH
[Illustration]
_“Few stories of cadet or student life,” says General Charles
King, “have impressed me as did ‘Das Edle Blut.’”_
_The author of “Good Blood” was born at Beirut, Syria, in
1845, his father having been Prussian Consul-General there. He
entered the Prussian cadet corps and the Potsdam preparatory
school, and after serving as officer during two wars, he
resigned from the army in 1865, and studied law, became
Referendar at the Frankfort-on-Oder Court of Appeals, Judge at
Berlin, member of the Foreign Office of the German Empire, and
Privy Councilor._
_With his “heroic songs” he was the first to give epic
treatment to the war with France. Through his series of
historical plays for the people, he became enormously popular._
_The more close and personal touch is found in his short
stories, many of which, as in “Good Blood,” deal with a
superior character in rebellion against its surroundings. This
little story, though new, is fast becoming a classic._
[Illustration]
GOOD BLOOD
BY ERNST VON WILDENBRUCH
Translated by R. W. Howes, 3d.
Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.
Is it possible that there are people quite free from curiosity? People
who can pass on behind any one they see gazing earnestly and intently
toward some unknown object without feeling an impulse to stop, to
follow the direction of the other’s eyes, to discover what odd thing he
may be looking at?
For my part, if I were asked whether I counted myself among that class
of cold natures, I do not know that I could honestly answer “Yes.” At
any rate, there was once a moment in my life when I was not only goaded
by such an impulse, but when I actually yielded to the temptation and
fell into the way of any mere curiosity seeker.
The place in which it happened was in a wine-room in the old town where
as Referendar[6] I was practising at court; the time was an afternoon
in summer.
The wine-room, situated on the ground floor of a house in the great
square which from the window one could look out upon in every
direction, was at this hour nearly empty. To me this was all the more
agreeable, for I have ever been a lover of solitude.
There were three of us: the fat waiter, who from a gray, dust-covered
bottle was pouring out the golden-yellow Muscatel into my glass; then
myself, who sat in a nook of the cozy, odd-cornered room and smacked
the fragrant wine; and still another guest, who had taken his place at
one of the two open windows, a tumbler of red wine lying before him on
the window-sill, in his mouth a long brown, smoke-seasoned meerschaum
cigar-holder, out of which he wrapped himself in a cloud of smoke.
This man, who had a long gray beard framing a ruddy face tinged bluish
in places, was an old retired colonel, whom every one in town knew. He
belonged to that colony of the Superannuated who had settled down in
this pleasant place to wearily drag out the end of their days.
Toward noon they could be seen strolling deliberately in groups of twos
or threes down the street, shortly to disappear into the wine-room,
where between twelve and one they assembled at the round table to
gossip. On the table stood pint bottles of sourish Moselle, over the
table floated a thick mist of cigar smoke, and through the mist came
voices, peevish, grating, discussing the latest event in the Army
Register.
The old colonel, too, was a regular patron of the wine-room, but he
never came at the hour of general assembly, but later, in the afternoon.
[Illustration: =Ernst von Wildenbruch=]
He was a man of lonely disposition. Rarely was he seen in the company
of others; his lodging was in the suburbs on the other side of the
river, and from the window of his room one could look out over a wide
stretch of meadow land which the river regularly inundated every
spring, when it overflowed its banks. Many a time I have passed by his
lodging and seen him standing at the window, his bloodshot eyes, rimmed
with deep bags beneath, thoughtfully gazing out toward the gray waste
of water beyond the embankment.
And now he sits there at the window of the wine-room and gazes out upon
the square, over whose surface the wind sweeps along in a whirl of dust.
But what is he looking at, I wonder?
The fat waiter, bored to death over his two silent fees, had his
attention already drawn toward the colonel’s behavior; he stood in the
middle of the room, his hands clasped behind the tail of his coat, and
was gazing through the other window out on to the square.
Something must surely be going on there.
Quietly as possible, so as not to break the interest of the other
two, I rose from my seat. But there was really nothing to be seen.
The square was nearly empty; only in the centre, under the great
street lamps, I noticed two schoolboys who were facing each other
in threatening attitude. Could it be this, then, that so fixed the
attention of the old colonel?
But having once begun, such is the nature of man, I could not withdraw
my attention before knowing whether this threat of a fight would
really swell to an outbreak. The boys had just come from afternoon
school session; they were still carrying their portfolios under their
arms. They may have been of equal age, but one was a head taller than
the other. This bigger one, a tall, lank, overgrown schoolboy, with
an unpleasant look in his freckled face, was blocking the way of the
other, who was short and plump and had an honest face with chubby, red
cheeks. The bigger boy seemed to be nagging at the other with taunting
words, but by reason of the distance it was impossible to understand
what he said. After this had been going on for a while, the quarrel
suddenly broke out. Both boys dropped their portfolios to the ground;
the little chubby boy lowered his head, as though to ram his opponent
in the stomach, and then rushed at him.
“The big fellow there will soon have him in a fix,” now said the
colonel, who was earnestly following the movements of the enemy, and
who seemed not to approve the tactics of the little chubby boy.
For whom he intended these words it would be hard to say; he spoke them
to himself without addressing any one of us.
His prediction was at once justified.
The big fellow dodged the onset of his enemy; the next moment he
had his left arm squeezed around the other’s neck, so that the head
of the latter was caught as in a noose; he had him, as they say,
“in chancery.” With his right hand he gripped the right fist of his
opponent, who was trying to pummel him with it on the back, and when he
had regularly trapped him and brought him completely under his power he
dragged him again and again round and about the lamp-post.
“Clumsy lad,” muttered the old colonel, continuing his monologue,
“always to let himself get caught in that way.” He was plainly
disappointed in the little chubby boy, and could not endure the long,
lanky one.
“They fight that way every day,” he explained, noticing the waiter, to
whom he seemed willing to account for his interest in the matter.
Then he turned his face again toward the window.
“Wonder if the little one will turn up!”
Scarcely had he mumbled this to the end when there came rushing from
the city park that adjoined the square a slender little slip of a lad.
“There he is,” said the old colonel. He swallowed a mouthful of red
wine and stroked his beard.
The little fellow, who one felt sure by the resemblance must be a
brother of little Chubby Cheeks, but a finer and improved edition, ran
up, lifted high his portfolio with both hands and gave Long-Shanks a
blow on the back that resounded away over to where we sat.
“Bravo!” said the old colonel.
Long-Shanks kicked like a horse at this new assailant. Little-Boy
dodged, and the same instant Long-Shanks got a second blow, this time
on the head, that sent his cap flying.
Nevertheless, he still kept his prisoner held in the trap and fast by
the right hand.
Then Little-Boy tore open his portfolio with frantic haste; from the
portfolio he drew out a pen-case, from the pen-case a pen-holder, which
all at once he began jabbing into the hand of Long-Shanks that held his
brother prisoner.
“Clever lad!” said the colonel to himself. “Fine lad!” His red eyes
fairly gleamed with delight.
The affair was now becoming too hot for Long-Shanks. Stung with pain,
he released his first opponent to throw himself with furious blows on
Little-Boy.
But the latter was now transformed into a veritable little wildcat.
His hat had flown from his head, his curly hair clung round his fine,
deathly pale face, out of which his eyes fairly burned; the portfolio
with all its contents was lying on the ground--over cap, portfolio and
all he went for the anatomy of Long-Shanks.
He threw himself on the enemy, and with little, clenched, convulsive
fists belabored him so on stomach and body that Long-Shanks began to
retreat step by step.
In the meanwhile Chubby-Cheeks had recovered himself, snatched up
his portfolio, and with blow after blow on the sides and back of his
oppressor, pushed into the fight again.
Long-Shanks at last threw off Little-Boy, took two steps backward and
picked up his cap from the ground. The fight was drawing to a finish.
Panting and out of breath, the three stood looking at one another.
Long-Shanks showed an ugly grin, behind which he tried to hide the
shame of his defeat; Little-Boy, with fists still doubled, followed
every one of his movements with blazing eyes, ready at a moment to
spring once more upon the enemy should the latter renew the attack.
But Long-Shanks did not advance again; he had had enough. Sneering and
shrugging his shoulders, he kept drawing away farther and farther until
he had reached a safe distance, when he began to call out names.
The two brothers now collected the belongings of Little-Boy that lay
scattered about, stuffed them into the portfolio, picked up their caps,
whipped the dust from them, and turned homeward. On the way they passed
the windows of our wine-room. I could now plainly see the brave little
fellow; he was a thoroughbred, every inch of him. Long-Shanks was again
approaching from behind and bawling after them through the length of
the square. Little-Boy shrugged his shoulders with fine contempt. “You
great, cowardly bully,” said he, and stopping suddenly, turned right
about and faced the enemy. At once Long-Shanks stopped too, and the two
brothers broke out into derisive laughter.
They were now standing directly under the window at which the old
colonel was sitting. He leaned out.
“Bravo, youngster!” said he, “you are a plucky one--here--drink this
on the strength of it.” He had taken up the tumbler and was holding it
out of the window toward Little-Boy. The boy looked up, surprised, then
whispered something to his older brother, gave him his portfolio to
hold, and gripped the big glass in his two little hands.
When he had drank all he wanted, with one hand he held the glass by
its stem, with the other took back the portfolio from his brother, and
without asking by your leave, handed the glass over to him.
Chubby-Cheeks then took a long swallow.
“The blessed boy,” muttered the colonel to himself. “I give him my
glass, and without further ado he makes his _cher frère_ drink out of
it, too.”
But by the face of Little-Boy, who now reached the glass up to the
window again, one could see that he had only been doing something which
seemed to him quite a matter of course.
“Do you like the bouquet?” asked the old colonel.
“Yes, thanks, very well,” said the boy, who snatched at his cap
politely, and went on his way with his brother.
The colonel looked after them until they had turned a corner of the
street and disappeared from his sight.
“With boys like that”--then said the colonel, returning to his
soliloquizing--“it is often an odd thing about boys like that.”
“That they should fight so in the public streets!” said the fat waiter
with disapproval, still standing at his post. “One wonders how the
teacher can allow it; and they seem to belong to good family, too.”
“It isn’t that that does the harm,” grunted the old colonel. “Young
people must have their liberty, teachers can’t always be keeping an eye
on them. Boys all fight--must fight.”
He rose heavily from his place so that the chair creaked beneath him,
scraped the cigar butt out of its holder into the ash-tray, and walked
stiffly over to the wall where his hat hung on a nail. At the same time
he continued his reverie.
“In young blood like that nature will show itself--everything, just
as it _really_ is--afterward, when older, things look all much
alike--then one is able to study more carefully--young blood like that.”
The waiter had put his hat into his hand; the colonel took up his
tumbler again, in which there were still a few drops of the red wine.
“God bless the youngsters,” he murmured; “they have hardly left me a
drop.” He looked, almost sadly, into what remained of the wine, then
set the tumbler down again without drinking.
The fat waiter became suddenly alive.
“Will the colonel, perhaps, have another glass?”
The old man, standing at the table, had opened the wine list and was
mumbling to himself.
“H’m--another sort, maybe--but one can’t buy it by the glass--only by
the bottle--somewhat too much.”
Slowly his gaze wandered over in my direction; I read in his eyes the
dumb inquiry a man sometimes throws his neighbor when he wants to go
halves with him over a bottle of wine.
“If the colonel will allow me,” I said, “it would give me great
pleasure to drink a bottle with him.”
He agreed, plainly not unwilling. He pushed the wine list over to
the waiter, lining with his finger the sort he wanted, and said in a
commanding tone: “A bottle of that.”
“That is a brand I know well,” he said, turning to me, while he threw
his hat on a chair and sat down at one of the tables--“it’s good blood.”
I had placed myself at a table with him so that I could see his face in
profile. His look was again turned toward the window, and as he gazed
past me up into the heavens, the glow of the sunset was reflected in
his eyes.
It was the first time I had seen him at such close quarters.
By the look of his eyes he was lost in dreams, and as his hand played
mechanically through his long beard, there seemed to rise before him
out of the flood of the years that had rushed behind, forms that were
once young when he was young, and which were now--who can say where?
The bottle which the waiter had brought and placed at a table before us
contained a rare wine. An old Bordeaux, brown and oily, poured into our
glasses. I recalled the expression which the old man had used a short
time before.
“I must admit, colonel, that this is indeed ‘good blood.’”
His flushed eyes came slowly back from the far away, turned upon me,
and remained fixed there, as if he would say: “What do you know about
it?”
He took a deep draft, wiped his beard, and gazed at his glass.
“Strange,” he said, “when a man grows old--he recalls the earliest days
far easier than those that come later.”
I was silent; I felt that I ought neither to speak nor question. When
a man is lost in recollections he is making poetry, and one must not
question a poet.
A long pause followed.
“What an assortment of people one has to meet with,” he continued.
“When one thinks of it--many who live on and on--it were often better
they did not live at all--and others have to go so much too early.”
He passed the palm of his hand over the surface of the table. “Beneath
that lies much.”
It seemed as if the table had become to him as the surface of the
earth, and that he was thinking of those lying beneath the ground.
“Had to keep thinking of this a little while ago”--his voice sounded
hollow--“when I saw that little fellow. With a boy like that nature
comes right out, fairly gushes out--thick as your arm. You can see
blood in it. Pity, though, that good blood flows so freely--more freely
than the other. I once knew a little chap like that.”
And there it was.
The waiter had seated himself in a back corner of the room; I kept
perfectly quiet; the heavy voice of the old colonel went laboring
through the stillness of the room like a gust of wind that precedes a
storm or some serious outbreak in nature.
His eyes turned toward me as if to search me, whether I could bear to
listen. He did not ask, I did not speak, but I looked at him, and my
look eagerly replied: “Go on.”
But not yet did he begin; first he drew from the breast pocket of his
coat a large cigar-case of hard, brown leather, took out a cigar and
slowly lighted it.
“You know Berlin, of course,” said he, as he blew out the match and
puffed the first cloud of smoke over the table. “No doubt you have
traveled before this on the street railway--”
“Oh, yes; often.”
“H’m--well, then, as you go along behind the new Friedrich Street from
Alexander Square to the Jannowiz Bridge, there stands there on the
right-hand side in new Friedrich Street, a great ugly old building; it
is the old military school.”
I nodded.
“The new one over there in Lichterfelde I do not know, but the old one,
that I do know--yes--h’m--was even a cadet there in my time--yes--that
one I do know.”
This repetition of words gave me the feeling that he knew not only the
house, but probably many an event that had taken place in it.
“As you come from Alexander Square,” he continued, “there first comes
a court with trees. Now grass grows in the court; in my time it was
not so, for the drills took place there and the cadets went walking
there during the hours of recreation. After that comes the great main
building that encloses a square court, which is called the ‘Karreehof,’
and there, too, the cadets used to walk. Passing by from the outside,
you can’t see into the court.”
I nodded again in confirmation.
“And then comes still a third court; it is smaller, and on it stands
a house. Don’t know what it is used for now; at that time it was
the infirmary. You can still see there the roof of the gymnasium as
you pass by; then next to the infirmary was the principal outdoor
gymnasium. In it was a jumping ditch and a climbing apparatus and every
other possible thing--now it has all gone. From the infirmary a door
led out into the gymnasium, but it was always kept locked. When one
wanted to go into the infirmary, one had to cross the court and enter
in front. The door then, as I said, was always locked; that is, it was
opened only on some special occasion, and that, indeed, was always a
very mournful occasion. For behind the door was the mortuary, and when
a cadet died he was laid therein, and the door remained open until the
other cadets had filed by, and looked at him once more--and he was then
taken out--yes--h’m.”
A long pause followed.
“Concerning the new house over there in Lichterfelde,” continued the
old colonel in a somewhat disparaging tone, “I know nothing, as I said,
but have heard that it is become a big affair with a great number of
cadets. Here in New Friedrich Street there were not so many, only four
companies, and they divided themselves into two classes: Sekundaner
and Primaner, and to these two were added the Selektaner, or special
students, who afterward entered the army as officers, and who were
nicknamed ‘The Onions,’[7] because they had authority over the others
and were barely tolerated in consequence.
“Now in the company to which I belonged--it was the fourth--there
were two brothers who sat together in the same class with me, the
Sekundaner. Their name is of no consequence--but--well, they were
called, then, von _L_; the older of the two was called by the superiors
L No. I, and the smaller, who was a year and a half younger than the
other, L No. II. Among the cadets, however, they were called Big and
Little L. Little L, indeed--h’m.--”
He moved in his chair, his eyes gazed out into vacancy. It appeared
that he had reached the subject of his reveries.
“Such a contrast between brothers I have never seen,” he continued,
blowing a thick cloud from his meerschaum pipe. “Big L was a strapping
fellow, with clumsy arms and legs and a big fat head; Little L was like
a willow switch, so slender and supple. He had a small, fine head, and
light, wavy hair that curled of itself, and a delicate nose like a
young eagle’s, but above all--he was a lad--”
The old colonel drew a deep sigh. “Now you must not think that all
this was a matter of indifference to the cadets; on the contrary.
The brothers had scarcely entered the Berlin Cadet School from the
preparatory school (they came from the one at Wahlstatt, I believe)
when their status was at once fixed: Big L was neglected, and Little L
was the universal favorite.
“Now with such boys it is an odd thing: the big and the strong, they
are the leaders, and on whomsoever these bestow their favor, with that
boy all goes well. It also procures for him respect from the others,
and no one ventures lightly to attack him. Such boys--here again nature
stands right out--much as it is with the animals, before the biggest
and strongest all the rest must crouch.”
Fresh, vigorous puffs from the meerschaum accompanied these words.
“When the cadets came down at recreation time those who were good
friends together met and would go walking arm in arm around the
‘Karreehof’ and toward the court where the trees stood, and so it was
always until the trumpet sounded for return to work.
“Big L--well--he attached himself just wherever he could find
attachment, and stalked sullenly ahead by himself--Little L, on the
contrary, almost before he could reach the court was seized under the
arm by two or three big fellows and compelled to walk with them. And
they were Primaners at that. For ordinarily, you must know, it never
occurred to a Primaner to go with a ‘Knapsack,’ or Plebe, from the
Sekunda; it was far beneath his dignity; but with Little L it was
different, there an exception was made. And yet he was no less loved
by the Sekundaner than by the Primaner. One could see that in class,
where we Sekundaner boys, you know, were by ourselves. In class we were
ranged according to alphabet, so that the two L’s sat together very
nearly in the centre.
“In their lessons they stood pretty nearly even. Big L had a good head
for mathematics; in other things he was not of much account, but in
mathematics he was, as you might say, a ‘shark,’ and Little L, who was
not strong in mathematics, used to ‘crib’ from his brother. In all
other respects Little L was ahead of his older brother, and in fact
one of the best in his class. And right here appeared the difference
between the brothers; Big L kept his knowledge to himself, and never
prompted; Little L, _he_ prompted, he fairly shouted--yes, to be sure
he did--.”
A tender smile passed over the face of the old man.
“If any one on the front form was called upon and did not know the
answer--Little L hissed right across all the forms what he ought to
say: when it came the turn of the back benches little L spoke the
answer half-aloud to himself.
“There was there an old professor from whom we took Latin. During
nearly every lesson he would stop short in the middle of the class; ‘L
No. II,’ he would say, ‘you are prompting again! And that, too, in a
most shameless fashion. Have a care, L No. II, next time I will make an
example of you. I say it to you now for the last time!’”
The old colonel laughed to himself. “But it always remained the next to
last time, and the example was never made. For though Little L was no
model boy, more often quite the contrary, he was loved by both teachers
and officers as well--but how indeed could it have been otherwise? He
was always in high spirits, as if receiving a new present every day,
yet nothing ever got sent to him, for the father of the two was in
desperately poor circumstances, a major in some infantry regiment or
other, and the boys received hardly a groschen (24 cents) for pocket
money. And always as if just peeled out of the egg, so fresh--without
and within--eh, eh, altogether--”
Here the colonel paused, as if searching for an expression that would
contain the whole of his love for this former little comrade.
“As if Nature had been for once in a proudly good-humor,” he said, “and
had stood that little fellow upright on his feet and cried: ‘There you
have him!’
“Now this was to be observed,” he continued, “that just so much as the
brothers differed, one from the other, the more they seemed to cling
to each other. In Big L, indeed, one did not notice it so much; he
was always sullen and displayed no feeling; but Little L could never
conceal anything. And because Little L felt conscious of this, how much
better he himself was treated by the other cadets, it made him sorry
for his brother. When we took our walks around the courtyard, then one
could see how Little L would look at his brother from time to time, to
see if he, too, had some one to walk with. That he prompted his brother
in class and allowed him to copy from himself when sight-exercises were
dictated was all a matter of course; but he also took care that no one
teased his brother, and when he observed him quietly from the side, as
he often did, without drawing his brother’s attention to it, then his
little face was quite noticeably sad, almost as if he were a great care
to him--”
The old man pulled hard at his pipe. “All that I put together for
myself afterward,” said he, “when everything happened that was to
happen; he knew at the time much better than we did how matters stood
with Big L, and what was his brother’s character.
“This was, of course, understood among the cadets, and it helped Big L
none the more, for he remained disliked after it as before, yet it made
Little L all the more popular, and he was generally called ‘Brother
Love.’
“Now the two lived together in one room, and Little L, as I said, was
very clean and neat; the big one, on the contrary, was very slovenly.
And so Little L fairly made himself servant to his brother, and it
turned out that he even cleaned the brass buttons on his uniform
for him, and just before the ranks formed for roll-call would place
himself, with clothes-brush in hand, in front of his brother, and once
more regularly brush and scrub him--especially on those days when the
‘cross lieutenant’ was on duty and received roll-call.
“Well, in the morning the cadets had to go down into the court for
roll-call, and there the officer on duty went up and down between the
lines and inspected their uniforms to see if they were in order.
“And when the ‘cross lieutenant’ attended to this, then there reigned
the most woful anxiety throughout the company, for he always found
something. He would go behind the cadets and flip at their coats with
his finger to make the dust fly, and if none came, then he would lift
their coat-pockets and snap at them, and so, beat our coats as much as
we would, there was sure to be left some dust lying on them, and as
soon as the ‘cross lieutenant’ saw it, he would sing out in a voice
like that of an old bleating ram: ‘Write him down for Sunday report,’
and then Sunday’s day off might go to the devil, and then that got to
be a very serious matter.”
The old colonel paused, took a vigorous swallow of wine, and with the
palm of his hand squeezed the beard from his upper lip into his mouth
and sucked off the wine drops that sparkled on the hair. Recollection
of the “cross lieutenant” made him plainly furious.
“When one considers what sort of meanness it takes to so deprive a
poor little fellow of the Sunday holiday he has been hugging for a
whole week, and all for a trifle--bah! it’s downright--whenever I have
seen any one annoying my men--in later days that sort of thing didn’t
happen in my regiment; they knew this, that I was there and would
not tolerate it.--To be rough at times, ay, even to the extreme if
necessary, to throw one into the guard-house, that does no harm--but to
nag--for that it takes a mean skunk!”
“Very true!” observed the waiter from the back part of the room, and
thus made it known that he was following the colonel’s story.
The old man calmed himself and went on with his story.
“Things went on this way for a year, and then came the time for
examinations, always a very special occasion.
“The Primaners took their ensign’s examination, and the Selektaners,
who, as I have said, were called ‘Onions,’ the officer’s examination,
and as fast as any had passed the examination, they were dismissed
from the cadet corps and sent home, and it came about that the second
classmen, or Sekundaner, who were to be promoted to first class, still
remained Sekundaner for a time.
“Well, this state of affairs lasted until the new Sekundaner entered
from the preparatory school and the newly dubbed ‘Onions’ returned, and
then once more the wheelbarrow trudged along its accustomed way. But in
the mean time a kind of disorder prevailed, more especially just after
the last of the Primaners had left--they were examined in sections,
you know, and then despatched, after which everything went pretty much
at sixes and sevens.
“There was now in the dormitory where the two brothers lived a certain
Primaner, a ‘swell,’ as he was called by the cadets, and because he had
made up his mind, as soon as he should pass the examination and breathe
the fresh air again, to conduct himself like a fine gentleman, he had
had made for himself, instead of a sword-belt like those the cadets
procured from the institution and wore, a special patent-leather belt
of his own, thinner and apparently finer than the ordinary regulation
belt. He was able to afford this much, you see, for he had money sent
to him from home.”
He had displayed this belt about everywhere, for he was inordinately
proud of it, and the other cadets admired it.
“Now as the day arrived for the Primaner to pack together his scattered
belongings in order to go home, he looked to buckle on his fine
belt--and all at once the thing was missing.
“A great to-do followed; search was made everywhere; the belt was
not to be found. The Primaner had not locked it in his wardrobe, but
had put it with his helmet in the dormitory behind the curtain where
the helmets of the other cadets lay openly--and from there it had
disappeared.
“It could not possibly have disappeared in any other way--some one must
have taken it.
“But who?
“First they thought of the old servant who was accustomed to blacken
the boots of the cadets, and keep the dormitory in order--but he was an
old trusty non-commissioned officer, who had never during the course of
his long life allowed himself to be guilty of the least irregularity.
“It surely could not be one of the cadets? But who could possibly think
such a thing? So the matter remained a mystery, and truly an unpleasant
one. The Primaner swore and scolded because he must now leave wearing
the ordinary institution belt; the other cadets in the room were
altogether silent and depressed; they had at once unlocked all their
wardrobes and offered to let the Primaner search them, but he had
merely replied: ‘That’s nonsense, of course; who could think of such a
thing?’
“And now something remarkable happened, and caused more sensation than
all that went before; all at once the Primaner got back the belt.
“He had just left his room with his portmanteau in his hand, and had
reached the stairs, when he was hastily called from behind, and as
he turned about, Little L came running up, holding something in his
hand--it was the Primaner’s belt.”
Two others happened to be passing at the time, and they afterward
told how deathly pale Little L was, and how every member of his body
was literally shaking. He had whispered something into the ear of the
Primaner, and the two had exchanged all quietly a couple of words, and
then the Primaner affectionately stroked the other’s head, took off his
regulation belt, buckled on the fine one and was gone; he had handed
the regulation belt over to Little L to carry back. Naturally the
story could now no longer be concealed, and it all came out accordingly.
“A new assignment of rooms was ordered; Big L was transferred; and just
at the time all this was taking place, he had completed his removal to
the new quarters.
“Afterward it occurred to the cadets that he had kept strangely quiet
about the whole affair--but one always hears the grass growing after it
has grown. So much, however, was certain; he had allowed no one to help
him, and when Little L put his hands to the work, he became quite rough
toward his little brother. But Little L, ready to help as he always
was, did not allow himself to be deterred by this, and as he was taking
out of his brother’s locker the gymnasium drill jacket that was lying
neatly folded together, he felt all at once something hard within--and
it was the belt of the Primaner.
“What the brothers said to each other at the moment, or whether they
spoke at all, no one has ever learned; for Little L had still so much
presence of mind that he went noiselessly from the room. But hardly was
he out of the door and in the corridor, when he threw the jacket on
the ground, and without once thinking of what might be made out of the
affair, he ran up behind the Primaner with the belt.
“But now, of course, it could no longer be helped; in five minutes the
story was the property of the whole company.
“Big L had allowed himself to be driven by the devil and had become
light-fingered. Half an hour later it was whispered softly from room to
room: ‘Tonight, when the lamps are turned out, general consultation in
the company hall!’
“In every company quarters, you must know, there was a larger room,
where marks were given out, and certain public actions proceeded with,
in what was called the company hall.
“So that evening, when the lamps were out, and everything was quite
dark, there was a general movement from all the rooms, through the
corridor; not a door ventured to slam, all were in stocking feet, for
the captain and the officers still knew nothing and were allowed to
know nothing of the meeting, else we would have brought a storm about
our ears.
“As we came to the door of the company hall, there stood near the door
against the wall one as white as the plaster on the wall--it was Little
L. At the same moment a couple took him by the hands. ‘Little L can
come in with us,’ they said; ‘he is not to blame.’ Only one of them all
wished to oppose this; he was a long, big fellow--he was called--name
of no consequence--well, then, he was called K. But he was overruled at
once; Little L was taken in with us, a couple of tallow candles were
lit and placed on the table, and now the consultation began.”
The colonel’s glass was empty again. I filled it for him, and he took
a long swallow. “Over all this,” he went on, “one can laugh now if one
wills; but this much I can say, for us we were not in a laughing mood,
but altogether dismal. A cadet a rascal--to us that was something
incomprehensible. All faces were pale, all speaking was but half aloud.
Ordinarily it was considered the most despicable piece of meanness if
one cadet reported another to the authorities--but when a cadet had
done such a thing as to steal, then he was for us no longer a cadet,
and it was for this reason that the consultation was being held,
whether we ought to report to the captain what Big L had done.
“Long K was the first to speak. He declared that we ought to go at
once to the captain and tell him everything, for at such meanness all
consideration ceases. Now long K was the biggest and strongest boy
in the company; his words, therefore, made a marked impression, and
besides, we were all of his opinion at bottom.
“No one knew anything to object to this, and so there fell a general
silence. All at once, however, the circle that had formed around the
table opened and Little L., who had till now been flattening himself
against the farthest corner of the room, came forward into the centre.
His arms hung limp at the side of his body, and his face he kept
lowered to the ground; one saw that he wished to say something, but
could not find the courage.
“Long K was again laying down the law. ‘L No. II,’ said he, ‘has no
right to speak here.’
“But this time he was not so fortunate. He had always been hostile
to the two, no one quite knew why, especially Little L. Moreover, he
was not a bit popular, for as such youngsters have once and for all a
tremendously fine instinct, they may have felt that in this long gawk
lay hidden a perfectly mean, cowardly, wretched spirit. He was one of
those who never venture to attack their equals in size, but bully the
smaller and weaker ones.
“At that broke out a whispering on all sides: ‘Little L _shall_
speak! All the more reason for him to speak.’
“As the little fellow, who was still standing there, ever motionless
and rigid, heard how his comrades were taking his part, suddenly the
big tears rolled down his cheeks; he doubled his two little fists and
screwed them into his eyes and sobbed so heart-breakingly that his
whole body shook from top to bottom and he could not utter a word.
“One of them went up to him and patted him on the back.
“‘Take it easy,’ said he; ‘what is it you wish to say?’
“Little L still kept on sobbing.
“‘If--he is shown up--’ he then broke out at long intervals--‘he will
be dismissed from the corps--and then what will become of him?’
“There was silence everywhere; we knew that the young one was perfectly
right, and that such would be the consequence if we reported him. Added
to this we also knew that the father was poor, and involuntarily each
thought of what his own father would say if he should learn the same of
his son.
“‘But you must see yourself,’ continued the cadet to Little L, ‘that
your brother has done a very contemptible thing and deserves
punishment for it.’
“Little L nodded silently; his feelings were entirely with those who
were censuring his brother. The cadet reflected a moment, then he
turned to the others.
“‘I make a proposition,’ said he; ‘and if it be accepted we will not
disgrace L No. I for life. We will prove on his body whether he has any
honorable feelings left. L No. I himself shall choose whether he wishes
us to report him or whether we shall keep the matter to ourselves,
cudgel him thoroughly for it, and then let the affair be buried.’
“That was an admirable way out. All agreed eagerly.
“The cadet laid his hand on Little L’s shoulder. ‘Go along, then,’ said
he, ‘and call your brother here.’
“Little L dried his tears and nodded his head quickly--then he was out
of the door and a moment after was back again, bringing his brother
with him.
“Big L ventured to look at no one; like an ox that has been felled on
the forehead, he stood before his comrades. Little L stood behind him,
and never once did his eyes leave his brother’s slightest movement.
“The cadet who had made the foregoing proposition began the trial of L
No. I.
“‘Does he admit that he took the belt?’
“‘He admits it.’
“‘Does he feel that he has done something that has made him absolutely
unworthy of being a cadet any longer?’
“‘He feels it.’
“‘Does he choose that we report him to the captain or that we thrash
him soundly and that the matter shall then be buried?’
“‘He prefers to be soundly thrashed,’
“A sigh of relief went through the whole hall.
“It was determined to finish the matter at once then and there.
“One of the boys was sent out to fetch a rattan, such as we used for
beating our clothes.
“While he was gone we tried to induce Little L to leave the hall, so
that he should not be present at the execution.
“But he shook his head silently; he wished to remain on hand.
“As soon as the rattan came, Big L was made to lie face down on the
table, two cadets seized his hands and drew him forward, two others
took him by the feet so that his body lay stretched out lengthwise. The
tallow candles were taken from the table and lifted up high and the
whole affair had an absolutely gruesome look.
“Long K, because he was the strongest, was to perform the execution; he
took the rattan in his hand, stepped to one side, and with the force of
his whole body let the cane come whistling down on to Big L, who was
clothed only in drill jacket and trousers.
“The young fellow fairly rose under the fearful blow and would have
cried out; but in a second Little L rushed up to him, took his head in
both hands and smothered it against himself.
“‘Don’t scream,’ he whispered to him; ‘don’t scream, else the whole
affair will get out!’
“Big L swallowed down the cry and choked and groaned to himself.
“Long K again lifted up the cane, and a second swish resounded through
the hall.
“The body of the culprit actually writhed on the table, so that the
cadets were scarcely able to hold him down by his hands and feet.
Little L had wrapped both arms around the head of his brother, and
was crushing it with convulsive force against himself. His eyes were
wide open, his face like the plaster on the wall, his whole body was
quivering.
“Throughout the hall was a stillness like death, so that one could only
hear the wheezing and puffing of the victim whom the little brother
was smothering against his breast. All eyes were hanging on the little
fellow; we all had a feeling that we could not look on at it any longer.
“When, therefore, the third blow had fallen and the whole performance
repeated itself just as before, a general excited whisper followed:
‘Now, it is enough--strike no more!’
“Long K, who had become quite red from the exertion, was raising his
arm again for the fourth blow, but with one accord, three or four threw
themselves between him and Big L, tore the rattan from his grasp, and
thrust him back.
“The execution was at an end.
“The cadet aforesaid raised his voice once more, but only half aloud.
“‘Now, the affair is over with and buried,’ said he, ‘let each one
give his hand to L No. I, and let him that breathes even a word of the
matter be accounted a rascal.’
“A general ‘Yes, yes,’ showed that he had spoken entirely in accord
with the mind of the others. They stepped up to Big L and stretched
out their hands to him, but then, as at a word of command, they threw
themselves upon Little L. There formed a regular knot about the lad,
first one and then another wished to grasp him by the hand and shake
it. Those standing at the back stretched out their hands ’way across
those in front, some even climbed on to the table to get at him; they
stroked his head, patted him on the shoulder, and with it all was a
general whispering: ‘Little L, you glorious rascal, you superb Little
L.’”
The old colonel lifted his glass to his mouth--it was as if he were
forcing something down behind it. When he set it down again, he drew a
deep sigh from the bottom of his heart.
“Boys like that,” said he, “they have instinct--instinct and sentiment.
“The lights were turned out, all stole hushed through the corridor back
to their rooms. Five minutes later every boy was lying in his bed, and
the affair was ended.
“The captain and the other officers had heard not a sound of the whole
matter.
“The affair was ended”--the voice of the speaker grew thick; he had
buried both hands in his trousers’ pockets and was gazing before him
through the fumes of the smoking cigar.
“So we thought that night, as we lay in bed.--Did Little L sleep that
night? In the days following, when we assembled in class, it did not
seem so. Before, it had been as if an imp were sitting in the place
where the lad sat, and, like a rooster, had crowed it over the whole
class--now it was as if there were a void in the place--so still and
pale he sat in his place.
“As when a man flicks the dust from the wings of a butterfly--so was it
with the little lad--I can not describe it otherwise.
“On afternoons one always saw him now walking with his brother. He may
have felt that Big L would now find less companionship than ever among
the others--so he provided company for him. And there the two went,
then, arm in arm, always around about the Karreehof and across the
court with the trees in it, one as well as the other with head bent to
the ground, so that one scarcely saw that they ever spoke a word.”
Again there came a pause in the narrative, again I had to fill the
empty glass of the colonel, who smoked his cigar faster and faster.
“But all this,” he continued, “would perhaps have worn itself out in
course of time and everything have gone on as before--but for people!”
He laid his clenched fist on the table.
“There are people,” said he, scowling, “who are like the poisonous weed
in the field, at which beasts nibble themselves to death. With such
people the rest poison themselves!
“So then, one day we were having lessons in physics. The teacher was
showing us experiments on the electric machine, and an electric shock
was to be passed through the whole class.
“To this end each one of us had to give his hand to his neighbor, so as
to complete the circuit.
“As now Big L, who was sitting next to Long K, held out his hand to
him, the lubber made a grimace as if he were about to touch a toad and
drew back his hand.
“Big L quietly shrank into himself and sat there as if covered with
shame. But at the same instant Little L is up and out of his place,
over to his brother’s side, at whose place, next to Long K, he seats
himself, whose hand he grips and smashes with all the force of his body
against the wooden form, so that the long gawk cries out with pain.
“Then he grabbed Little L by the neck and the two now began regularly
to fight in the middle of class.
“The teacher, who had been tinkering all this time at his machine, now
rushed up with coat-tails flying.
“‘Now! Now! Now!’ he cried.
“He was, you must know, an old man for whom we had not exactly a great
respect.
“The two were so interlocked that they did not break away, even though
the professor was standing directly in front of them.
“‘What disgraceful conduct!’ cried the professor. ‘What disgraceful
conduct! Will you separate at once!’
“Long K made a face as if he were about to cry.
“‘L No. II began it,’ he said, ‘though I did nothing at all to provoke
him.’
“Little L stood straight up in his place--for we always had to stand
when a professor spoke to us--big drops of perspiration coursed
slowly down either cheek; he said not a word; he had bitten his teeth
together so hard that one could see the muscles of his jaw through the
thin cheeks. And as he heard what Long K said a smile passed over his
face--I have never seen anything like it.
“The old professor expatiated at some length in beautiful set phrases
over such disgraceful behavior, spoke of the ‘utter depths of abysmal
bestiality’ which such conduct betrayed--we let him talk on; our
thoughts were with Little L and Long K.
“And scarcely was the lesson at an end and the professor out of the
door, when from the back a book came flying through the air the whole
length of the class straight at the skull of Long K. And as he turned
angrily toward the aggressor, from the other side he received another
book on his head, and now there broke out a general howling: ‘Knock
him down! Knock him down!’ The whole class sprang up over tables
and benches and there was a rush for Long K, whose hide was now so
thoroughly tanned that it fairly smoked.”
The old colonel, pleased, smiled grimly to himself and contemplated his
hand as it still lay with fist doubled on the table.
“I helped,” said he, “and with hearty good-will--I can tell you.”
It was as if his hand had forgotten that it had grown fifty years
older; as the fingers closed convulsively one could see that it was in
spirit once again pummeling Long K.
“But as people must belong once and forever to their own kind,”
he continued his narrative, “so this Long K had to be naturally a
revengeful, spiteful malicious _canaille_. He would much rather have
gone to the captain and resentfully told him everything, but in our
presence he did not dare; for that he was too cowardly.
“But that he had received a thrashing before the whole class, and that
Little L was to blame for it, for that he did not forgive Little L.
“One afternoon, then, as recreation hour came round again, the cadets
went walking in the courts; the two brothers, as usual, by themselves;
Long K linked arm in arm with two others.
“To get from the Karreehof to the other court where the trees were, one
had to pass under one of the wings of the main building, and it was a
rule that the cadets must not pass through arm in arm, so as not to
obstruct the passageway.
“On this particular afternoon, as ill-luck would have it, Long K, as he
was about to pass through with his two chums from the Karreehof to the
other court, met the two brothers at the corridor, and they, deep in
their thoughts, had forgotten to let go of one another.
“Long K, although the affair was no concern of his, when he saw this
stood still, opened his eyes wide and his mouth still wider, and called
out to the two: ‘What does this mean,’ said he, ‘that you go through
here arm in arm? Do you intend to block the way for honest people, you
set of thieves?’”
Here the colonel interrupted himself.
“That is now fifty years ago,” said he, “and more--but I remember it as
if it had happened yesterday.
“I was just going with two others from the Karreehof, and suddenly we
heard a scream come from the corridor--I can not describe at all how it
sounded--when a tiger or other wild beast breaks loose from his cage
and throws himself on some one, then, I think, one would hear something
like it.
“It was so horrible that we three let our arms drop and stood there
quite paralyzed. And not only we, but everything in the Karreehof
stopped and suddenly grew quiet. And then everything that had two
legs to run with kept rushing up at full speed toward the corridor,
so that it fairly swarmed and thickened black around the corridor. I,
naturally, with the rest--and what I saw there--
“Little L had climbed on to Long K like a wildcat--nothing else--and
with his left hand hanging on by the latter’s collar so that
the tall gawk was half-choked, with his right fist he kept up a
crack--crack--and crack right in the middle of Long K’s face, wherever
it happened to strike, so that the blood was pouring from Long K’s nose
like a waterfall.
“Now from the other court came the officer who was on duty and broke
his way through the cadets. ‘L No. II, will you leave off at once!’
he thundered--for he was a man tall as a tree and had a voice that
could be heard from one end of the Academy to the other, and we had a
wholesome respect for him.
“But Little L neither heard nor saw, but kept on belaboring Long K in
the face still more, and with it came again and again that fearful
uncanny shriek that thrilled through us all, marrow and bone.
“When the officer saw that he took hold himself, gripped the little
fellow by both shoulders, and by main force tore him away from Long K.
“As soon as he stood upon his feet, however, Little L rolled up the
whites of his eyes, fell his full length to the earth, and writhed on
the ground in a convulsion.
“We had never yet seen anything like it, and were shocked and stared at
it in absolute terror.
“But the officer, who had been bending down over him, now straightened
himself: ‘The lad certainly has a most serious convulsion,’ said he.
‘Forward, two take hold of his feet’--he himself lifted him under the
arms--over to the infirmary!’
“And so they bore Little L over to the infirmary.
“While they were carrying him there we went up to Big L to learn just
what had happened, and from Big L and the other two who had been with
Long K we then heard the whole story.
“Long K was standing there like a whipped dog and wiping the blood from
his nose, and had it not been for this nothing would have saved him
from receiving another murderous thrashing. But now all turned silently
away from him, no one ever spoke another word to him; he made himself a
social outcast.”
The top of the table resounded as the old colonel struck it with his
fist.
“How long the others kept him in Coventry,” said he, “I know not. I
sat in class with him for a whole year longer and spoke never a single
word more to him. We entered the army at the same time as ensigns; I
did not give him my hand at parting; do not know whether he has become
an officer; have never looked for his name in the army register; don’t
know whether he has fallen in one of the wars, whether he still lives
or is dead--for me he was no more, is no more---the only thing I regret
is that the person ever came into my life at all and that I can not
root out the remembrance of him, forever, like a weed one flings into
the oven!
“The next morning came bad news from the infirmary. Little L was lying
unconscious in a burning, nervous fever. In the afternoon his older
brother was called in, but the little fellow no longer recognized him.
“And in the evening, as we all sat at supper in the big common
dining-hall, a rumor came--like a great black bird with muffled beat of
wings it passed through the hall--that Little L was dead.
“As we came back from the dining-hall into company quarters, our
captain was standing at the door of the company hall; we were made to
go in, and there the captain announced to us that our little comrade, L
No. II, had fallen asleep that night, never to wake again.
“The captain was a very good man--he fell in 1866, a brave hero--he
loved his cadets, and as he gave us the news, he had to wipe the tears
from his beard. Then he ordered us all to fold our hands; one of us had
to step forward and before all say ‘Our Father’ out loud--”
The colonel bowed his head.
“Then for the first time,” said he, “I felt how really beautiful is the
Lord’s Prayer.
“And so, the next afternoon, the door that led from the infirmary to
the outdoor gymnasium opened, the hateful, ominous door.
“We were made to step down into the court of the infirmary; we were to
see once more our dead comrade.
“Our steps shuffled with a dull and heavy sound as we were marched over
there; no one spoke a word; one heard only a heavy breathing.
“And there lay little L, poor little L!
“In his white little shirt he lay there, his hands folded on his
breast, his golden locks curled about his forehead, which was white
like wax; the cheeks so sunken that the beautiful, delicate little nose
projected quite far--and in his face--the expression--”
The old colonel was silent, the breath came choking from his bosom.
“I have grown to be an old man,” he went on falteringly--“I have seen
men lying on the field of battle--men on whose faces stood written
distress and despair--such heart sorrow as I saw in the face of this
child I have never seen before or since--never--never--”
A deep stillness took possession of the wine-room where we were
sitting. As the old colonel became silent and spoke no word more, the
waiter rose softly from his corner and lit the gas-jet that hung over
our heads; it had grown quite dark.
I took up the wine bottle once more, but it was now almost empty--just
one tear still crept slowly out--one last drop of the good blood.
FOOTNOTES:
[6] The title conferred in Prussia on the candidate who has passed the
first of the two examinations held before appointment as judge.
[7] “Die Bollen,” a term of dislike among the Berlin cadets.
DELIVERANCE
BY MAX SIMON NORDAU
[Illustration]
_The fame of “Degeneration,” that vigorous polemic against
abnormal vice, has so overshadowed Max Nordau’s other literary
accomplishments that it will be a surprise to many American
readers to see his name among the master foreign writers of
short stories. “Degeneration” has only an ethical value and
does not rank by any means with the author’s best literary
work, for he has written, besides short stories of great merit,
novels, essays, satires, critiques--all more or less bold
attacks on existing conventionalities._
_Nordau was born a Jew at Buda-Pesth. For a while he was a
teacher, then he studied medicine, and after six years of
travel returned and practised his profession of medicine, first
at Buda-Pesth and afterward at Paris, where he settled, and is
now a prominent leader in the Zionist movement in Europe._
[Illustration]
DELIVERANCE
BY MAX NORDAU
Translated by Euphemia Johnson.
Copyright, 1896, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
For an hour the first regiment of Dragoons of the Guard had been drawn
up on level ground behind a screen of low bushes, waiting the order to
engage. For some time the fighting appeared to have ceased around them.
Only a shattered gun carriage and the ground, pierced with deep holes
like newly dug graves, heaped about with soft, yellowish earth, gave
the spot the look of a battlefield. But the conflict was evident enough
to the ear. On all sides thundered the cannon, and from the right came
also the rattling of musketry. The roar of battle rose and fell like
the gamut of a great orchestra executing the “Storm Movement” of the
Pastoral Symphony.
In the foreground, on a slight elevation, a group of officers were
attentively examining the French position. One of them, a Major,
stood a little apart smoking a cigarette and gazing dreamily into the
distance. He might not, perhaps, have attracted a feminine observer,
but a masculine eye would certainly have marked him as a man of
striking intellect. He was about thirty, tall, slight, with cold gray
eyes, a pale, thin face and pale, sarcastic lips, just shadowed by a
delicate auburn mustache. This silent, self-contained man had about
him an air of strange listlessness and disenchantment that made him in
every way a contrast to the tanned, sunburnt young fellows who stood
about him, all on fire with the eagerness of battle. Taking off his
helmet, he passed his hand over his forehead. It was an aristocratic,
well-kept hand, with slender, bloodless fingers. The whole appearance
of this officer--which even a uniform could not disguise--was that of
a person of exceptional distinction, and indeed he was a person of
very great distinction, being no other than Prince Louis von Hockstein
Falckenbourg Gerau, the head of what was once a family of reigning
princes.
Early left an orphan, the Prince found himself when he came of age
master of an almost unlimited fortune. From his mother, a musician
of exquisite sensibility, he had inherited an artistic temperament
and keen sense of the beautiful; while from his father, a haughty
and somewhat eccentric noble, he had received a disposition of such
violence and independence that it brooked no control from outside and
recognized no law but its own will.
It will take no great effort of the imagination to see how the world
had treated the young prince. The Court distinguished him with special
attentions; the ladies petted him; the men sought him. In this
hot-house atmosphere of high life he came quickly to maturity, and,
like most children brought up among older persons without companions of
their own age, he was of a thoughtful, even suspicious, temperament.
As, in addition to this, he looked at everything from a critical,
almost skeptical, point of view, insisting on getting to the bottom of
every question, he did not make the mistake of most young men in his
position--the mistake of thinking the attentions paid him homage to his
own talent. Perfectly frank with himself, he recognized that they were
paid to his title and fortune.
“What do these people really know of me?” he often asked himself, on
coming home from some Court festival to the solitude of his magnificent
palace.
“Nothing, and yet they scarcely wait for my mouth to open to applaud
my speech! But if all the words I spoke this evening were written down
and submitted to a man of sense, his honest verdict would have to be:
‘Well, perhaps this fellow isn’t exactly a fool, but he certainly is
mighty little over mediocrity.’ Yet the world persists in treating me
as if I were somebody! But it is not _me_--Louis--that they are really
concerned with, but only Prince von Hockstein,” etc.
_Louis_ was actually jealous of _the Prince_. The latter seemed to him
an enemy, bent on thwarting and overshadowing his real self, and the
noble ambition awoke in him to amount to something, in himself, apart
from his rank and fortune.
But this was easier said than done; everywhere the Prince von
Hockstein, etc., barred the way for Louis and would not let him pass.
He enrolled himself at the University--the most aristocratic set among
the students hastened to pay him court. The professors even, men
whose genius until then he had revered, were overcome with joy when
he appeared in their classrooms, and addressed their words markedly
to him. He soon had enough of this, and tried the army. His colonel
thanked him for the honor he did the regiment in joining it; his
superiors paid him flattering attentions; his fellow officers bored
him. Then, too, the pettiness of garrison life was not much to his
taste, so he quitted active service, but not until he had been rapidly
promoted to the rank of major.
Of course, all this time women had played some part in his life. There
were a few trifling affairs with actresses that did not go deep,
and some passing flirtations with women of the world. These last he
quickly found unbearable, for--except in being a thousand times more
exacting--the great ladies amounted to no more than did the ballet
girls.
One experience, however, came near being serious. The Prince, traveling
incognito through the Black Forest to the watering-place of Norderney,
chanced to take a place in the coupé of the diligence next to a lady
also going to Norderney. She was of striking beauty and fascination,
and the Prince was completely bewitched. He exerted himself immensely,
but his attentions were all received with courteous indifference.
Perhaps it was this indifference--a new experience--that charmed him.
After he reached Norderney he continued to pay his court. He kept his
incognito and simply called himself Herr von Gerau.
The lady was surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and accepted Louis’s
daily bouquets just as she did those of the others. She treated all
her admirers with indifference, possibly to the Prince her manner was
a shade colder than to the rest. At this critical moment, a certain
great personage, an acquaintance of Louis, arrived at Norderney,
and etiquette required the Prince to pay him a visit of ceremony in
full dress uniform. Of course his name and rank could no longer be
concealed. The fair lady beheld her admirer in his magnificent blue
uniform, and learned who he really was. Immediately she had eyes
for no one else, and seemed by smiles and glances to give him every
encouragement and to ask pardon for her former neglect.
By way of answer, the Prince sent her a package containing his uniform
and jeweled pin in the shape of a crown. These were accompanied by
a note in which he declared he gave her in perpetuity and in sole
proprietorship the only things she had cared for in him.
He was on the point of starting to hunt reindeer in Norway when the war
of 1870 broke out. He immediately asked leave to join his regiment, and
the request, of course, was at once granted. Patriotism and enthusiasm
had very little to do with his action. He rejoined his regiment in
the first place because it was the correct thing to do, and in the
second because he hoped that war might possibly give him some new
sensations. Was he again disappointed? He was inclined to think so. Now
for two weeks he had been in the enemy’s country, and he had had no
extraordinary experience. When you have two good servants and unlimited
money, even in a campaign there are few hardships, especially in a
victorious army. As for heroic deeds, there had simply been no occasion
for them. And the old weariness had come upon him again, as he stood
in front of his regiment, smoking his cigarette.
The French artillery was now advancing upon the ditch, and their balls
struck the German batteries that it defended, making great havoc. Two
regiments of infantry were ordered to the support of the batteries.
Marching first came the Third Westphalians. They passed so near the
group of officers that Prince Louis could distinguish each face, each
expression. The poor fellows had been marching for fourteen hours under
the burning August sun. They were covered with dust and sweat and their
uniforms were soiled with mud. But in no way did these heroes betray
their deadly fatigue. Their eyes, reddened by the heat, flamed with the
enthusiasm of war, their dry throats found strength to shout “Hurrah!”
The whole regiment forgot their fatigue, and seemed, as they marched
under fire, like men refreshed and stimulated by a generous draft.
“Poor devils,” thought the Prince, “they are running to death as if
it were a kermess dance. What are they thinking about?--nothing,
probably. They are driven on by a blind desire of conquest. What good
will victory do them? How will it better their lot--if they have the
luck to escape death? Glory for Germany? Perhaps for me that might be
worth something, hardly for them. Victory might add to the splendor of
my uniform. Still, I don’t know, I wear it so seldom. Perhaps if I go
to Japan next year, the Mikado will receive me better if I belong to a
victorious nation, but whether we beat the French or they beat us, I
suspect I will always get the same welcome at the Jockey Club in Paris
and the Mediterranean Club in Nice. But those nobodies over there, what
will their glorious and victorious country do for them? They won’t
get much of it in their village. All they know of the ‘Fatherland’
is the taxgatherers and the police, and they will be what they have
always been. And yet there they are full of enthusiasm, I can’t deny
it--it shakes even me. Well, we ought to thank the poets who sing
about patriotism and military glory, and the schoolmasters who teach
the people’s hearts the poets’ words. Marvelous power of a word that
can lead a prosaic peasant to give his life for an abstraction, an
imagination!”
But even as with the quickness of lightning these thoughts passed
through his mind, the Prince felt a sensation that amazed him. It was
a feeling of confusion, of shame. It seemed as if he had been speaking
his thoughts aloud and as if a group of grave and noble figures had
listened to his words, and were now looking at him in a silence full
of pity and disdain. Down in the depths of his soul, where the mocking
light of his skeptical spirit failed to penetrate, he seemed to hear an
imperial voice rebuking him and silencing his doubt.
“I am right,” his mind said.
“You are wrong,” declared the voice.
“Well, anyway, I shall not deceive _myself_ with romantic dreams,”
cried Reason; but already it seemed to the Prince that the words were
spoken by a stranger, and he shrank back from them indignantly.
By this time the Third Westphalians had covered the entire slope of the
ditch, the sharpshooters were already at the top. There was a moment’s
hesitation, for the first heads that appeared above the ditch called
forth a deadly fire from the enemy. Several men fell, but those behind
pressed on, and in spite of their terrible fatigue, tried with hands
and feet to make the ascent that would have been play to men in good
condition. As they marched on, all on fire with noble ardor, Heine’s
words came back to the Prince: “How I love the dear, good Westphalians!
They are so sure, so firm, so faithful. It is magnificent to see them
on the field of battle, those heroes, with their lion hearts.”
Pushed on by their “lion hearts,” the Westphalians continued to
scramble up the slope, expending their last breath in the effort to go
forward. But the French, maddened by this outburst, forced them, after
a terrible combat man to man, to recoil to the bottom of the ditch,
which began to fill up with heaps of dead and wounded. The survivors
tried to retreat up the other slope, and now the spectators above
beheld a heart-rending sight. The men were so completely exhausted that
they could not make the easy ascent. The muskets fell from their hands,
and the French made many prisoners.
Above there was the greatest excitement. The Eighth Westphalians
arrived, commanded by the General in person, and started immediately to
the aid of its comrades. The French were forced back and many prisoners
were recaptured. But the advantage was of short duration. New masses of
the enemy’s infantry were coming up, and in the distance the cavalry
were seen approaching.
Prince Louis had followed the combat with increasing emotion--he felt
his heart beat alternately with joy and fear. It seemed to him now that
the critical moment had come, and he read the same impression in the
faces of the other officers. The Colonel called his orderly and sprang
into the saddle. The trumpets sounded, and a sudden movement passed
through the regiment. In a moment every one was on horseback, sabres
clinked against the spurs, the horses neighed. Again the trumpets
sounded and the whole troop began the march.
Prince Louis glanced at his watch--it was half-past six in the evening.
As he rode along at the head of the first squadron, a short distance
from the Colonel and adjutants, he felt himself seized by a sensation
he had never in his life experienced. The madness, the feverish
impatience of a moment before had melted away with the consciousness
of acting for a given purpose. The knowledge of activity, of seeking
a definite end, brought him rest. He stopped looking for reasons; he
thought no more of criticizing. The spirit of doubt was driven out of
him. He obeyed with the ardor, the belief, the simple obedience of
a child, the irresistible command that was pushing his entire being
forward. This man, so proud of his _ego_, he, who had always sought
happiness by the unlimited activity of his personal will, now found
that will so crushed and bound that it was scarcely perceptible. A
Power, call it Natural Law, call it the Divine Will, that is ever
manifesting itself by the course of history, had entered into him and
taken possession of him. He was no longer master of his destiny, he
was taken out of himself by a stranger--was it a supernatural vision,
a great genius, a Delivering Christ?--Louis felt himself only a screw,
a rivet in the machinery of the world’s history, and strange to say
this dissolving of his individuality in a great whole, as complete as
the melting of a piece of sugar in a glass of water, caused him neither
sorrow nor regret. On the contrary, a strange pleasure penetrated his
entire being and made him tremble with joy. He felt himself very small,
yet at the same time he saw in himself something great that transcended
the limit of his own personality. In a word, he had found at last that
sensation he had always desired. He was delivered from his prison of
egotism and at large among great generalities.
The regiment was now descending the slope, avoiding the heaps of dead
and wounded. The horses quickly ascended the opposite side and, the
trumpets sounding, the regiment separated into two lines and advanced.
What followed might have been taken for a representation of the
conflict of the gods in Valhalla. The French cuirassiers, riding toward
the sun, were illumined with an unearthly light, their shining sabres
seemed like tongues of flame, their cuirasses and helmets shone like
white-hot steel. The German dragoons had their backs to the sun, and
the long black shadows of horses and horsemen galloping ahead along
the ground made it look as if sombre ghosts were leading the living
to the attack. The two troops met with a terrible shock. The sublime
vision of the moment before was gone, and in its stead was a horrible,
confused mêlée. Men fought hand to hand, plunging their sabres into the
bodies of their enemies, without knowing exactly what they did. The
French were forced to retreat, still fighting. The Germans pursued,
hurrahing with joy, their horses dripping with blood.
The pursuit stopped near a little brook. Prince Louis felt as if he
were awaking from a dream; he caressed his noble horse and looked about
him. The enemy’s artillery was being drawn off; the survivors of the
cuirassiers followed the artillery. In the distance the columns of
infantry were also retreating, keeping up an irregular, ineffectual
fire.
“It is strange,” observed a young lieutenant near the Prince, showing
him his sabre, “my sabre is covered with blood up to the hilt, and yet
I have not the least idea how it happened.”
The Prince was about to answer, when he felt a terrible blow on his
chest, as if he had been struck by the hand of an invisible giant, or
by the horn of a bull. He put his hand to his breast. It was covered
with blood. He just realized that he must have been struck by a ball,
when he lost consciousness.
When he came to himself, he was lying on the trampled ground, his head
resting against a saddle. His tunic was unfastened and his comrades
were standing about him. He felt no pain, only a sensation of great
fatigue, hard to describe, a little like that of a man who is drowning.
“How do you feel, Prince?” asked the lieutenant-colonel, who was
bending over him.
“It seems to me,” he answered, in a voice that could scarcely be heard,
a slight smile on his lips, “as if I must cry: ‘Long live the King,
long live the Fatherland’.”
These were his last words.
A NEW-YEAR’S EVE CONFESSION
BY HERMANN SUDERMANN
[Illustration]
_Sudermann, born in Prussia, in 1857, began as druggist’s
clerk, then tutor, then journalist, until finally he wrote
“Honor,” a social satire that now places him, with Hauptmann,
leader of the German naturalistic dramatists, as “Dame Care”
places him among German novelists._
_The particular merit of Sudermann, as playwright, lies in his
ability to seize upon the most convincing traits of character,
and in describing familiar things, with a vein of dry humor.
He has surprising invention of plot, and skill in working it
out, but his art is often marred by cheap theatrical devices,
brutalities, and concessions to public taste. His language is
flexible, clear, rich in coloring._
_The short story here given is the most satisfactory of a
collection called “In Twilight,” published in 1890--familiar,
colloquial, fireside monologues with a woman of the world._
_Since 1894, sickness has withdrawn Sudermann from close
contact with the world, and weakened his powers of dealing with
life._
[Illustration]
A NEW-YEAR’S EVE CONFESSION
BY HERMANN SUDERMANN
Translated by Grace Isabel Colbron.
Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.
Thanks be to God, dear lady, that I may once more sit beside you for
a peaceful chat. The holiday tumult is past, and you have a little
leisure for me again.
Oh, this Christmas season! I believe that it was invented by some evil
demon expressly to annoy us poor bachelors, to show us the more clearly
all the desolation of our homeless existence. For others a source of
joy, it is for us a torture. Of course, I know, we are not all entirely
lonely--for us also the joy of making others happy may blossom, that
joy upon which rests the whole secret of the blessed holiday mood. But
the pleasure of joining in the happiness of others is tainted for us
by a touch of self-irony partly, and also by that bitter longing to
which--in contrast to homesickness--I would give the name of “marriage
sickness.”
Why didn’t I come to pour out my heart to you? you ask, you pitying
soul, you--you that can give of your sympathy in the same rich measure
that others of your sex save for their dainty malices. There’s a
reason. You remember what Speidel says in his delightful “Lonely
Sparrows,” which you sent me the day after Christmas, with a true
perception of my state of mind? “The bachelor by instinct,” he says,
“does not desire comfort. Once he is unhappy, he wishes to have the
full enjoyment of his unhappiness.”
Beside the “lonely sparrow” whom Speidel portrays, there is another
sort of bachelor, the so-called “friend of the family.” By this I
do not mean those professional wreckers of homes, in whose eyes the
serpent glitters as they settle down comfortably at the hospitable
hearthstone. I mean the good uncle, papa’s former school friend, who
rocks the baby on his knee while he reads the magazine essays to mama,
carefully omitting all the doubtful portions.
I know men who give up their entire lives to the service of some family
whose friendship they have won--men who live on without desire by the
side of a beautiful woman whom in their hearts they secretly adore.
You doubt me? Oh, it is the words “without desire” that disturb you?
You are right, perhaps. In the depth of even the tamest heart some wild
desire lies, but--understand me here--it lies bound in chains.
As an instance I would like to tell you about a conversation which
took place day before yesterday, on New Year’s Eve, between two old,
two very old, gentlemen. It is my secret how I came to know of this
conversation, and I ask you not to let it go any further. May I begin,
then?
Picture to yourself, as a setting for my story, a high-ceilinged room,
old-fashioned in furnishings, lighted by a green-shaded, impertinently
bright hanging-lamp of the sort our parents had in use before the era
of petroleum. The cone of light that goes out from the flame falls upon
a round, white-clothed table, upon which stands the various ingredients
for a New-Year’s punch, while several drops of oil show out broadly in
the centre of the table.
My two old gentlemen sat half in the shadow of the green lamp-shade,
moldering ruins both, from long-past days, bowed and trembling, gazing
before them with the dull glance of the dimming eyes of age. One, the
host, is evidently an old officer, as you would recognize at once from
his carefully wound cravat, his pointed, sharply-cut mustache, and his
martial eyebrows. He sits holding the handle of his roller-chair like a
crutch tightly clasped in both hands. He is motionless except for his
jaws, which move up and down ceaselessly with the motion of chewing.
The other, who sits near him on the sofa, a tall, spare figure, his
narrow shoulders crowned by the high-domed head of a thinker, draws
occasional thin puffs of smoke from a long pipe which is just about to
go out. Among the myriad wrinkles of his smooth-shaven, dried-up face,
framed in a wreath of snow-white curls, there lurked a quiet, gentle
smile, a smile which the peace of resignation alone can bring to the
face of age.
The two were silent. In the perfect stillness of the room the soft
bubbling of the burning oil, mingled with the soft bubbling of the
tobacco juice. Then, from the darkness of the background, the hanging
clock began to announce hoarsely the eleventh hour. “This is the hour
when she would begin to make the punch,” said the man with the domed
forehead. His voice was soft, with a slight vibration.
“Yes, this is the time,” repeated the other. The sound of his speech
was hard, as if the rattle of command still lingered in it.
“I did not think it would be so desolate without her,” said the first
speaker again.
The host nodded, his jaws moving.
“She made the New Year’s punch for us four-and-forty times,” continued
his friend.
“Yes, it’s as long as that since we moved to Berlin, and you became our
friend,” said the old soldier.
“Last year at this time we were all so jolly together,” said the other.
“She sat in the armchair there, knitting socks for Paul’s eldest. She
worked busily, saying she must finish it by twelve o’clock. And she did
finish it. Then we drank our punch and spoke quite calmly of death. And
two months later they carried her away. As you know, I have written a
fat book on the ‘Immortality of the Idea.’ You never cared much about
it--I don’t care for it myself now that your wife is dead. The entire
Idea of the Universe means nothing to me now.”
“Yes, she was a good wife,” said the husband of the dead woman; “she
cared for me well. When I had to go out for service at five o’clock
in the morning, she was always up before me to look after my coffee.
Of course she had her faults. When she got into philosophizing with
you--h’m.”
“You never understood her,” murmured the other, the corners of his
mouth trembling in controlled resentment. But the glance that rested
long on his friend’s face was gentle and sad, as if a secret guilt
pressed upon his soul.
After a renewed pause, he began:
“Franz, there is something I want to tell you, something that has long
troubled me, something that I do not want to carry with me to my
grave.”
“Well, fire away,” said the host, taking up the long pipe that stood
beside his chair.
“There was once--something--between your wife and me.”
The host let his pipe fall back again, and stared at his friend with
wide-opened eyes.
“No jokes please, doctor,” he said finally.
“It is bitter earnest, Franz,” replied the other. “I have carried it
about with me these forty years, but now it is high time to have it out
with you.”
“Do you mean to say that the dead woman was untrue to me?” cried the
husband angrily.
“For shame, Franz,” said his friend with a soft, sad smile.
The old soldier murmured something and lit his pipe.
“No, she was as pure as God’s angels,” continued the other. “It is you
and I who are the guilty ones. Listen to me. It is now forty-three
years ago; you had just been ordered here as captain to Berlin, and I
was teaching at the University. You were a gay bird then, as you know.”
“H’m,” remarked the host, raising his trembling old hand to his
mustache.
“There was a beautiful actress with great black eyes and little white
teeth--do you remember?”
“_Do_ I? Bianca was her name,” answered the other as a faded smile
flashed over his weather-beaten, self-indulgent face. “Those little
white teeth could bite, I can tell you.”
“You deceived your wife, and she suspected it. But she said nothing
and suffered in silence. She was the first woman who had come into my
life since my mother’s death. She came into it like a shining star,
and I gazed up to her in adoration as one might adore a star. I found
the courage to ask her about her trouble. She smiled and said that she
was not feeling quite strong yet--you remember it was shortly after
the birth of your Paul. Then came New-Year’s Eve--forty-three years
ago to-night. I came in at eight o’clock as usual. She sat over her
embroidery and I read aloud to her while we waited for you. One hour
after another passed and still you did not come. I saw that she grew
more and more uneasy, and began to tremble. I trembled with her. I knew
where you were, and I feared you might forget the hour of midnight in
the arms of that woman. She had dropped her work, I read no longer. A
terrible silence weighed upon us. Then I saw a tear gather under her
eyelid and drop slowly down upon the embroidery in her lap. I sprang up
to go out and look for you. I felt myself capable of tearing you away
from that woman by force. But at the same moment she sprang up also
from her seat--this very same place where I am sitting now.
“‘Where are you going?’ she cried, terror in every feature. ‘I am going
to fetch Franz,’ I said. And then she screamed aloud: ‘For God’s sake,
_you_ stay with me at least--don’t _you_ forsake me also.’
“And she hurried to me, laid both hands on my shoulders and buried her
tear-bedewed face on my breast. I trembled in every fibre, no woman
had ever stood so near me before. But I controlled myself, and soothed
and comforted her--she was so sadly in need of comfort. You came in
soon after. You did not notice my emotion, your cheeks were burning,
your eyes heavy with the fatigue of love. Since that evening a change
had come over me, a change that frightened me. When I had felt her
soft arms around my neck, when I had felt the fragrance of her hair,
the shining star fell from its heaven, and--a woman stood before me,
beautiful, breathing love. I called myself a villain, a betrayer,
and to sooth my conscience somewhat I set about separating you from
your mistress. Fortunately I had some money at my disposal. She was
satisfied with the sum I offered her, and--”
“The devil!” exclaimed the old soldier in surprise; “then you were the
cause of that touching farewell letter that Bianca sent me--in which
she declared that she must give me up--although her heart would break?”
“Yes, I was the cause of it,” said his friend. “But listen, there is
more to tell. I had thought to purchase peace with that money, but
the peace did not come. The wild thoughts ran riot all the more madly
in my brain. I buried myself in my work--it was just about that time
that I was working out the plan of my book on the ‘Immortality of the
Idea’--but still could not find peace. And thus the year passed and
New-Year’s Eve came round again. Again we sat together here, she and
I. You were at home this time, but you lay sleeping on the sofa in the
next room. A merry Casino dinner had tired you. And as I sat beside
her, and my eyes rested on her pale face, then memory came over me with
irresistible power. Once more I would feel her head on my breast, once
more I would kiss her--and then--the end, if need be. Our eyes meet for
an instant; I seemed to see a secret understanding, an answer in her
glance. I could control myself no longer; I fell at her feet and buried
my burning face in her lap.
“I lay there motionless for two seconds perhaps, then I felt her soft
hand rest cool upon my head, and her voice, soft and gentle, spoke the
words: ‘Be brave, dear friend; yes, be brave--do not deceive the man
sleeping so trustfully in the next room.’ I sprang up and gazed about,
bewildered. She took a book from the table and handed it to me. I
understood, opened it at random, and began to read aloud. I do not know
what it was I read, the letters danced before my eyes. But the storm
within my soul began to abate, and when twelve o’clock struck, and you
came in sleepily for the New-Year’s wishes, it was as if that moment of
sin lay far, far behind me, in days that had long passed.
“Since that day I have been calmer. I knew that she did not return my
love, and that I had only pity to hope from her. Years passed, your
children grew up and married, we three grew old together. You gave up
your wild life, forgot the other women, and lived for one alone, as I
did. It was not possible that I should ever cease to love her, but my
love took on another shape; earthly desires faded, and a bond of the
spirit grew up between us. You have often laughed when you heard us
philosophizing together. But if you had known how close were our souls
at such moments you would have been very jealous. And now she is dead,
and before the next New-Year’s Eve comes round we two may follow her.
It is, therefore, high time that I rid myself of this secret and say to
you, ‘Franz, I sinned against you once, forgive me.’”
He held out an imploring hand toward his friend; but the other
answered, grumbling: “Nonsense. There is nothing to forgive. What you
told me there, I knew it long ago. She confessed it herself forty years
ago. And now I will tell you why I ran after other women until I was an
old man--because she told me then that you were the one and only love
of her life.”
The friend stared at him without speaking, and the hoarse clock began
to strike--midnight.
BRIC-A-BRAC AND DESTINIES
BY GABRIELE REUTER
[Illustration]
_Not long ago, in 1895, Gabriele Reuter published a book
called, in the translation, “Of Good Family.” It was very
popular, for it was not only well written, in an up-to-date,
realistic style, softened by imagination, but it dealt with the
position of the modern woman--it was full of moving pictures
of family life and manners. Since then the author has stood
in Germany as the woman-weaver of questions and problems
concerning her own sex, in realistic but sober colors._
_Gabriele Reuter was born in 1859, at Alexandria, Egypt. She
was educated in Germany, however, and now lives at Berlin.
Since 1878 she has devoted herself to literature, writing
articles, novels, and stories for the journals and reviews._
[Illustration]
BRIC-A-BRAC AND DESTINIES
BY GABRIELE REUTER
Translated by Grace Isabel Colbron.
Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.
The temptation to wait over a train and visit my old friend in his new
home was very strong. I decided to do it.
I found his name on the door of a pretty little villa in an attractive
street.
“Would you wait a little? The doctor is expected home at any moment,”
the servant told me, as she ushered me into the drawing-room.
“Will you give my card to Mrs. Hartens?” I said.
I was rather curious to see the woman he had chosen, this dear, queer
old chap, this enthusiast for Hellenic ideals and the cult of free
natural beauty.
When the servant had left me alone I looked curiously around the
room. I saw curtains of expensive plush, carved mahogany furniture, a
clean-washed palm, heavy bronze lamps--the usual sort of things that
are given for wedding presents among well-to-do people. There was
nothing that could be called ugly--and yet--and this was where he lived
now? This was the result of all his dreams?
But why didn’t she come?
Probably the young wife could not make up her mind whether she ought to
receive her husband’s old friend in his absence.
I yawned a little. Time was flying, and I did not know when I might
ever pass through this town again. I looked absent-mindedly over the
table beside which I sat. On it there stood a majolica plate holding
visiting cards, surrounded by large, handsomely bound books. To the
right of the plate there stood a vase with fresh flowers. To the left,
slightly to one side, there was a little mother-of-pearl bowl, in which
lay an amulet with an engraved stone and a tiny smelling bottle of
Venetian glass, the sort of thing that looks expensive and probably
costs but a few soldi.
I heard a noise in the room adjoining, listened impatiently, and then
took the amulet in my hand and examined the stone. It bore a finely
worked head of Apollo.
A carriage stopped before the house. A carriage? Then Philip must have
a good practise. Strange--I could imagine that he would be more apt to
explain to his patients that all medical theory was a swindle anyhow--
A shout of rejoicing came from the corridor: “Oh, but that’s great!
But, dearest, why didn’t you--”
“I did not think it was right--without you.”
“Little goosie! Dearest little goosie!”
Then followed a storm of kisses, interrupted by a reproach: “Oh,
Philip, she can hear everything.”
“Of course she can! Let her!” he cried happily, tore the door open, and
pushed a pretty little blond, doll-like creature before him into the
room.
“There--there you are! You must love each other, you two!”
His delicate, scholarly face shone in purest joy. The young wife held
out her hand to me and told me that she was very happy to make my
acquaintance, Philip had told her so much about me.
And yet she kept me waiting for half an hour!
When she left us to order another plate for the dinner-table, Philip’s
eyes followed her, shining with love. And then he explained to me
that his choice had been dictated mainly by common sense, because he
believed it necessary for his restless experimenting nature to have
some one at his side whose character was calm and decided. And his
little wife was very firm and decided.
* * * * *
Four years had passed before I again found an opportunity to hear
anything from the young couple.
Philip never wrote letters, on principle. I therefore should hardly
have felt that I had a right to call him my friend. And yet I made a
detour that I might visit him and his wife.
The silence in the house was noticeable. And the undisturbed order
everywhere was almost distressing. It was as if the furniture were
never used. A door opened cautiously and was shut again equally
carefully. A carefully deadened step approached the room, and Philip
entered, alone.
“This _is_ nice! It’s awfully good of you,” he said cordially, giving
me both his hands.
But after the first greeting I noticed an embarrassment in his manner,
a something which had never been part of his character before. With a
certain formal politeness, he explained to me that his wife was ill,
but that he would go and see if she would not feel equal to a word with
me.
After some time he returned, alone, as before. “Theresa asks that you
will do us the pleasure of dining with us to-morrow.”
Then he suggested that he and I should spend the evening in a concert
garden.
Several hours passed happily under the green trees, cheered with the
sound of pleasantly distant music, and enlivened by one of our old-time
conversations. Philip became quite himself again. He had the nature
of a poet, who can form anew for himself the ancient dreams of all
mankind. And he was something of a reformer also. As he described to
me what his ideal of life would be, an existence without family ties,
without exacting sentimentality and excitement, a life of pure calm
beauty, I could not avoid the question: “But what in the world can
you do with all this part of your nature in your present existence?”
A second later I was sorry for what I had said; his smile was like an
expression of pain.
Toward noon the following day Philip called on me at the hotel.
His eyes were dull, his spiritual, mobile features were dead and set in
heavy lines.
“I must ask your pardon,” he murmured. “Theresa does not feel well
enough yet to see anybody. I thought as much yesterday.”
I inquired sympathetically as to the trouble.
“She could pull herself together perfectly well. But she won’t.
She won’t do it, just because it would please me,” he murmured in
suppressed anger, throwing back his head impatiently, with a moan as of
pain. “And I--I need joy and merriment--and brightness-- And--you saw
what it was yesterday. That’s the way it always is now--always.”
“But you are a physician,” I exclaimed. “Can you not give orders? This
shutting herself up is all wrong for a young woman like that.”
He burst out into a loud, bitter laugh. “A physician?-- Why, she thinks
I’m ill and she is well-- And that isn’t all-- She never can forgive
me for our child’s death--” He stared out ahead of him as if he were
looking into a world of misery.
“But how dare she?” I whispered. “A thing like that--is fate.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I am a physician--I should have helped.”
And then he told me the story in a dull and weary tone. An epidemic of
scarlet fever had broken out in the city. His wife had demanded that he
should refuse to treat severe cases, in consideration for herself and
the child. He would not comply with her wish and brought the infection
into the house. “From her point of view, Theresa is quite right in
hating me,” he said, thoughtfully. “But she acts and talks as if it
were only her child--it was _my_ son also.”
We set out for a restaurant that he had recommended. He was quiet and
absent-minded. Suddenly he looked at his watch and said: “You’re an
independent woman. You don’t mind going there alone, do you? I have a
patient to visit and will meet you there later. Will this suit you?”
I assented, understanding that he had already repented of his
confession and wished to be alone. I waited the rest of the afternoon,
but without the hope of seeing him again. He did not come, and I left
the town that evening.
* * * * *
It was in quite another city, in another corner of Germany, where I
was visiting relatives, when one day some one asked me: “Aren’t you a
friend of Dr. Philip Hartens? According to the directory he lives here
now, quite near us. Would you want to look him up?”
“Of course I would.”
An hour later I might have believed that the six years which had passed
between that day and my first visit to the young couple had been a
dream only. For I sat beside the very same table at which I had waited
before. The friendly spring sunshine shone on the gold lettering of the
large books that surrounded the majolica plate, mirrored itself in the
vase with fresh flowers, and awoke a delicate play of color from the
little mother-of-pearl bowl. There were also the amulet with the head
of Apollo and the little glass bottle. The sight of these old friends
caused me to smile, just as Theresa entered. The delicate outlines
of her figure had not changed, she had become frozen into them, as
it were. There was something of the old maid about her, and the
stubbornness, which had been a piquant touch in her soft young face,
was now hardened into the chief quality of its expression. She took my
hand.
“I’m very sorry to hear that Philip is away.”
“My husband has left me,” was her short, sharp answer.
I looked at her, dazed. “Why--?”
“Yes. I suppose you did not imagine that he would forget himself to
that extent?” She smoothed her little black silk apron and looked at me
with an expression that was almost scorn.
“No--I certainly should not have believed that,” I answered candidly.
“How could it have happened?”
Naturally, I did not expect an explanation. But Theresa began of
herself to tell me the story of her unhappy marriage; began to tell it
with a self-possession which showed that she felt assured of a tribute
of sympathy from every one. She told me of her fruitless attempts to
make of her husband a sensible, useful, practical husband and citizen.
For a time everything seemed to go right--until the child died. But
from then on his guilty conscience had drawn him more and more away
from her and from her influence. He neglected his practise more and
more, he spoke quite openly in terms of scorn about his profession, he
fell into bad company, began to go about with people who let their hair
grow and didn’t wear shoes--and with them he appeared to have entirely
lost all sense of what was decent and sensible.
I listened in silence, shocked in my inmost heart to see how her hatred
seemed to have robbed this woman of all sense of shame.
“But Philip is a noble and true character,” I said finally. “He goes
his own way perhaps-- But, believe me, he will come to himself again in
solitude.”
“In solitude?” she queried, with a scornful dropping of the corners of
her mouth. “Philip is utterly ruined, I tell you. Because I refused to
become a pupil to his immoral theories of life, he sought and found a
more credulous companion. He is with her now, in Greece, I believe, or
God knows where--”
The faded eyes in the embittered little face gazed angrily into the
distance, as if her spirit followed her husband and the other woman.
Then her glance fell slowly back to the table, and she noticed that
during her narrative I had mechanically taken the amulet from the
little pearl bowl and had let it fall upon one of the books.
Crushing her moistened handkerchief in her left hand, with the right
she took up the amulet, laid it back in its place beside the little
glass bottle, and pushed the little bowl until it stood just as it had
before, to the left side of the majolica plate.
Then I understood my poor friend, and my heart forgave him.
THE FUR COAT
BY LUDWIG FULDA
[Illustration]
_Fulda’s greatest achievement, perhaps, is his translation into
German of Molière’s masterpieces, the success of which probably
led him to also translate De Rostand’s “Cyrano de Bergerac.”
But his popularity rests chiefly on his dramas, the best known
of which is “The Talisman,” and on his short stories. When
Fulda went to Munich in 1884, he came for a short time under
the influence of Paul Heyse, evident in his short stories of
the period, but soon fell into the inevitable realism of the
present age in fiction. Later still he applied himself closely
to the study of the language and artistic form of poetry. It
is not surprising, then, to find his style so graceful and
elegant._
_Fulda was born in 1862 at Frankfort-on-Main. His early studies
at Heidelberg, Berlin, and Leipzig were chiefly in German
philology, history of literature, and philosophy. For his book
on Christian Science he received a university degree._
[Illustration]
THE FUR COAT
THE STORY OF A MATRIMONIAL DIFFERENCE
BY LUDWIG FULDA
Translated by Mrs. J. M. Lancaster.
Copyright, 1903, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
PROF. MAX WIEGAND TO DR. GUSTAV STRAUCH.
BERLIN, November 20.
Dear Gustav--I have some news to tell you to-day which will certainly
surprise you. I have separated from my wife, or rather we have
separated from each other. We have come to an amicable agreement
henceforth to live entirely independent of each other. My wife has gone
to her family in Freiburg, where she will no doubt remain. I am for
the present in our old house; perhaps in the spring I may look for a
smaller house--perhaps not, for I can hardly hope to find so quiet a
workroom as I now have, and the idea of moving appals me, especially
when I think of my large library. You will, of course, want to know
what has happened, though, to tell the truth, nothing has happened.
The world will seek for all possible and impossible reasons why two
people who married for love and who have for eleven years lived what
is called happily together should now have decided to part. Yes, this
world which thinks itself so wise, but whose judgments are nevertheless
so petty, so superficial, will doubtless be of the opinion that there
is something hidden--will include this case too in one of the two great
categories prepared for such affairs, because it can not conceive of
the fact that life in its inexhaustible variety never repeats itself
and that the same circumstances may assume different aspects according
to the character and disposition of those interested. I need not tell
you this, my dear Gustav. You will understand how two finely organized
natures should rebel against a tie which binds them together after they
have once become fully convinced that in all matters of real importance
a mutual understanding was impossible.
My wife and I are too unlike. Between her views of life and mine there
yawns an impassable gulf. The first few years I hoped to influence
her, to win her to my ways of thinking--she seemed so docile, so
yielding, took so warm an interest in my work, so willingly allowed
herself to be taught by me. Not till after our children’s death did
she begin to change. Her grief at this loss--a grief which neither of
us has ever been able to live down--matured her, made her independent
of me. A tendency to morbid introspection took possession of her,
and gave increased tenacity to those ideas and convictions which my
influence had hitherto held in check, though not wholly eradicated. She
plunged deeper and deeper into those mists of sentimentally fantastic
imaginings, passionately demanding my concurrence in her views. She
lost all interest in my professional work, evidently regarding the
results of my researches in natural science as troops from an enemy’s
camp. At last there was hardly a subject in the wide realm of nature
and human existence on which we agreed. To be sure we never came to
an open quarrel, but the breach between us was constantly widening.
Every day we saw more and more plainly that though we lived side by
side, we no longer belonged to each other. This discovery irritated
and distressed us, and at last forced all other feelings into the
background. If we had not once loved each other so dearly, or even
if we had now ceased to feel a mutual respect, this state of affairs
might perhaps have lasted for years, but our ideas of the true meaning
of marriage were too lofty, our sense of our own dignity as human
beings too profound to permit us to be content with so incomplete a
realization of our ideals. I hardly know who spoke first, but our
resolution was at once taken, and the decisive words uttered as calmly
and naturally as the overripe fruit falls from the tree. For the first
time in many years we were able with perfect unanimity of sentiment
to discuss a subject of the greatest importance to us both, and this
fact alone soothed our overwrought nerves. We parted yesterday with the
utmost decorum, without a word of reproach, a note of discord. Memories
of our early married life, of the long years we had lived together,
made it difficult to refrain from some manifestation of tenderness, and
I assure you that I never felt greater respect for my wife than at the
moment when, all petty considerations cast aside, the true magnanimity
of her nature asserted itself. Her manner, what she said, and also what
she did not say, robbed the situation of all trace of the commonplace,
and gave it dignity. Deeply moved, almost in tears, we clasped hands in
farewell, so we may look back upon the closing scene of our wedded life
with unalloyed satisfaction.
I had already, with her consent, referred all business details to our
lawyers, for we were not even to communicate with each other by letter.
Life must begin again for both of us, and already I breathe more
freely. The Rubicon is passed. I believe that you will congratulate me.
PROF. MAX WIEGAND TO DR. GUSTAV STRAUCH.
BERLIN, December 12.
Dear Gustav--Pardon me that I have so long delayed thanking you for
your answer of friendly sympathy to my last letter.
I have been in no condition to write, and even now find it difficult.
You congratulate me without reserve on a step which you regard as
essential to my welfare and to my intellectual development, but you do
not take into consideration what it means to separate from one who has
for eleven years been one’s constant companion, day and night. Indeed,
it is only during these last dreary weeks that I, myself, have realized
what the change signifies to me. Habit is all powerful, especially with
men who, like you and me, live in the intellectual world and so require
a solid substructure.
How are we to take observations from the tower battlements when its
foundations are not firmly established? Of course, I am as certain as
ever I was that our decision is for the best interests of us both, but
in this queer world of ours we can take no step without unlooked-for
results.
I am bothered from morn till night with trifles to which I have never
given a thought since my bachelor days--things which I will not
mention, so absurdly insignificant are they--and yet they rob me of my
time and destroy my peace. I am at a loss what steps to take to rid
myself of the thousand petty cares and annoyances which my wife has
hitherto borne for me. These servants! Now that the cat is away they
think that they can do just as they please, and you have no idea of the
silly obstacles over which I am continually stumbling, of the wretched
pitfalls which beset my path. Here is one instance out of many: For
several days it has been very cold, and I can not find my fur coat.
With the chambermaid’s assistance I have turned the whole house upside
down, until she finally remembered that my wife, last spring, sent it
to a furrier’s to be kept from the moth. But to which furrier? I have
been to a dozen and can not find it.
If I had only not agreed with my wife that we were, under no
circumstances, to write to each other, I should simply ask her--but
it is best so. No strain of the commonplace must mingle with the sad
echoes of our farewell. No--a farce never follows a drama. Perhaps she
might even imagine that I seize the first pretext to renew relations
with her.
Never!
To-day it is six below zero.
PROF. MAX WIEGAND TO FRAU EMMA WIEGAND.
BERLIN, December 14.
Dear Emma--You will be greatly surprised at receiving a letter from
me in spite of our mutual agreement, but do not fear that I have
any intention of opening a correspondence with you. Our relations
terminated with all possible dignity, and the sealed door shall never
be reopened. I have but to ask a simple question which you alone can
answer. What is the name of the man to whom you sent my fur coat last
spring? Lina has forgotten the address. Hoping soon to receive an
answer, for which I thank you in advance,
MAX.
FRAU EMMA WIEGAND TO PROF. MAX WIEGAND.
FREIBURG, December 15.
Dear Max--His name is Palaschke, and he is on Zimmer Street. I can not
understand Lina’s forgetfulness, as she took the coat there herself.
EMMA.
PROF. MAX WIEGAND TO FRAU EMMA WIEGAND.
BERLIN, December 17.
Dear Emma--I must trouble you once more--for the last time. Herr
Palaschke refuses to let the coat go without the ticket, as he has
had several disagreeable experiences which have made it necessary to
be very strict. But where _is_ the ticket? I spent the whole morning
looking for it, and, of course, Lina has not the slightest idea where
it is. She flew into a rage when I found a little fault with her, and
she leaves the house to-morrow. I prefer paying her till the end of
her engagement, and shall also give her a moderate Christmas gift, for
I can not stand such an impertinent person about me.
Well--be so kind as to write me a line telling me where to find the
ticket. I have already taken a severe cold for want of the fur coat.
Hoping that you are well and quite comfortable with your family.
MAX.
FRAU EMMA WIEGAND TO PROF. MAX WIEGAND.
FREIBURG, December 19.
Dear Max--The ticket is either in the second or third upper drawer of
the little wardrobe in the dressing-room or in my desk, in the right or
left pigeonhole. I could find it in a minute if I were there. Lina has
great faults, but she is very respectable. I doubt whether you can do
better, and now, just before Christmas, you will not be able to replace
her. You should have put up with her at least a fortnight longer, but
it is none of my business. I hope your cold is better. I am quite well.
EMMA.
PROF. MAX WIEGAND TO FRAU EMMA WIEGAND.
BERLIN, December 21.
Dear Emma--The ticket is not to be found either in the wardrobe or in
the desk. Perhaps it slipped out when you were packing, and was thrown
away. I can think of no other explanation.
To-morrow or next day I will again go to Herr Palaschke, and try to
wheedle him out of my property by all possible blandishments and
assurances, but to-day I am confined to my room, for my cold has
resulted in a severe attack of neuralgia.
I had a dreadful scene with the cook yesterday. On the day of your
departure she gave me notice, and when I tried to persuade her to
remain she turned on me and told me in a very insolent manner that I
knew nothing about housekeeping, and that it was only out of sympathy
for you, dear Emma, that she had so long remained with us at such low
wages, and that she should leave immediately. I answered calmly, but
firmly, that she must stay till the end of her engagement. Then she
began to cry and storm, and at last was so outrageously impertinent as
to declare that even _you_ could not manage to live with me. I lost
my temper and must, I suppose, have called her an “impudent woman,”
though I can not remember saying it. Unfortunately for me I have had no
experience in dealing with viragos.
Two hours later, after supper, I rang and discovered that she was
already gone, bag and baggage, leaving in the kitchen a badly spelled
_billet doux_, in which she threatened me with a lawsuit for calling
her an “impudent woman,” in case I should refuse to give her a
certificate of character.
I am now entirely without servants. The porter’s wife blacks my shoes
for a handsome consideration, and brings me from the café meals which
ought to be condemned by the health inspector. As you have truly
remarked, it will be impossible to replace these women before the New
Year, but I have already written to a dozen employment bureaus, and
will go myself as soon as I am able to leave the house. This has grown
into a long letter, my dear Emma, but when the heart is full the pen
runs rapidly.
I also suspect that abominable cook of taking my gold sleeve
buttons--those left me by Uncle Friedrich--though I have, of course, no
proof. Have you any idea where they are? If so please drop me a line.
Good-by, my dear Emma, and I trust you are more comfortable than I am.
Your MAX.
FRAU EMMA WIEGAND TO PROF. MAX WIEGAND.
FREIBURG, December 23.
Dear Max--I have read with much sympathy your account of your little
mishaps and annoyances. The cook often spoke to me very much as she did
to you, but I put up with it because she is a good cook, and only cooks
who know nothing are polite. Now you see what I have had to stand for
years, and that there are problems in that department also which can
not be solved by natural science.
I can not, at this distance, advise you what to do, and should not
consider myself justified in doing so now that our intimate relations
have been terminated in so dignified a manner, as you so truly remark
in your first letter. As for the furrier’s ticket and the sleeve
buttons, I will wager that I could find them both in five minutes. You
_must_ remember how often you have hunted in vain for a thing which I
have found at the first attempt. Men occasionally discover a new truth
but never an old button.
Since a correspondence has been begun by you, I have a little request
to make. I forgot before I left to ask you for the letters which you
wrote me during our engagement, and which at my request you put in
your safe. They are my property, and I should like to have them as a
reminder of happier days. Will you be so kind as to send them to me?
Wishing you a Merry Christmas,
EMMA.
PROF. MAX WIEGAND TO FRAU EMMA WIEGAND.
BERLIN, December 25.
My Dear Emma--Your kind wish that I might have a Merry Christmas has
not been fulfilled. I never spent so melancholy a Christmas Eve. You
will not wonder that I could not bear to accept the invitations of
friends--to be a looker-on at family rejoicings--so I stayed at home,
entirely alone. I found it utterly impossible to get a servant before
New Year’s, and yesterday was even without a helper from outside.
The porter’s wife put a cold supper on the table for me early in the
afternoon, for she was too busy later with Christmas preparations for
her children. A smoky oil lamp took the place of the Christmas tree
which you always adorned so charmingly and with such exquisite taste
every year, and there were none of those pretty surprises by which you
supplied my wants and wishes almost before I was conscious of them.
There was nothing on the Christmas table but my old fur coat, which
Herr Palaschke--softened by my entreaties and assurances and perhaps
also by the spirit of Christmastide--had allowed me to take the
preceding day. It was as cold as charity in the room, for the fire had
gone out and it was beyond my skill to rekindle it, so I put on the fur
coat, sat down by the smoky lamp, and read over the letters which I
wrote you during the time of our engagement and which I had taken from
their eleven years’ resting-place to send to you to-day.
Dear Emma, I can not tell you how they have moved me. I cried like a
child, not over the tragic ending of our marriage alone, but at the
change in myself which I recognize. They are very immature and in many
ways not in accordance with my present way of thinking, but what a
fresh, frank, warm-blooded fellow I was then, and how I loved you! How
happy I was! How artlessly and unreservedly did I give myself up to my
happiness! Till now I have thought that there has been a gradual, slow
change in you alone, but now I see that I also have altered, and God
knows, when I compare the Max of those days with the Max of to-day, I
do not know to which to give the preference. In the sleepless nights
which I have lately spent, I have thought over the possibility of
transforming myself into the Max I then was, and grave doubts have
suggested themselves whether the differences in our views of matters
and things were really as great as they seemed to us, whether there
is not outside of them something eternally human, some neutral ground
where we might continue to have interests in common.
Try and see, dear Emma, whether such a voice does not speak also to
your soul. We can not undo the past, but nothing could give me greater
consolation in my present unhappy condition than to know that you
could say yes to this question, for your departure has left a void in
my house and in my life that I can never, never fill.
Thy most unhappy MAX.
FRAU EMMA WIEGAND TO PROF. MAX WIEGAND.
FREIBURG, December 27.
Dear Max--I very willingly gave you information as long as it related
only to tickets and sleeve buttons, but I must decline answering the
question contained in your last letter. Did you really believe, you
old Pedant, that I left your home--which was also mine--because we
disagreed in our views of matters and things in general? Then you are
mightily mistaken. I left you because I saw more plainly every day that
you no longer loved me. Yes, I had become a burden to you--you wanted
to get rid of me. If in that dignified parting scene you had said one
single tender word to me, I should probably have stayed, but, as usual,
you were on your high horse, from which you have now had so lamentable
a tumble just because your servants have left you. _I_ too have served
you faithfully, though you do not seem to have recognized that fact.
_I_ never let the fire go out on your hearth. It was not _my_ fault
when it grew cold.
Who knows whether you would have noticed the void left by my going if
your fur coat had not also been missing? This gave you an opportunity
of opening a correspondence with me, and it seems to be only fitting
that it should now close, since you have once more regained possession
of your property. I, at least, have nothing more to say.
Good-by forever,
EMMA.
PROF. MAX WIEGAND TO DR. GUSTAV STRAUCH.
BERLIN, January 8.
Dear Gustav--I have a great piece of news to tell you. My wife
returned to me yesterday, and at my earnest solicitation. I thought
I could no longer live _with_ her, but I find it equally impossible
to live _without_ her. I have just discovered that she too was very
unhappy during the time of our separation, but she would never have
acknowledged it, for her’s is the stronger character of the two. I do
not know how to explain the miracle, but we love each other more dearly
than ever. We are celebrating a new honeymoon. The great questions of
life drove us apart, but is it only the little ones which have reunited
us? Would you suppose that one could find a half-desiccated heart
in the pocket of an old fur coat? The stately edifice of my worldly
knowledge totters on its foundations, dear Gustav. I have a great deal
to unlearn.
MAX.
THE DEAD ARE SILENT
BY ARTHUR SCHNITZLER
[Illustration]
_This Viennese dramatist, whose status as an author is still
in the balance, was born in 1862. He studied medicine at the
University of Vienna and afterward assisted his father at the
Vienna General Polytechnic. At his father’s death, in 1893, he
gave up medicine as a profession and began his literary career
with a volume of poems._
_Schnitzler has the dramatic feeling in all that he
writes--from his earliest poems, through his short stories, to
his dramas proper, one of the most popular of which, “The Green
Parrot,” was acted in French with great success at the Théâtre
Antoine in Paris in 1907. Of his novels, one of the latest is
“Lieutenant Gustl,” published in 1900. His talent, however,
is not yet formed--it is in a tentative state, grotesque,
realistic, sentimental--but it will not remain so long, if it
can produce many more such admirable stories as “The Dead Are
Silent.”_
[Illustration]
THE DEAD ARE SILENT
BY ARTHUR SCHNITZLER
Copyright, 1907, by Courtland H. Young.
He could endure the quiet waiting in the carriage no longer; it was
easier to get out and walk up and down. It was now dark; the few
scattered lamps in the narrow side street quivered uneasily in the
wind. The rain had stopped, the sidewalks were almost dry, but the
rough-paved roadway was still moist, and little pools gleamed here and
there.
“Strange, isn’t it?” thought Franz. “Here we are scarcely a hundred
paces from the Prater, and yet it might be a street in some little
country town. Well, it’s safe enough, at any rate. She won’t meet any
of the friends she dreads so much here.”
He looked at his watch. “Only just seven, and so dark already! It is
an early autumn this year ... and then this confounded storm!...” He
turned his coat-collar up about his neck and quickened his pacing. The
glass in the street lamps rattled lightly.
“Half an hour more,” he said to himself, “then I can go home. I could
almost wish--that that half-hour were over.” He stood for a moment on
the corner, where he could command a view of both streets. “She’ll
surely come to-day,” his thoughts ran on, while he struggled with his
hat, which threatened to blow away. “It’s Friday.... Faculty meeting
at the University; she needn’t hurry home.” He heard the clanging of
street-car gongs, and the hour chimed from a nearby church tower. The
street became more animated. Hurrying figures passed him, clerks of
neighboring shops; they hastened onward, fighting against the storm.
No one noticed him; a couple of half-grown girls glanced up in idle
curiosity as they went by. Suddenly he saw a familiar figure coming
toward him. He hastened to meet her.... Could it be she? On foot?
She saw him, and quickened her pace.
“You are walking?” he asked.
“I dismissed the cab in front of the theatre. I think I’ve had that
driver before.”
A man passed them, turning to look at the lady. Her companion glared at
him, and the other passed on hurriedly. The lady looked after him. “Who
was it?” she asked, anxiously.
“Don’t know him. We’ll see no one we know here, don’t worry. But come
now, let’s get into the cab.”
“Is that your carriage?”
“Yes.”
“An open one?”
“It was warm and pleasant when I engaged it an hour ago.”
They walked to the carriage; the lady stepped in.
“Driver!” called the man;
“Why, where is he?” asked the lady.
Franz looked around. “Well, did you ever? I don’t see him anywhere.”
“Oh--” her tone was low and timid.
“Wait a moment, child, he must be around here somewhere.”
The young man opened the door of a little saloon, and discovered his
driver at a table with several others. The man rose hastily. “In a
minute, sir,” he explained, swallowing his glass of wine.
“What do you mean by this?”
“All right, sir.... Be there in a minute.” His step was a little
unsteady as he hastened to his horses. “Where’ll you go, sir?”
“Prater--Summer-house.”
Franz entered the carriage. His companion sat back in a corner,
crouching fearsomely under the shadow of the cover.
He took both her hands in his. She sat silent. “Won’t you say good
evening to me?”
“Give me a moment to rest, dear. I’m still out of breath.”
He leaned back in his corner. Neither spoke for some minutes. The
carriage turned into the Prater street, passed the Tegethoff Monument,
and a few minutes later was rolling swiftly through the broad, dark
Prater Avenue.
Emma turned suddenly and flung both arms around her lover’s neck. He
lifted the veil that still hung about her face, and kissed her.
“I have you again--at last!” she exclaimed.
“Do you know how long it is since we have seen each other?” he asked.
“Since Sunday.”
“Yes, and that wasn’t good for much.”
“Why not? You were in our house.”
“Yes--in your house. That’s just it. This can’t go on. I shall not
enter your house again.... What’s the matter?”
“A carriage passed us.”
“Dear girl, the people who are driving in the Prater at such an hour,
and in such weather, aren’t noticing much what other people are doing.”
“Yes--that’s so. But some one might look in here, by chance.”
“We couldn’t be recognized. It’s too dark.”
“Yes--but can’t we drive somewhere else?”
“Just as you like.” He called to the driver, who did not seem to hear.
Franz leaned forward and touched the man.
“Turn around again. What are you whipping your horses like that for?
We’re in no hurry, I tell you. Drive--let me see--yes--drive down the
avenue that leads to the Reichs Bridge.”
“The Reichs-strasse?”
“Yes. But don’t hurry so, there’s no need of it.”
“All right, sir. But it’s the wind that makes the horses so crazy.”
Franz sat back again as the carriage turned in the other direction.
“Why didn’t I see you yesterday?”
“How could I?”...
“You were invited to my sister’s.”
“Oh--yes.”
“Why weren’t you there?”
“Because I can’t be with you--like that--with others around. No, I
just can’t.” She shivered. “Where are we now?” she asked, after a
moment.
They were passing under the railroad bridge at the entrance to the
Reichs-strasse.
“On the way to the Danube,” replied Franz. “We’re driving toward the
Reichs Bridge. We’ll certainly not meet any of our friends here,” he
added, with a touch of mockery.
“The carriage jolts dreadfully.”
“We’re on cobblestones again.”
“But he drives so crooked.”
“Oh, you only think so.”
He had begun to notice himself that the vehicle was swaying to and
fro more than was necessary, even on the rough pavement. But he said
nothing, not wishing to alarm her.
“There’s a great deal I want to say to you to-day, Emma.”
“You had better begin then; I must be home at nine o’clock.”
“A few words may decide everything.”
“Oh, goodness, what was that!” she screamed. The wheels had caught in a
car-track, and the carriage turned partly over as the driver attempted
to free it. Franz caught at the man’s coat. “Stop that!” he cried.
“Why, you’re drunk, man!”
The driver halted his horses with some difficulty. “Oh, no--sir--”
“Let’s get out here, Emma, and walk.”
“Where are we?”
“Here’s the bridge already. And the wind is not nearly as strong as
it was. It will be nicer to walk a little. It’s so hard to talk in the
carriage.”
Emma drew down her veil and followed him. “Don’t you call this windy?”
she exclaimed as she struggled against the gust that met her at the
corner.
He took her arm, and called to the driver to follow them.
They walked on slowly. Neither spoke as they mounted the ascent of the
bridge; and they halted where they could hear the flow of the water
below them. Heavy darkness surrounded them. The broad stream stretched
itself out in gray, indefinite outlines; red lights in the distance,
floating above the water, awoke answering gleams from its surface.
Trembling stripes of light reached down from the shore they had just
left; on the other side of the bridge the river lost itself in the
blackness of open fields. Thunder rumbled in the distance; they looked
over to where the red lights soared. A train with lighted windows
rolled between iron arches that seemed to spring up out of the night
for an instant, to sink back into darkness again. The thunder grew
fainter and more distant; silence fell again; only the wind moved, in
sudden gusts.
Franz spoke at last, after a long silence. “We must go away.”
“Of course,” Emma answered, softly.
“We must go away,” he continued, with more animation. “Go away
altogether, I mean--”
“Oh, we can’t!”
“Only because we are cowards, Emma.”
“And my child?”
“He will let you have the boy, I know.”
“But how shall we go?” Her voice was very low. “You mean--to run away--”
“Not at all. You have only to be honest with him; to tell him that you
can not live with him any longer; that you belong to me.”
“Franz--are you mad?”
“I will spare you that trial, if you wish. I will tell him myself.”
“No, Franz, you will do nothing of the kind.”
He endeavored to read her face. But the darkness showed him only that
her head was turned toward him.
He was silent a few moments more. Then he spoke quietly: “You need not
fear; I shall not do it.”
They walked toward the farther shore. “Don’t you hear a noise?” she
asked. “What is it?”
“Something is coming from the other side,” he said.
A slow rumbling came out of the darkness. A little red light gleamed
out at them. They could see that it hung from the axle of a clumsy
country cart, but they could not see whether the cart was laden or not,
and whether there were human beings on it. Two other carts followed the
first. They could just see the outlines of a man in peasant garb on
the last cart, and could see that he was lighting his pipe. The carts
passed them slowly. Soon there was nothing to be heard but the low
rolling of the wheels as their own carriage followed them. The bridge
dropped gently to the farther shore. They saw the street disappear into
blackness between rows of trees. Open fields lay before them to the
right and to the left; they gazed out into gloom indistinguishable.
There was another long silence before Franz spoke again. “Then it is
the last time--”
“What?--” Emma’s tone was anxious.
“The last time we are to be together. Stay with him, if you will. I bid
you farewell.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“There, now you see, it is you who always spoil the few hours we have
together?--not I.”
“Yes, you’re right,” said Franz. “Let’s drive back to town.”
She held his arm closer. “No,” she insisted, tenderly, “I don’t want to
go back. I won’t be sent away from you.”
She drew his head down to hers and kissed him tenderly. “Where would we
get to if we drove on down there?” she asked.
“That’s the road to Prague, dear.”
“We won’t go quite that far,” she smiled, “but I’d like to drive on a
little, down there.” She pointed into the darkness.
Franz called to the driver. There was no answer; the carriage rumbled
on, slowly. Franz ran after it, and saw that the driver was fast
asleep. Franz roused him roughly. “We want to drive on down that
street. Do you hear me?”
“All right, sir.”
Emma entered the carriage first, then Franz. The driver whipped his
horses, and they galloped madly over the moist earth of the road-bed.
The couple inside the cab held each other closely as they swayed with
the motion of the vehicle.
“Isn’t this quite nice?” whispered Emma, her lips on his.
In the moment of her words she seemed to feel the cab mounting into
the air. She felt herself thrown over violently, reached for some
hold, but grasped only the empty air. She seemed to be spinning madly
like a top, her eyes closed; suddenly she found herself lying on the
ground, a great silence about her, as if she were alone, far away from
all the world. Then noises began to come into her consciousness again;
hoofs beat the ground near her; a low moaning came from somewhere;
but she could see nothing. Terror seized her; she screamed aloud. Her
terror grew stronger, for she could not hear her own voice. Suddenly
she knew what had happened; the carriage had hit some object, possibly
a milestone; had upset, and she had been thrown out. Where is Franz?
was her next thought. She called his name. And now she could hear her
voice, not distinctly yet, but she could hear it. There was no answer
to her call. She tried to get up. After some effort she rose to a
sitting posture, and, reaching out, she felt something, a human body,
on the ground beside her. She could now begin to see a little through
the dimness. Franz lay beside her, motionless. She put out her hand and
touched his face; something warm and wet covered it. Her heart seemed
to stop beating--Blood?--Oh, what had happened? Franz was wounded and
unconscious. Where was the coachman? She called him, but no answer
came. She still sat there on the ground. She did not seem to be
injured, although she ached all over. “What shall I do?” she thought;
“what shall I do? How can it be that I am not injured? Franz!” she
called again. A voice answered from somewhere near her.
“Where are you, lady? And where is the gentleman? Wait a minute,
Miss--I’ll light the lamps, so we can see. I don’t know what’s got into
the beasts to-day. It ain’t my fault, Miss, sure--they ran into a pile
of stones.”
Emma managed to stand up, although she was bruised all over. The fact
that the coachman seemed quite uninjured reassured her somewhat.
She heard the man opening the lamp and striking a match. She waited
anxiously for the light. She did not dare to touch Franz again. “It’s
all so much worse when you can’t see plainly,” she thought. “His eyes
may be open now--there won’t be anything wrong....”
A tiny ray of light came from one side. She saw the carriage, not
completely upset, as she had thought, but leaning over toward the
ground, as if one wheel were broken. The horses stood quietly. She saw
the milestone, then a heap of loose stones, and beyond them a ditch.
Then the light touched Franz’s feet, crept up over his body to his
face, and rested there. The coachman had set the lamp on the ground
beside the head of the unconscious man. Emma dropped to her knees,
and her heart seemed to stop beating as she looked into the face
before her. It was ghastly white; the eyes were half open, only the
white showing. A thin stream of blood trickled down from one temple
and ran into his collar. The teeth were fastened into the under lip.
“No--no--it isn’t possible,” Emma spoke, as if to herself.
The driver knelt also and examined the face of the man. Then he took
the head in both his hands and raised it. “What are you doing?”
screamed Emma, hoarsely, shrinking back at the sight of the head that
seemed to be rising of its own volition.
“Please, Miss--I’m afraid--I’m thinking--there’s a great misfortune
happened--”
“No--no--it’s not true!” said Emma. “It can’t be true!-- You are not
hurt? Nor am I--”
The man let the head he held fall back again into the lap of the
trembling Emma. “If only some one would come--if the peasants had only
passed fifteen minutes later.”
“What shall we do?” asked Emma, her lips trembling.
“Why, you see, Miss, if the carriage was all right--but it’s no good as
it is--we’ve got to wait till some one comes--” he talked on, but Emma
did not hear him. Her brain seemed to awake suddenly, and she knew what
was to be done. “How far is it to the nearest house?” she asked.
“Not much further, Miss--there’s Franz-Josefsland right there. We’d see
the houses if it was lighter--it won’t take five minutes to get there.”
“Go there, then; I’ll stay here-- Go and fetch some one.”
“I think I’d better stay here with you, Miss. Somebody must come; it’s
the main road.”
“It’ll be too late; we need a doctor at once.”
The coachman looked down at the quiet face, then he looked at Emma, and
shook his head.
“You can’t tell,” she cried.
“Yes, Miss--but there’ll be no doctor in those houses.”
“But there’ll be somebody to send to the city--”
“Oh, yes, Miss--they’ll be having a telephone there, anyway! We’ll
telephone to the Rescue Society.”
“Yes, yes, that’s it. Go at once, run--and bring some men back with
you. Why do you wait? Go at once. Hurry!”
The man looked down again at the white face in her lap. “There’ll be no
use here for doctor or Rescue Society, Miss.”
“Oh, go!--for God’s sake go!”
“I’m going, Miss--but don’t get afraid in the darkness here.”
He hurried down the street. “’Twasn’t my fault,” he murmured as he ran.
“Such an idea! to drive down this road this time o’ night.”
Emma was left alone with the unconscious man in the gloomy street.
“What shall I do now?” she thought. “It can’t be possible--it can’t.”
The thought circled dizzily in her brain--“It can’t be possible.”
Suddenly she seemed to hear a low breathing. She bent to the pale
lips--no--not the faintest breath came from them. The blood had dried
on temple and cheek. She gazed at the eyes, the half-closed eyes, and
shuddered. Why couldn’t she believe it?... It must be true--this was
Death! A shiver ran through her--she felt but one thing--“This is a
corpse. I am here alone with a corpse!--a corpse that rests on my lap!”
With trembling hands she pushed the head away, until it rested on the
ground. Then a feeling of horrible aloneness came over her. Why had she
sent the coachman away? What should she do here all alone with this
dead man in the darkness? If only some one would come--but what was she
to do then if anybody did come? How long would she have to wait here?
She looked down at the corpse again. “But I’m not alone with him,” she
thought, “the light is there.” And the light seemed to her to become
alive, something sweet and friendly, to which she owed gratitude. There
was more life in this little flame than in all the wide night about
her. It seemed almost as if this light was a protection for her, a
protection against the terrible pale man who lay on the ground beside
her. She stared into the light until her eyes wavered and the flame
began to dance. Suddenly she felt herself awake--wide awake. She sprang
to her feet. Oh, this would not do! It would not do at all--no one must
find her here with him. She seemed to be outside of herself, looking at
herself standing there on the road, the corpse and the light below her;
she saw herself grow into strange, enormous proportions, high up into
the darkness. “What am I waiting for?” she asked herself, and her brain
reeled. “What am I waiting for? The people who might come? They don’t
need me. They will come, and they will ask questions--and I--why am I
here? They will ask who I am--what shall I answer? I will not answer
them--I will not say a word--they can not compel me to talk.”
The sound of voices came from the distance.
“Already?” she thought, listening in terror. The voices came from the
bridge. It could not be the men the driver was bringing with him. But
whoever it was would see the light--and they must not see it, for then
she would be discovered. She overturned the lantern with her foot,
and the light went out. She stood in utter darkness. She could see
nothing--not even him. The pile of stones shone dimly. The voices came
nearer. She trembled from head to foot; they must not find her here.
That was the only thing of real importance in all the wide world--that
no one should find her here. She would be lost if they knew that
this--this corpse--was her lover. She clasps her hands convulsively,
praying that the people, whoever they were, might pass by on the
farther side of the road, and not see her. She listens breathless.
Yes, they are there, on the other side--women, two women, or perhaps
three. What are they talking about? They have seen the carriage, they
speak of it--she can distinguish words. “A carriage upset--” What else
do they say? She can not understand--they walk on--they have passed
her--Ah--thanks--thanks to Heaven!--And now? What now? Oh, why isn’t
she dead, as he is? He is to be envied; there is no more danger, no
more fear for him. But so much--so much for her to tremble for. She
shivers at the thought of being found here, of being asked, “Who are
you?” She will have to go to the police station, and all the world will
know about it--her husband--her child. She can not understand why she
has stood there motionless so long. She need not stay here--she can do
no good here--and she is only courting disaster for herself. She makes
a step forward--Careful! the ditch is here--she crosses it--how wet it
is--two paces more and she is in the middle of the street. She halts
a moment, looks straight ahead, and can finally distinguish the gray
line of the road leading onward into darkness. There--over there--lies
the city. She can not see it, but she knows the way. She turns once
more. It does not seem so dark now. She can see the carriage and the
horses quite distinctly--and, looking hard, she seems to see the
outline of a human body on the ground. Her eyes open wide. Something
seems to clutch at her and hold her here--it is he--she feels his
power to keep her with him. With an effort she frees herself. Then she
perceives that it was the soft mud of the road that held her. And she
walks onward--faster--faster--her pace quickens to a run. Only to be
away from here, to be back in the light--in the noise--among men. She
runs along the street, raising her skirt high, that her steps may not
be hindered. The wind is behind her, and seems to push her along. She
does not know what it is she flees from. Is it the pale man back there
by the ditch? No, now she knows, she flees the living, not the dead,
the living who will soon be there, and who will look for her. What
will they think? Will they follow her? But they can not catch up with
her now, she is so far away, she is nearing the bridge, there is no
danger. No one can know who she was, no one can possibly imagine who
the woman was who drove down through the country road with the dead
man. The driver does not know her; he would not recognize her if he
should ever see her again. They will not take the trouble to find out
who she is. Who cares? It was wise of her not to stay--and it was not
cowardly either. Franz himself would say it was wise. She must go home;
she has a husband, a child; she would be lost if any one should see
her there with her dead lover. There is the bridge; the street seems
lighter--she hears the water beneath her. She stands there, where they
stood together, arm in arm--when was it? How many hours ago? It can
not be long since then. And yet--perhaps she lay unconscious long, and
it is midnight now, or near morning, and they have missed her at home.
Oh, no--it is not possible. She knows that she was not unconscious, she
remembers everything clearly. She runs across the bridge, shivering at
the sound of her own steps. Now she sees a figure coming toward her;
she slows her pace. It is a man in uniform. She walks more slowly, she
does not want to attract attention. She feels the man’s eyes resting
on her--suppose he stops her! Now he is quite near; it is a policeman.
She walks calmly past him, and hears him stop behind her. With an
effort she continues in the same slow pace. She hears the jingle of
street-car bells--ah, it can not be midnight yet. She walks more
quickly--hurrying toward the city, the lights of which begin there by
the railroad viaduct--the growing noise tells her how near she is. One
lonely stretch of street, and then she is safe. Now she hears a shrill
whistle coming rapidly nearer--a wagon flies swiftly past her. She
stops and looks after it; it is the ambulance of the Rescue Society.
She knows where it is going. “How quickly they have come,” she thinks;
“it is like magic.” For a moment she feels that she must call to them,
must go back with them. Shame, terrible, overwhelming shame, such as
she has never known before, shakes her from head to foot--she knows
how vile, how cowardly she is. Then, as the whistle and the rumble of
wheels fade away in the distance, a mad joy takes hold of her. She is
saved--saved! She hurries on; she meets more people, but she does not
fear them--the worst is over. The noise of the city grows louder, the
street is lighter, the skyline of the Prater street rises before her,
and she knows that she can sink into a flood tide of humanity there and
lose herself in it. When she comes to a street lamp she is quite calm
enough now to take out her watch and look at it. It is ten minutes to
nine. She holds the watch to her ear--it is ticking merrily. And she
thinks: “Here I am, alive, unharmed--and he--he--dead. It is Fate.” She
feels as if all had been forgiven--as if she had never sinned. And what
if Fate had willed otherwise? If it were she lying there in the ditch,
and he who remained alive? He would not have run away--but then he is
a man. She is only a woman, she has a husband, a child--it was her
right--her duty--to save herself. She knows that it was not a sense of
duty that impelled her to do it. But what she has done was right--she
had done right instinctively--as all good people do. If she had stayed
she would have been discovered by this time. The doctors would question
her. And all the papers would report it next morning; she would have
been ruined forever, and yet her ruin could not bring him back to life.
Yes, that was the main point, her sacrifice would have been all in
vain. She crosses under the railway bridge and hurries on. There is the
Tegethoff Column, where so many streets meet. There are but few people
in the park on this stormy evening, but to her it seems as if the life
of the city was roaring about her. It was so horribly still back there.
She had plenty of time now. She knows that her husband will not be
home before ten o’clock. She will have time to change her clothes. And
then it occurs to her to look at her gown. She is horrified to see how
soiled it is. What shall she say to the maid about it? And next morning
the papers will all bring the story of the accident, and they will tell
of a woman who had been in the carriage, and who had run away. She
trembled afresh. One single carelessness and she is lost, even now. But
she has her latch-key with her; she can let herself in; no one will
hear her come. She jumps into a cab and is about to give her address,
then suddenly she remembers that this would not be wise. She gives any
number that occurs to her.
As she drives through the Prater street she wishes that she might feel
something--grief--horror--but she can not. She has but one thought,
one desire--to be at home, in safety. All else is indifferent to her.
When she had decided to leave him alone, dead, by the roadside--in
that moment everything seemed to have died within her, everything that
would mourn and grieve for him. She has no feeling but that of fear
for herself. She is not heartless--she knows that the day will come
when her sorrow will be despair--it may kill her even. But she knows
nothing now, except the desire to sit quietly at home, at the supper
table with her husband and child. She looks out through the cab window.
She is driving through the streets of the inner city. It is brilliantly
light here, and many people hurry past. Suddenly all that she has
experienced in the last few hours seems not to be true, it is like an
evil dream; not something real, irreparable. She stops her cab in one
of the side streets of the Ring, gets out, turns a corner quickly, and
takes another carriage, giving her own address this time. She does not
seem able to think of anything any more. “Where is he now?” She closes
her eyes and sees him on the litter, in the ambulance. Suddenly she
feels that he is here beside her. The cab sways, she feels the terror
of being thrown out again, and she screams aloud. The cab halts before
the door of her home. She dismounts hastily, hurries with light steps
through the house door, unseen by the concierge, runs up the stairs,
opens her apartment door very gently, and slips unseen into her own
room. She undresses hastily, hiding the mud-stained clothes in her
cupboard. To-morrow, when they are dry, she can clean them herself. She
washes hands and face, and slips into a loose housegown.
The bell rings. She hears the maid open the door, she hears her
husband’s voice, and the rattle of his cane on the hat-stand. She feels
she must be brave now or it will all have been in vain. She hurries to
the dining-room, entering one door as her husband comes in at the other.
“Ah, you’re home already?” he asks.
“Why, yes,” she replies, “I have been home some time.”
“They evidently didn’t hear you come in.”
She smiles without effort. But it fatigues her horribly to have to
smile. He kisses her forehead.
The little boy is already at his place by the table. He has been
waiting some time, and has fallen asleep, his head resting on an open
book. She sits down beside him; her husband takes his chair opposite,
takes up a paper, and glances carelessly at it. Then he says: “The
others are still talking away there.”
“What about?” she asks.
And he begins to tell her about the meeting, at length. Emma pretends
to listen, and nods now and then. But she does not hear what he is
saying, she feels dazed, like one who has escaped terrible danger as by
a miracle; she can feel only this: “I am safe; I am at home.” And while
her husband is talking she pulls her chair nearer the boy’s and lifts
his head to her shoulder. Fatigue inexpressible comes over her. She can
no longer control herself; she feels that her eyes are closing, that
she is dropping asleep.
Suddenly another possibility presents itself to her mind, a possibility
that she had dismissed the moment she turned to leave the ditch where
she had fallen. Suppose he were not dead! Suppose--oh, but it is
impossible--his eyes--his lips--not a breath came from them! But there
are trances that are like death, which deceive even practised eyes, and
she knows nothing about such things. Suppose he is still alive--suppose
he has regained consciousness and found himself alone by the
roadside--suppose he calls her by her name? He might think she had been
injured; he might tell the doctors that there was a woman with him, and
that she must have been thrown to some distance. They will look for
her. The coachman will come back with the men he has brought, and will
tell them that she was there, unhurt--and Franz will know the truth.
Franz knows her so well--he will know that she has run away--and a
great anger will come over him. He will tell them her name in revenge.
For he is mortally injured, and it will hurt him cruelly that she has
left him alone in his last hour. He will say: “That is Mrs. Emma ----.
I am her lover. She is cowardly and stupid, too, gentlemen, for she
might have known you would not ask her name; you would be discreet;
you would have let her go away unmolested. Oh, she might at least have
waited until you came. But she is vile--utterly vile--ah!--”
“What is the matter?” asks the Professor, very gravely, rising from his
chair.
“What? What?”
“Yes, what is the matter with you?”
“Nothing.” She presses the boy closer to her breast.
The Professor looks at her for a few minutes steadily.
“Didn’t you know that you had fallen asleep, and--”
“Well?-- And--”
“And then you screamed out in your sleep.”
“Did I?”
“You screamed as if you were having a nightmare. Were you dreaming?”
“I don’t know--”
And she sees her face in a mirror opposite, a face tortured into a
ghastly smile. She knows it is her own face, and it terrifies her. She
sees that it is frozen; that this hideous smile is frozen on it, and
will always be there, all her life. She tries to cry out. Two hands are
laid on her shoulders, and between her own face and the mirrored one
her husband’s face pushes its way in; his eyes pierce into hers. She
knows that unless she is strong for this last trial all is lost. And
she feels that she is strong; she has regained control of her limbs,
but the moment of strength is short. She raises her hands to his, which
rest on her shoulders; she draws him down to her, and smiles naturally
and tenderly into his eyes.
She feels his lips on her forehead, and she thinks: “It is all a
dream--he will never tell--he will never take revenge like that--he is
dead--really dead--and the dead are silent--”
“Why did you say that?” she hears her husband’s voice suddenly.
She starts. “What did I say?” And it seems to her as if she had told
everything, here at the table--aloud before every one--and again she
asks, shuddering before his horrified eyes, “What did I say?”
“The dead are silent.” her husband repeats very slowly.
“Yes,” she answers.
And she reads in his eyes that she can no longer hide anything from
him. They look long and silently at each other. “Put the boy to bed,”
he says at last. “You have something to tell me, have you not?”
“Yes--”
She knows now that within a few moments she will tell this man
everything--this man, whom she has deceived for many years.
And while she goes slowly through the door, holding her boy, she feels
her husband’s eyes still resting on her, and a great peace comes over
her, the assurance that now many things would be right again.
MARGRET’S PILGRIMAGE
BY CLARA VIEBIG
[Illustration]
_Clara Viebig, foremost of the young women writers of modern
Germany, was born in the early seventies, in the Eifel country
of Prussia. Her first book, “Daughters of the Rhineland,”
appeared in 1896, with a leaning toward the new “woman
movement.” But her first great success was the novel, “Children
of the Eifel,” which introduced a new subject as well as a new
writer. It is the picture of a “stirring prophet of doom in the
midst of the smiling Rhineland.” In dealing with nature, Clara
Viebig is masculine, yet when she deals with the brutalities of
nature, she is all womanly, without flinching. The expectation
raised by these stories was justified in her next book, “Our
Daily Bread,” showing such keenness of observation, strength of
portraiture, loving insight, and startling directness that it
is considered by many the best that newer German literature has
produced._
[Illustration]
MARGRET’S PILGRIMAGE
BY CLARA VIEBIG
Translated by Grace Isabel Colbron.
Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.
It was already autumn on the heights of the Eifel. The cold winds
blew in from the north, snorting in malicious haste. They colored the
thin grass yellow, and tousled the gnarled firs and the trembling
birches. Down in the sunny Moselle Valley the roses still bloomed in
the gardens, in their glory of white, red, and yellow petals. Heavily
laden fruit trees nodded over the crystal clear stream, the rich blood
swelled the grape, and walnut and chestnut trees burst open the green
coverings of their fruit and shook the shining brown heart of it down
upon the earth. But up on the heights the nights smelt of winter
already. The sloes hung blue and tart on the blackthorn, cold frost
silvered the grass and the moss, and heavy mists filled the ravines.
It was inhospitably cold and unfriendly. The Eifel with its treeless
heights, its purple moors, and its dark tarns made itself ready to
receive its stern master, the Winter.
Where the wood halts and only brush can grow, a tiny hut clung to the
rocks. It was a miserably poor little nest with a low hanging roof
of moss, on top of which house-leek and other growing plants caught
foothold, even one saucy little pine tree had settled down there. The
door was low, the window covered with paper, but a contented white
goat munched the grass in front of the door, and a few weather-beaten
sunflowers nodded their heavy heads in fat condescension.
In this lonely hut, the poorest for many a mile, lived the honest
widow Anna Maria Balduin. She had lived there many years, ever since
the time, eighteen years back, when she had entered it as the happy
bride of Peter Balduin, the sturdy woodchopper. Five years later they
had carried him out and buried him in the little hill churchyard down
in Kyllburg. That had been a bad year. The potato crop was a failure,
bread rose in price, the famine fever ravished the Eifel, the snow
fell early, and hungry wolves crept down to the outlying huts. In the
widow’s little home the care for daily bread, grief for the lost one,
cold, and deprivation were daily guests. The pale woman sat at her
spinning wheel and let the tears flow free, while her little daughter
Margret knelt beside her, laughing and playing with pebbles, unheeding
her mother’s sorrow.
Years had passed since then; the fresh grave had fallen in and grass
had grown over it, as over the wounds of the heart. The little hut had
grown more dilapidated, and little Margret had become a tall girl. She
sat by the door spinning for her daily bread in the service of the rich
peasants’ wives, and had the goat tied to her foot by a string, so that
she could care for it without stopping her work. Margret spun and spun,
looking up occasionally, aimlessly, or in unconscious longing, at the
sky above her, which domed pale blue and unapproachably cool over the
bare, rocky hilltops.
[Illustration: =Clara Viebig=]
Her mother was very ill. For weeks and months she had lain bent and
stiff, drawn with rheumatic pains, in the worm-eaten bed on her coarse
pillows, too helpless sometimes even to raise her hand to her mouth.
“It looks bad,” the wise woman from Kyllburg had said, when after much
entreaty and a payment of fifty pfennigs (twelve and a half cents)
down she had been persuaded to climb up to the miserable hut. She took
away with her the widow’s one hen, and left a magic medicine in its
place. But the medicine did no magic, the sick woman groaned and moaned
more than ever, and the screech owl, the bird of death, screamed each
midnight outside the window.
This was a particularly bad day. Pretty Margret sat by the bedside with
drooping head. Her busy fingers continued to spin, but her usually
laughing brown eyes were filled with tears. She was a good child, who
had nothing in all the world but her mother and her seventeen years.
But her fresh youth was blighted by the sorrow for her mother as the
flowers in May are smitten by hail.
It was a little brightening of the sadness when a knock came on the
door and a fat peasant woman pushed herself over the threshold with
sighs and pantings.
“Praise be Jesus Christ.”
“Forever and ever, amen.”
The visitor was a cousin from Kyllburg, Frau Margareta Rindsfüsser,
Margret’s godmother. She had climbed up the mountain to see them, the
good, kind soul, even if she was a little too comfortably complete.
She unpacked a basket she carried on her arm: there was sausage in it,
rolls, chicory, and eggs.
“Well, Anna, how are the pains?”
“Bad, very bad.”
“Yes, yes,” the visitor nodded, “I don’t believe myself that you’ll be
with us long. You’d better be making ready for the blessed death.”
“O dear Lord Jesus,” moaned the sick woman, “I’d be so glad to die--but
it’s leaving Margret, and she so young.”
“Yes, it’s true.” The visitor blinked her eyes and blew her nose
violently in her gay-colored handkerchief. “It’s bitter hard, but
there’s no help. Yet, if you could get down to Trier to see the Sacred
Coat, that could help you.”
“Help her? The Sacred Coat?” Margret had been listening with wide, open
eyes; now she approached and touched the visitor’s sleeve. “Auntie,
please tell me, what is the Sacred Coat?”
Frau Margareta Rindsfüsser crossed herself piously. “Intercede for us,
Sacred Coat, for forgiveness for our sins--Why, girl, how stupid you
are! Down there in Trier the bells are ringing day and night, they
are ringing until the fish in the Moselle take fright. You’d think
you could hear the dingdonging even up here. And people come from all
over the world, up along the Moselle, with crosses and banners, and
they sing, they pray to the Sacred Coat. My father’s brother’s son,
Stadtfeld’s Hanni, he’s been there. He told me about it. He didn’t have
no children, so he went down there and touched the Sacred Coat with his
wedding ring; that helped. The priests in the Holy Cathedral, they
showed the Coat, and whoever is sick gets well again. And if any one
has somebody sick at home, and takes something belonging to them with
him, a shirt, or a kerchief, or anything, the sick one will get well
again.”
“O blessed Lord Jesus!” the girl clasped her hands as if in prayer.
“Mother, I’ll go there.”
“It’s too far.” The sick woman sighed, half anxiously, half longingly.
“I can’t let you. You are my only child--Something might happen. Jesus,
Maria, Joseph!”
“Oh, mother, let me go. I’ve been down as far as the Moselle with
berries, and it’s just going a little further; I can find Trier so
easy. And if I pray many thousand times to the Sacred Coat, then it
will surely help. And when I come back again, then you’re all well. Oh,
mother, just think!”
The girl caught the sick woman in her arms with a laugh of joy. She
pressed a fresh, blooming cheek to her mother’s pale, hollow face.
“Mother, say yes. I’ll go down to pray to the Sacred Coat. I’ll go
to-morrow.”
“Anna, let her go, in God’s name, and the Holy Virgin will be with
her,” said the visitor. “I’ll come up every day to look after the
goat--and to look after you.”
And she took her departure, much touched.
When evening came, Margret milked the goat and got the supper. Then she
stood at the well and scrubbed herself as if she had not seen water for
a week. The Sacred Coat could indeed demand that one should be clean
and bright from head to foot. Then she went into the house and knelt
before the picture of the Virgin, which looked down, gay with many
colors, from out of its little gold frame on the whitewashed wall. Her
prayer was long and heart-felt. It was not only the Paternoster and the
Ave that she prayed to-day--her tension, her expectations, and secret
anxieties for the coming day brought words of her own in entreaty to
her lips.
Then she sank down exhausted on her bed. Her hands folded over her
breast, she was soon breathing the deep, regular breath of sweet,
youthful sleep.
When she awoke, day was breaking already, and the sun was shaking
itself out of its morning dreams behind rose-tipped clouds. It was high
time to set out.
Frau Anna wept as she saw her daughter standing before her, fresh
and rosy-cheeked, her black Sunday dress pinned up over her blue
underskirt, around her slender throat the black cord with a tiny golden
cross. In one hand she held the bundle in which was her mother’s shirt,
which was to be offered to the Sacred Coat, that the miracle might be
performed. Furthermore, there were her shining black shoes and her
white stockings, which she was to put on when she reached the city
gates. And also there was her godmother’s present, the Sunday apron
with its colored flowers, Margret’s fairest possession, her greatest
pride. But there was nothing too good for the Sacred Coat.
The bright, young eyes gazed confidently into her mother’s face.
“Good-by--and when I come back, then you’ll be well again.”
A clasp of the hand, the sign of the Cross on brow and breast, a
murmured blessing, a friendly nod--and now she turned and stood on the
threshold, and the first golden rays of the sun kissed her fair, young
cheek.
Thus Margret’s pilgrimage began.
* * * * *
The birds twittered in the bushes, dewdrops hung like diamonds on leaf
and grass, as Margret sprang light-footed down the hill slope. Down
there in the gray of the morning mists lay Kyllburg. The cocks were
crowing, but there was no smoke from the chimneys. The people were
still asleep. It must be nice to live in Kyllburg, one was not so alone
there as up on the mountain. And evenings the girls could sit together
in the spinning-room and laugh and chat, each with her sweetheart
beside her. It must be nice to have a sweetheart. Would she, little
Margret, ever have a sweetheart? Probably not. Mother said: “Poor girls
get no sweethearts.”
Hello! There was a big stone, and she nearly fell over it. That comes
of thinking about such stupid things. What could a sweetheart matter to
her? She was poor little Margret from the cottage on the hill-top, and
she was going down to pray to the Sacred Coat. She took her rosary from
her pocket and let the little balls roll busily through her fingers, as
her rosy lips murmured the prayers. That helped to shorten the road.
The wood grew denser, the crippled firs and meagre birches gave place
to slender beeches and stately oaks. Bright colored flowers grew about
in the grass, a breath of warmth came into the air, and a brooklet ran
busily valleyward. How beautiful it was here! Margret stood still and
drew a deep breath. She had come a long distance already, the sun stood
noon-high.
Until now she had not met a human being, alone with her angels had
she wandered through the world. But now from the distance there came
a noise as of many voices; a few paces more and she was out of the
forest, standing beside the broad turnpike road, on the other side of
which the Moselle flowed, calm and beautiful! Like a silver ribbon the
river wound itself gently between the vine-clad banks, its ripples
moved softly, and the golden sun and the laughing blue sky peeped down
into the crystal mirror.
Margret’s face shone. There was the Moselle. Now it could not be much
farther. She must soon hear the bells of Trier. And there, right in
front of her, came a solemn, stately procession, with waving banners.
The leader intoned a chant and sang the Ave, and the chorus joined,
many-voiced, in the refrain. Margret crossed herself and stepped to one
side.
How many people there were! She would have liked to join them, but the
women at the end of the procession did not look amiable, and a pretty
young girl in a red petticoat gazed at her from head to foot so sharply
that her courage failed her. She waited until they had all passed, then
she followed at a little distance as the procession crept slowly along
the river-bank like a long, black caterpillar. With the entire herd to
point the way, the single lonely sheep can not go wrong.
The sun burned hotly, the dust flew up in clouds; hadn’t she come to
Trier yet? Margret was hungry, her feet hurt her. Wouldn’t it be better
to put on her shoes? But no, they must be kept bright and shining for
the city. So she trotted along the road that seemed endless. A cherry
tree and then an apple tree, and then a cherry tree and an apple tree
again, and now and then a heap of stones and a milestone--how long it
was!
The train of pilgrims was some distance ahead; Margret limped wearily
after them. She would have liked so much to rest a while by the
wayside. But then she would have lost sight of the procession, and that
would not do at all. So she took a piece of bread and a bit of cheese
from her bundle, and bit into it with her strong, white teeth as she
walked along.
The sun sank toward the skyline, the evening wove its delicate veil
over the river and the valley. High above, the summits of the mountains
still shone in golden light, and tiny little cushiony clouds grew rosy
pink at their edges. Margret’s clear eyes grew tired, her foot rose and
fell more slowly. Oh, how nice it would be to rest now, like the little
birds that were just slipping into their nests! There, listen! A deep
rich tone hummed through the air, and now another, and another, and
the wind brought other voices to her, finer and thinner, that wove a
lighter figure about the single great voice. It was the bells of Trier.
The tired girl folded her hands a moment, then she hurried joyfully
onward. One more turn of the road and there lay mighty Trier glowing
in the evening rays, which gleamed back from its gray roofs and towers
just across the bridge spanning the river with stone arches.
And over the bridge the crowd pushed and swayed. Walkers, alone or in
groups, pressed hastily forward; long lines of wagons rattled on in
single file, many banners waved in the evening wind. It was such a
mighty migration, such a crowding and hastening to get into the Blessed
City that the lonely maiden’s heart beat heavy. No, she would not enter
there yet, she would rather spend the night out here, on this side of
the river, where there were not so many houses.
A solitary inn stood by the wayside, she decided to enter there. Her
hand sought for the few pennies in her pocket. She had money, she
could pay for her night’s lodging, and she walked more quickly down
the little path that led to the inn door. But here she nearly turned
back again, such a rush and noise of voices met her. From the open
windows came the sound of singing, shouting, and laughter. The wagons
were crowded in the courtyard, servants ran hastily back and forth. She
entered timidly, no one paid any attention to her. She laid her little
bundle down on a still vacant seat at the end of a bench and sat down
beside it, holding it tightly in her hand. The noise and the shouting
made her dizzy. Not a place was unoccupied, everybody seemed to be
doing just about as he liked. Here sat three men playing cards, two
more were quarreling, and had almost come to blows; in another corner
sat several telling their rosaries, and one had already lain down on
the straw and was snoring aloud. There, in a corner, sat the pretty
young woman with the red petticoat whom Margret had seen on the road.
She was joking with a couple of young men.
Would it be well to speak to her? She seemed quite friendly. Margret
approached her, timidly blushing: “Were you going to Trier, to the
Sacred Coat?”
“Yes.”
“Do you stop here the night? I’d like to stay;” Margret took her
pennies out of her pocket. “Yes, I can pay for it, but I’m scared, so
alone.”
The stranger had listened quietly, then she pushed at one of her
companions, winked at the other, and all three burst out into a loud
laugh.
“You can stay with me,” said one of the youths, twisting his mustache
ends upward; “then you won’t be scared.”
He put out his hand toward Margret, but she pushed him back, snatched
her bundle, and ran out of the door as quickly as a squirrel. She fled
down the street as if pursued. The noise from the inn had long ceased
behind her before she stopped, heavily panting.
What should she do now? Go back into the inn to all those many people,
and the noise, and the screaming? Oh, no. It were far better to stay
out here under God’s free heaven, where the stars looked down on one
like kind eyes, and the crickets chirped amiably from the grass.
Behind the bushes by the roadside she saw a little straw hut, which
probably belonged to the overseer of the orchards. Margret peeped
cautiously into the little door; the hut was empty and half falling
to pieces. With a sigh of relief she crept in under the low roof. She
took out her last piece of bread, and when she had eaten it she put her
bundle under her head, drew up her skirt over her shoulders, and fell
asleep.
The sun stood shining and golden, well up in the sky, when Margret
woke out of her deep sleep. She looked round, dazed; the preceding day
seemed like a dream to her, and she herself seemed to be a stranger,
some new and wonderful person. Yes, there lay mighty Trier, there
was the Moselle, there was the inn from which she had fled--and she
herself? Why, yes, she was little Margret, who was going down to pray
to the Sacred Coat. It was high time to be up and doing. Hastily she
slipped down to the river-bank behind a heavy thicket of willows where
nobody could see her. She laid aside her dress, bathed her face, neck,
and arms in the fresh, cool flood, and let the clear ripples flow over
her naked feet. She braided up her long hair afresh, smoothing it with
water, until it lay neat as wax behind her rosy ears. She fastened the
silver arrow amid the braids, drew on her shoes and stockings, fastened
her beautiful apron into place--and now she was ready.
Groups of wanderers came along the road; many of them turned to look
with pleasure after the young peasant girl who walked on in her
springtime freshness and prettiness, with the light of pious faith
in her eyes. If the bridge had been crowded yesterday, it was very
much worse to-day. There was a running and a pushing about as in an
ant-hill, the air trembled with the monotonous murmuring of “Sacred
Coat, intercede for us.” One procession after the other dragged itself
slowly over the ancient stone arches.
“Sacred Coat, intercede for us. Sacred Coat, intercede for us.”
There was a humming, as of a swarm of bees, a slow crowding through
the narrow alleys which were gay in festal ornament. There was no
house, however lowly, that did not have some bit of decoration in its
windows, a rug, or a banner, a holy picture behind burning candles. And
almost every window was full of faces looking down with curiosity, or
with pious belief. The nearer they came to the cathedral the greater
the tumult. In the open squares the merchants stood before their
booths crying their wares: “Rosaries--fresh cakes here--pilgrims’
staves--new-made sausage--correct descriptions of the relics in the
cathedral: the Tooth of St. Peter, the Hand of St. Anne, a splinter
and a nail from the Holy Cross--only correct picture of the Sacred
Coat--very cheap, only ten pfennigs apiece.” The Sacred Coat here,
the Sacred Coat there, whichever way one looked, whichever way one
listened--it was an ear-splitting tumult, a confusion to make one
dizzy. And through the chaos of colors and sounds, through the dust
and the smell, through the fraud and the truth, the faith and the
unbelief, there drew, like a guiding thread, the monotonous murmuring
of the processions, the dull booming of the bells.
Margret was dazed and bewildered. She had bought a bit of bread in a
baker’s shop, and asked her way of the kindly woman there. Now she
stood as if lost in the middle of the street, pressing her bundle
firmly under one arm.
A new procession came past her; she fell in line with the last women in
the train, and followed along with them. One of them, praying busily,
turned to her with an unfriendly look: “Praise be to thee, Maria, full
of grace--What do you want, girl?”
“I’m going to the Sacred Coat.”
“What are you doing here? This is our procession, costs us good money.
Get away from here.”
The woman pushed her aside roughly with her elbows. The pious pilgrims
passed onward, and Margret looked after them with tears in her eyes.
How fortunate they were, these happy ones! They would get there first,
the Sacred Coat would give them all its blessings, and there would be
nothing left for her. And she had a sick mother at home! She ran after
them hastily.
Now she was in the square in front of the cathedral, but a mighty mob
of many thousands stood between her and the high, gray portals which,
wide open as they were, could not hold the human stream flowing into
them. The beadles in their red garments, with long staffs in their
hands, stood like fiery cherubim at the entrance to the paradise, and
ordered the crowd, throwing them into line. The mass moved slowly
forward. Margret stood in the last rows, crowded and pushed from all
sides. Finally the human wall in front of her gave way in one spot and
she slipped through, not heeding the elbows and shoulders stretched out
to hold her back. She was almost at the portals, but now there was no
further movement, the mob stood motionless. There was no going backward
or forward, the beadles held their staffs before the entrance. There
was not room for another soul to get in at the door.
The ringing of the bells ceased with a long-drawn sigh; rich organ
notes boomed through the air. The incense wafted upward. “O vestis
inconsutilis.” With a singing as of angels’ voices, the sounds wafted
out from the church into the sun-bathed air, solemnly soaring high
over the heads of the massed community. The heads bowed as a ripe
field of grain bows under the breath of the wind; all sank to their
knees and beat their hands to their breasts. “O vestis inconsutilis”
came as in one breath from a thousand lips. Then there was silence,
as all listened. Within the cathedral the singing had stopped, the
voice of the priest was heard. Then there was silence again. “Now they
are showing the Sacred Coat--now they are touching it.” Margret heard
whispering around her. “Now they will be freed from all their sins and
the sick ones will be made well.” Oh, those happy ones!
Heavy tears rolled over Margret’s cheeks. She had wandered so far on
her tired feet, and now she stood so near the door, and yet could not
get in to the Sacred Coat. Bitter sobs shook her breast. A couple
of well-dressed gentlemen beside her began to notice her. “What are
you crying for, girl?” asked one of them in a friendly tone. She
was startled at first, then she stammered: “I--I--I’ve come from so
far--from way up in the Eifel--I got a sick mother at home--Here’s
her shirt”--she drew an end of it out of the bundle--“I was to touch
the Sacred Coat with it--And now I can’t get in at all--Oh, dear
Lord Jesus--and--and--and now my mother won’t get well at all.” The
gentleman bit his lips and nudged his companion, who put his hat to his
face and turned away. Then the first gentleman spoke again: “My dear
child, you needn’t cry so. It isn’t at all necessary that you should
go into the church. Step a little this way, now raise yourself up as
high as you can--there, do you see, inside the church, something red in
front of the altar? That is the Sacred Coat. Now they are moving it.
Can you see it?”
Oh, that was it, was it, that bright red thing? How clear and sharp the
color was, like the girl’s skirt in the inn. Margret stood on the tips
of her toes and stretched out her hands: “Sacred Coat--My mother--”
“Shh--” The strange gentleman drew her down again. “Now, you see, you
have seen the Sacred Coat, and it has seen you; it can hear your voice
from here. Now, you pray the best you can, and when they begin to sing
again in the church, and the bells toll, then your mother will get
well.”
Margret hid her face in her hands. Oh, she could pray, and she would
pray the best she knew how. She prayed until the drops came out on her
forehead, all the prayers that she had ever learned, and gave them all
as refrain the same line over and over again: “Sacred Coat, O Sacred
Coat, make my mother well.”
Within the church the great organ toned out again, and the voices
floated down, “Ecclesia, missa, est.” Margret rose from her knees with
a great and confident joy in her heart. Now her mother would be well
again. She knew it.
As she looked about her she could see nothing more of the friendly
gentleman. The crowd was beginning to disperse. And now she discovered
for the first time how very tired and hungry she was. Her knees
trembled; the sun burned down hot upon her, and white clouds grew up in
the sky, as if portending a thunderstorm.
She felt that she must rest a little, but not here in the hot and dusty
city. She wanted to be out again, past the gates, amid the green; then
she could start on her homeward way refreshed.
She walked back unhindered through the streets by which she had come;
with her last pennies she bought some bread and fruit. Then she hurried
out with her packages over the old bridge to her cozy willow grove
beside the Moselle. The noise of the city remained behind her; nothing
moved about her here but the breath of the wind in the bushes, and the
hum of the little blue flies in the air. Every now and then a fish
would spring out of the river and fall back again into the refreshing
flood with a little splash. A dreamy silence surrounded the tired girl.
There was no sound of the bells, no human voice, nothing but peace and
rest.
Now she had eaten her bread and fruit, and sat quietly in the shade of
the willows, her head sinking gently down upon her arm.
She did not know how long she had slept, or even if she had slept at
all; a loud laugh aroused her. The two gentlemen who had spoken to her
in front of the church stood before her. “Here’s luck,” said one of
them. “One doesn’t meet a little fool like this every day. Are you much
edified, little one?”
“Leave her alone,” said the one who had spoken to her before. “She’s so
pretty. Well, my dear child,” he said then, and put his hand under her
chin, “you know you owe me thanks. Without me you would not have seen
the Sacred Coat, and your mother would not have been made well. What
are you going to give me for it?”
“Oh, good sir,” Margret courtesied, and took his hand confidently, “I
thank you many thousand times. If I knew where you live I would bring
you pine cones to help make the fire, and berries, and I will spin for
your dear lady for nothing.”
“I thank you, my dear child”--the gentleman drew down the corners of
his mouth--“but that’s a little too far off. You might give me a kiss,
though, don’t you think, or perhaps two.”
“And me, too,” laughed the other. “We are good friends, and we’ll
divide even.”
The frightened girl looked from one to the other. She drew her skirts
together with her left hand and held her right arm out in front of her
as if for protection. “No, oh, no!”
“Oh, yes, don’t be so foolish, little one.”
The gentleman’s face was not nearly so friendly now. He put out his arm
and caught the girl in spite of her struggles. She tore herself loose
with a scream, and sprang back from him.
There was a noise behind them in the bushes. A tall man stepped out
between Margret and her pursuers. “Let that girl alone”--the stranger
twirled a heavy stick in the air--“or I’ll show you something, you--”
The two men turned, murmuring something about a “clown of a peasant”
and disappeared.
Margret stood as if rooted to the ground, trembling in her fright.
The youth reached for her hand. “Come with me,” he said.
She followed obediently along the road which she had come the day
before. They walked along for a little while side by side without
saying a word. The girl’s eyes rested now and then shyly on the figure
of the young man. How slender and strong he was! How prettily his hair
curled, and how daring his little mustache! A deep blush grew up over
Margret’s cheeks; she drew her hand slowly out of the fingers that
held her so gently and stepped over to the other side of the street.
Then they walked on on either side of the road; a look would now and
then pass from one to the other, shy and timid. The sky was overcast,
the burning sun covered with clouds. The wind had freshened, and was
rustling the tree-tops along the wayside, throwing down showers of
leaves and ripe fruit. The city was hidden behind a veil of whirling
dust; soft thunder grumbled in the distance, the birds fluttered
anxiously and sought noisily for a shelter. Gray caps of fog drew over
the tops of the mountains, and there was a smell of cool rain in the
air.
“There’s bad weather coming,” said the youth finally, gazing up
searchingly at the sky.
“Yes,” answered Margret. And just then the first drops fell, heavy and
impudent.
“Where did you come from?” asked the boy.
“From the Eifel, up there by Kyllburg.”
“Kyllburg’s where I live; that’s fine, we can go on together.”
“Oh, yes,” said Margret, and breathed a sigh of relief. She felt quite
safe and contented beside her stately companion. No one could hurt her
now, and she need not be afraid of the night in the forest.
“I am Valentin Rohles. My father is dead; I live with my mother, but
she’s so old now.”
“Yes,” replied Margret shyly. She knew the name; it was one of the best
in the town, but she had never seen the young man before. She had heard
the girls saying how glad they were when handsome young Rohles came
home from the army. But what should the poor cotter’s daughter have to
do with a rich peasant’s son? What would the girls in Kyllburg say if
they could see how friendly he was now with poor little Margret? She
looked down at herself in sudden alarm. Was her dress all smooth and
nice? Then her clear eyes were raised again in grateful confidence to
her companion’s face.
“I am Margret, from Balduin’s hut. You can see it from Kyllburg across
the mountain.”
“What did you want in Trier? Did you go to the Sacred Coat?”
Yes, that was it! And now the whole story of her joys and sorrows
gushed out over Margret’s lips. She was so happy to be able to tell
somebody all the troubles and worries of her heart. In the excitement
of her story she came over from her side of the street, close up to the
young man, and laid her brown, work-hardened fingers on the fine cloth
of his coat sleeve. “But now it will be all right,” she ended. “Mother
will get well--Oh, the blessed Sacred Coat--” She laughed aloud in her
joy and danced over the rain-pools in the street light as a young fawn.
She did not notice that more than once during her story her listener’s
lips had curled in a smile that was mainly good-natured, but just a
little mocking. His eyes looked roguishly down upon her, resting on
her sweet, young face, flushed with excitement. The open, brown stars
of her eyes and his roguish, blue ones met in a long look. They rested
there until the girl, blushing suddenly, dropped her eyes and the young
man spoke with an embarrassed smile: “You’re a good girl, Margret. Give
me your hand again.”
The rain came down in torrents now. Margret drew her skirt up over her
head, holding it together in front of her face. It seemed quite natural
that the youth should lay his arm around her shoulder and guide her
steps, for she wandered along half blinded by her garments, the tip of
her nose alone peeping like a rosy point out of the black cloud.
Evening had come already; the heavy rain-clouds brought the darkness
earlier than usual. The earth had softened to mud and caught at their
feet, but it was not uncomfortable to walk along in it. The young man
strode out with long steps and the girl’s light feet tripped merrily
beside him. What did the darkness and rain matter when it was so
pleasant to chat together? A great secret joy grew up in Margret’s
heart, a joy that seemed to run on before her, strewing the way with
roses and painting the gray sky blue. The whole dirty, rainy world
seemed changed into a shining paradise. What miracles the blessed
Sacred Coat could work!
Hours passed in this way. When they reached the lonely inn that lies at
the parting of the ways where the Eifel dweller leaves the valley of
the Moselle to climb up into his mountains, they stopped for a rest.
They had been walking since noon. Margret bit with huge enjoyment great
pieces out of a hearty sandwich and drank long drafts from the glass
her companion held for her. How good it did taste! The fiery country
wine rolled warming through her veins and sank her into a state of mild
delight.
Then when they had rested for an hour, they started off again. The
rain had stopped. The full glow of the moon shone out behind the torn
clouds. The path became stony and difficult; the streams of water had
torn great ridges in the soft earth. The foot could scarce find a
hold, and more than once the man’s strong arm caught the stumbling girl
and held her up.
Margret was very tired, her chattering ceased; she nestled close to her
strong companion like a weary little bird. He led her as if she had
been a child, raising her over the pools and the stones, and saying now
and then comfortingly: “We’ll be home soon.” But the “soon” stretched
out to quite a long time; at the last he almost had to carry her.
Margret went on as if in a dream. Her eyes were tight shut in blissful
confidence; she thought it would go on this way forever. She started up
almost in a fright as the youth halted suddenly and pointed out with
his hand to where dark shapes grew up in the gray mist with twinkling
lights here and there--“Kyllburg!”
They took the narrow path that led straight up the mountain; Margret
was quite awake again. This was the path that led up to the lonely hut
on the bare hill-top, then she would be at home again, she would be
herself again--and the dream would be over. She hurried on now ahead
of her companion, for here she knew every stock and stone of the road.
In her heart joy and regret mingled and tossed--regret for the parting
with her companion, joy at seeing her mother again. She had not known
that these feelings could be so mingled before.
Now they halted again. There was the hut, dark and silent, with a
little patch of grass in front of it, and the tall sunflowers. There
was the pump and the little lean-to for the goat, and over all the
silver light of the moon.
“I thank you many thousand times,” said Margret softly, and caught at
her companion’s hand.
He had suddenly grown very silent; then he said hesitatingly:
“H’m--Say--H’m--The gentleman down in Trier--you didn’t want to give
him a kiss--But would you kiss me?--What do you say about it, Margret?”
Half laughing, half in entreaty, he bowed down over her face. And
Margret, timid little Margret, put up both arms around his neck and
gave him a hearty kiss right on the mouth. Then she tore herself away
and ran in through the door of her hut.
The youth stood still on the wet grass and waited until he saw a tiny
glimmer of light coming from the hut. Then he said aloud, and with firm
decision:
“That’s the one I want.”
Thus Margret’s pilgrimage ended.
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