In the Night.
All through the night a strange and measured sound was audible
throughout the silent, sleeping farm-house. Now and then the maids
awoke and listened, without knowing what they heard, then turned to
sleep again. The boards cracked and the beams trembled, slightly but
unceasingly.
It was Wally who paced backwards and forwards with heavy, unpausing
steps, her sinking heart engaged in a death-struggle with herself, with
Fate, with Providence. All around was shattered--her clothes flung
about the room, on the floor the carved St. Wallburga, the crucifix,
the holy images, all broken to fragments in impotent wrath.
She had half-undressed, and her hair fell loose and disordered on her
bare shoulders. A red gleaming pine-torch flickered in its socket, and
in the trembling shadows the features of the broken figure of Christ
looking distorted and living. She stayed her steps, and looked down on
the fragments.
"Ay, thou may grin," she said, "thou's always taken me for a fool.
You're of no good, none of you; idols you are of wood and paper, and no
help to any one. Neither prayer nor curse can you hear. And them for
whom you stand, hide themselves, God knows where, and would laugh if
they could see how we kneel down before a piece of wood." And she
pushed the fragments under the bed, that they might not be in her way
as she walked to and fro.
A shot was heard in the distance.
Wally stood still and listened; all was silent. She must have fancied
it. Why should the sound have taken her breath away? She was not even
sure that it was a shot. The thought flashed through her like
lightning, "Suppose Vincenz should have shot Joseph!" It was mere
folly, Joseph was safe at home--or perhaps at Zwieselstein with his
Afra!
She beat her head against the wall in nameless agony at the thought,
and pictures rose before her that drove her frantic. If only he were
dead--dead so that she need never think of him again! She flung the
window open that she might breathe more freely.
Hansl, who was asleep on a tree outside the window, woke up and
fluttered in half-stupid with sleep. "Ah, thou!" cried Wally, and
stretched out her arms to him; she clasped him to her breast, he was
all--all that was left to her in the world.
Again--a second shot, and this time distinctly in the direction of
Zwieselstein; she let go of the vulture, and pressed her hand to her
heart, as though she herself had been struck. Why this terror? The
trifling incident had suddenly brought before her the whole terrible
deed which yesterday she had sworn to. She could not help thinking
again and again how it would be if the shot she had just heard had
shattered Joseph's head, and a wild and frenzied joy came upon her. Now
he belonged to her only, now none other could claim his kiss, and as
she thought upon it, it seemed to her as though it had really happened;
she saw him lying on the ground in his blood, she knelt down by him,
she took his head in her lap, she kissed the pale face--the beautiful
pale face--she saw it actually before her. And then suddenly pity
overwhelmed her for the poor, dead man, a burning, unutterable pity;
she called him by every loving name, she shook him, she chafed his
hands--in vain, he was no more. Unspeakable anguish filled her soul;
no, this must not be, he must not die--sooner would she part with her
own life!
She felt as if an icy cramp had been grasping and crushing her heart,
so that no warm human blood could flow in her veins, and that now the
grip was at last relaxed and the hot flood streaming into her heart
again. She must go out, she must see whether Vincenz was at home, she
must speak to him at once, before daybreak, she must tell him that the
ghastly deed must not be done--she was in a fever, all her pulses
throbbed. She had desired the deed, commanded it, but already the idea
that it might have been done, extinguished her wrath--and she forgave.
She threw a neckerchief on her shoulders, and hastened across the
courtyard and through the garden to Vincenz' house. What would he, what
would everyone think of her? It was all one--what did it matter now?
She reached the house. There was a light in Vincenz' room on the
groundfloor; noiselessly she glided up, she could see through the
parted curtains--her heart stood still--the room was empty, the
pine-torch almost burnt away. She went round the house; the door was
unfastened, she opened it softly and went in. All was still as death,
the men and maids fast asleep; she crept through the whole house,
nothing stirred--Vincenz was away! The blood curdled in her veins; she
went into his bedroom, the bed was disturbed--he must have laid himself
down, then risen again; his Sunday clothes were hanging up, but his
work-day clothes were missing, nor was his hat in its place. She looked
into the sitting-room; the nail where his rifle usually hung was empty.
Wally stood as if paralysed; she never knew how she got outside the
house again. At the door she dropped on to a bench; her feet would
carry her no further. She tried to reassure herself: most likely,
restless as he was, he had gone out after some night game--what could
he do to Joseph, quietly asleep somewhere--she shivered--on a soft
pillow? And by day when everyone was up and about, nobody could touch
or harm him.
It was her evil conscience that pursued her with these terrors, and she
hid her face in her hands. "Wally, Wally, what art thou become?"
Shamed, scorned, degraded in the eyes of men, and a sinner in the eyes
of God. Where was water enough to purify her? Down below, there rushed
the torrent--that--yes, that would clear her from every stain; if she
threw herself into that cold flood, all would be washed away, her
sorrow and her guilt--the whole unblest existence created only to
horror and to strife at once done away with--annihilated. Yes, that
were redemption--why did she hesitate? Away with the useless shell
that held the soul in fetters of guilt and suffering! She started
up, but she could not move, she fell back upon the bench. Was this
down-trodden, deadened spirit still held to life then by some invisible
thread?
There, God be praised! a footstep on the grass. There came Vincenz. Now
she could speak with him; all might yet be well.
"Saints above us!" exclaimed Vincenz, as she went forward to meet him,
"is it thou?" He gazed at her as if she were a spirit. Wally saw in the
morning twilight that he was pale and disturbed. His gun was on his
shoulder.
"Vincenz," she said in a low voice, "hast thou shot anything?"
"Aye."
"What?" She looked at his game-bag, it was empty.
"Noble game," he whispered.
Wally shivered. "Where is it?"
"He lies in the Ache!"
Wally seized him by the arm, in her eyes was a gleam of frenzy. "Who?"
she said.
"Dost need to ask?"
"Joseph!" she cried, and staggered back against the wall.
"It was a hard job," said Vincenz, wiping his brow; "I never thought
he'd have come so soon within shot. The devil knows what brought him
out and about by night. I thought I'd get up early, so as to be down in
Soelden before he was stirring, and at the first step he walks right
into my hands. But it was still so dark that the first shot missed, and
the second only grazed him, but he must have turned giddy, for he
stumbled on the bridge, and held on by the railing. I made the best of
the chance,--I sprang behind him and pushed him over the rail."
A groan like a death-rattle burst from Wally, and as a vulture swoops
upon his prey, she flew at Vincenz and seized his throat with both
hands. "Thou liest, Vincenz, thou liest--it is not true, it cannot
be--say it is not true, or I'll murder thee."
"On my soul, it's true;--didst suppose Vincenz'd think twice when
there was ought to do for thee?"
"Oh murder! most cruel and dastardly murder," sobbed Wally, trembling
from head to foot, "so underhand, so cowardly, so base--that I never
meant; in fair fight I meant that he should die. Cursed be thou in time
and in eternity!--outcast and accursed now and hereafter. What can I do
to thee? With tooth and nail thou ought to be torn in pieces."
"So these are the thanks I get?" said Vincenz between his teeth. "Did
not thou bid me do it?"
"And if I did--what then? Was that a reason?" cried Wally wildly,
"often one says in anger what afterwards one rues in bitterness. Could
thou not wait till I had come to myself again after the awful shock?
Joseph, Joseph!--wild and wicked I may be, but no murderess. Oh, why
could thou not wait, only a few hours? Thy own wickedness it was that
drove thee on, and thou could never rest till thou had worked it out."
"That's right, lay it all on me," growled Vincenz; "and yet thou's thy
share in the mischief too."
"Aye," said Wally, "I have--and with thee I'll atone for it. For us two
no mercy remains. Blood cries for blood--" She ground her teeth, and
seizing Vincenz by the collar, dragged him forward with her.
"Wally, leave go of me!--what dost thou want? My God, are these the
thanks I get? Mercy--Wally, thou'rt choking me--where art thou dragging
me to?"
"To where we two belong," was the gloomy answer, and on she went as
though borne by a whirlwind, up the ascent, on to the bridge where the
sheer precipice overhangs the torrent--where the deed was done. "Down,"
was the one fearful word she thundered in his ear, "we two--together."
"God above us!" shrieked Vincenz in terror, "thou swore that if I did
the deed thou'd be my wife, and now wilt thou murder me?"
Wally laughed her fearful laugh of scorn. "Thou fool, when I fling
myself down yonder with thee, shall not we two be together to all
eternity? will thou try to save thy wolfish life?" And with the
strength of a giant she grasped him in her arms, and hurried him
forward to the low parapet that she might throw herself with him into
the twilight gloom of the abyss.
"Help!" shrieked Vincenz involuntarily, and--
"Help!" sounded feebly, ghostly, like an echo from the depths.
Wally stood as if turned to stone and let go her hold of Vincenz. What
was that? Some mocking goblin? "Did thou hear it?" she said to Vincenz.
"It was the echo," he said, and his teeth chattered.
"Hark--again!"
"Help!" sounded once more like a passing breath from the abyss.
"All good spirits be praised, it is he--he lives--he is clinging
somewhere--he calls for help! Yes--I am coming, Joseph, only wait,
Joseph--I am coming!" she shouted out with a voice like a trumpet into
the depths, and with a voice like a trumpet-call she hailed the
sleeping village as she flew along the street, knocking at every door.
"Help, help--a man is perishing, save him--help, for God's sake,
help--it's life or death!" And at the cry everyone sprang from his bed,
and threw open the windows.
"What is it? what's the matter?"
"It's Joseph Hagenbach--he's fallen into the ravine," cried Wally,
"ropes--bring ropes--only come quick--it may already be too late--it
may perhaps be too late by the time we get there."
She flew like the wind, home to the farm, into the barn, collected all
the ropes that were there, and knotted them together with trembling
hands; but all she could tie together, ropes and lines and cords, were
still not enough to reach into the depths where he lay--God only knew
where.
Meanwhile the men came running together half-incredulous, half-amazed
at the terrible news, and brought with them ropes, and hooks and
lanterns--for it seemed as if to-day it would never be light--and there
was questioning and advising and helpless bewilderment, for in the
memory of man no one had ever fallen over the cliff, and here on the
broad Plateau they were not provided with ready means of rescue as they
are in places where the dizzy precipices and yawning clefts and chasms
every year demand their victims. Thus they came at last to the spot,
and a chill terror seized even the most cold-blooded as they bent over
the railing, and looked down into the mysterious depths of the abyss in
which nothing could be seen but the surging mists that rose up from the
water. Vincenz had disappeared; all was solitary and silent as death
far and wide, above and below. Wally gave a halloo so shrill that the
air trembled; all listened with suspended breath--no answer.
"Joseph--where art thou?" she cried once more with a voice in whose
tone the anguish of all suffering and desperate humanity seemed
concentrated. All was still.
"He doesn't answer--he is dead!" sobbed Wally, and threw herself in
despair upon the earth. "Now all is over!"
"Perhaps he's lost his senses, or is too weak to answer," said old
Klettenmaier consolingly, then whispered in her ear. "Mistress, think
of all the people."
She raised herself and pushed her disordered hair off her forehead.
"Tie the ropes together; don't stand there doing nothing--what are you
waiting for?" The men looked at her doubtingly. "We must at least try
if he's not to be found," said Klettenmaier.
The men shook their heads, but began to fasten the cords together. "Who
will let himself down by the rope?" they said.
"Who?" said Wally. Her black eyes flashed out of her pale face. "I
will!" she said.
"Thou, Wally--thou's out of thy senses--the rope will scarce bear one,
much less two."
"It need bear only one," said Wally gloomily, and seized the rope that
it might be done quicker.
"It's impossible, Wally--thou'll have to tie thyself and him to it to
come up again," said the men, dropping their arms helplessly; "the only
thing to do is to send into the villages, and collect more ropes--"
"And meanwhile he'll fall to the bottom if he's lost his senses, and
all will be too late," cried Wally desperately. "I'll not wait till
more comes--give it me here--unwind the rope, and see how long it
is--go on--unwind!" She shook out the coils of rope, and tried its
length and strength; involuntarily the men took hold of it again, they
unwound the huge coil, the preparations began to take shape and order.
The men stepped out to make a chain. "It may reach far enough, but
it'll never bear two."
"If it won't bear two, I'll send him up alone. Where he has room to
lie, I shall have room to stand. As soon as I've found a footing, I'll
untie myself, and tie the rope round him; then draw him up, and I can
wait till the rope comes down again--"
"Nay--that won't do--if he's weak or senseless he can't be pulled up
alone; he'll be dashed and crushed against the cliff if there's no one
with him to hold him off."
Wally stood as if thunderstruck--she had not thought of that. Again,
then, she was thwarted--she was not to reach him, except down yonder,
perhaps, in the cold bed of the Ache! The rope would not bear two, that
she herself could see. "In the name of God," she said at last, and in
spite of the fever that shook her, she stood there dignified and
commanding in her firm resolve. She tied the rope round her waist, and
took her Alpenstock in her hand. "Let me down, that I may at least seek
him. If I find him, I'll stay with him and support him till you've
brought another rope, and let it down to us. I'll wait patiently down
there, even if I've to wait for hours hanging between earth and heaven
till the other rope can come."
Old Klettenmaier fell on his knees before her. "Wally, Wally, don't
thou do it, they all say the rope isn't safe. If it must be done, let
me go--what does my old life matter? If I can do no good, at least
thou'll see if the rope holds, and if it breaks, it'll only be me
that's killed--not thee."
"Aye, Wally, hear him," said another, "he's in the right; don't thou
go. Only wait, bethink thyself a little till help comes from the
villages."
Wally threw up her arms, so that they all fell back. "When I was but a
child, I did not wait to think before I took the vulture from its nest
down the precipice--and shall I wait now when I go to seek Joseph?
Speak no more to me--I will, I must go to him. Now--step back, unwind,
hold fast!" And even as she spoke, she had sprung over the railing,
whilst the men who formed the chain had to hold back with all their
might, so great was the strain upon the rope.
"God Almighty help us," said Klettenmaier crossing himself, then ran
off, as if Wally's words had reminded him of something. All gazed after
her with horror as she slowly sank lower and lower into the sea of mist
till it had swallowed her up and closed over her, never perhaps to be
seen again. All stood speechless round the spot where she had
disappeared, as round a grave; the tightly-strained rope alone gave
intelligence of the movements of the death-defying diver in this sea of
clouds, and on it every eye was fixed--would it break?--would it bear?
And each time one of the hastily-tied knots was paid out, every heart
beat louder--"Would it hold?"
The beads of sweat fell from the brows of the men who formed the chain,
and involuntarily each tried once more the knots on which a human life
depended. So passed minute after minute, heavy as lead,--as if time
also were bound to some rope that dark powers refused to let go. Still
the rope strained and swayed, still she must be hanging to it; she had
not yet found a footing.
"It's coming to an end," cried the last man of the chain, "it's not
long enough."
"God help us!" they all cried together, "not long enough!"
Only a few yards remained, and still no sign from below that Wally's
end was attained. The men pressed together as close as they could to
the edge of the precipice, paying out as much of the rope as they
dared. If it were not long enough;--if all had been in vain;--if they
should be obliged to draw up the hapless Wally, to set forth once more
on the way of death!
There--there, the rope is suddenly loosened--it is slack--a fearful
moment! Has it given way, or has its burden touched the ground?
The women pray aloud, the children cry. The men begin slowly to pull
in, but only a little way--the rope is tight again. It is not broken,
Wally has found a footing, and now, listen! An echoing cry rises from
the depths, and a quivering response bursts from every throat. Again
the rope is slack, they wind it in, and again it is loosened once or
twice; it would seem that Wally is climbing up the precipice. Meanwhile
the day has broken, but a fine, cold rain is drizzling down and the
swirl of fog below is thicker than ever. Now the rope sharply jerked to
the right takes a slanting direction; the men follow it and pass from
the left to the right side of the bridge. Wally seems to mount higher
and higher; they continue to haul in.
"God be praised!" said some, "he cannot have fallen so deep; if he lies
so far up, he may still live." "Perhaps she's only looking for him,"
said others. Now another pull at the rope, and then a sudden
slackening, and a soul-piercing scream.
"It's broken!" shrieked the people.
No, it is taut again--perhaps it was a scream of joy--perhaps she has
found him. The women fall on their knees, even the men pray, for though
all hated the haughty "peasant-mistress"--still, for the devoted girl
who hangs down there in the chaos between life and death, every one
that has a human heart trembles. If only a ray of sunshine would pierce
the gloom for one single moment! All stand looking down, but they can
distinguish nothing; they must leave it to time that passes with such
slow reluctance, to reveal the event.
The rope remains immovable, but not another sound reaches them from
below. Is it broken and caught on some point of rock, while Wally lies
dashed to pieces below? Why is there no signal, no call? And hours must
pass before they can get help from the villages round.
No one dares to speak a word--all stand listening with suspended
breath. Suddenly old Klettenmaier comes running up, beckoning and
shouting.
"See what I've got," he called out, showing a whole length of stout
rope thrown over his shoulders. "Thank God, when Wally spoke of the
vulture, it all at once struck me that old Luckard had had the rope
laid by that Stromminger let Wally down to the vulture's nest
with;--and there sure enough I found it, in the loft under a heap of
old lumber."
"That is a find!" "Klettenmaier, that's a real godsend," cried the
people confusedly. "God grant it may yet be of use," said the patriarch
of the village, looking despondingly at the cord of deliverance, "she
gives no farther sign!"
"The rope is pulled!" shouted the foremost man of the chain, and at the
same moment a cry came up, so close at hand, that when all was silent
they could catch the words: "Is there no more rope?"
"Ay, ay, plenty!" resounded joyfully from every side. A grappling iron
was fastened for an anchor on to the end of the rope, a fresh chain of
men was formed, and it was cast into the impenetrably shrouded abyss.
The oldest of the peasants gave the word of command--for the ropes must
be paid out exactly together, so that Wally might be close to the
injured man and support him. Not half so far down as Wally had gone at
first, the rope was caught below, and held fast.
"Let out!" said the leader, in order that Wally might have a few more
yards to fasten round Joseph. "Enough," he called out then, and like
soldiers at the word of command, the men stood awaiting the next order.
Again a few minutes' pause; she must make the loop securely and
carefully, so that the senseless man, now so nearly saved, might not
fall again into the abyss.
"Tie it fast, Wally," panted Klettenmaier, half beside himself
"Yes, for God's sake, let her make it fast," echoed the people.
A thrice-repeated pull at both ropes at once. "Haul in!" commanded the
leader, and his voice trembled as he spoke. The men at both ropes set
their feet firmly in the ground, the veins swell in legs and arms and
brows, sinewy hands are stretched forward to pull, and the lifting of
the heavy loads begins. A fearful and responsible task!--if one fails,
all is lost.
"Steady," warns the leader, "watch each other."
It is a solemn moment. Even the children dare not stir; nothing is
audible far or near but the deep breath of the toiling men.
Now!--now they appear through the mist, more and more
distinctly.--Wally emerges with one arm supporting the lifeless body
that hangs to the saving rope, whilst with the other she powerfully
bears off from the precipice with her Alpenstock, to keep herself and
him from being dashed against it. In this way, as if rowing, she
ascends upwards through the sea of clouds. And at last they are there,
close to the edge,--one pull more, and they can be lifted up.
"Steady," says the leader--every breath is held--the last moment is the
worst--if the rope were to break now!
But no, the foremost of the chain stoop and seize them with a firm
grasp, those behind hold fast to the rope.
"Up!" cry the men in front. They are raised--they are there--they are
on firm ground, and a ringing shout of joy relieves the long-oppressed
hearts of the bystanders. Wally has sunk speechless on the inanimate
body of Joseph. She does not see, she does not hear, how all crowd
round her and praise her--she lies with her face upon his breast--her
strength is gone.