[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.