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.