THE MOURNER AND HIS COMPANION.
A small footpath leads from the village to a solitary thatched house,
which is not visible till after a good quarter of an hour's quick
climbing. The path leads past the back of the church, at first between
hedges, then through unenclosed green meadows, where the rustling of
the fir plantation can be distinctly heard, that covers all the steep
hill. Behind this hill--called Spannreute--others rise perpendicularly;
the declivity is so steep, that, though cultivated, the crops on the
table-land, even to this day, can only be conveyed down to the valley
by means of sledges.
Two men were walking along singly on this footpath between the hedges:
the one in front was a little old man, most respectably dressed; he had
a staff in his hand, and, by way of precaution, had twisted the tassel
of the handle round his wrist. The old man stepped along stoutly, and
his face, which was a mass of wrinkles, moved up and down in a singular
fashion, for he was chewing a lump of white sugar, and took a fresh
piece from time to time out of his pocket. The sandy red eyebrows of
the old man were coarse and bushy, and clear sharp blue eyes looked out
from under them.
The young man walking behind his old companion was tall and slight; he
wore a long blue coat, and had crape on his arm and his hat. He was
looking down at the ground, and occasionally shaking his head
mournfully. At last he raised his head, and a fresh coloured face, and
a light beard became visible, but the eyelids of his blue eyes were red
and swollen.
"Uncle," said he, standing still: his voice sounded hoarse.
The old man, still busily crunching sugar, turned round.
"Uncle, you have come far enough; I thank you much; the way is long,
and I wish to go home alone."
"Why?"
"I don't know, but I feel that it must be so."
"No, you had far better, on the contrary, turn with me."
"I am sorry, uncle, that I cannot do so, but I cannot! I cannot go to
the 'Golden Lion' today. I am neither hungry nor thirsty; indeed, at
this moment, I feel as if I could never eat or drink again. I regret
that you have had so long a walk on my account."
"No, no, I will go with you. I am not so hard hearted as your mother
told you."
"My mother never said anything of the kind: all her life long she spoke
well of her fellow creatures, and especially of relations; and she
never could endure to hear illnatured gossip about them, from first one
and then another: indeed she always quoted the proverb, 'Don't bite off
your nose to spite your face.'"
"Yes, yes, she had a great store of proverbs; in the whole
neighbourhood it is said--'Marie Lenz said so-and-so;' we should always
speak well of the dead, and I'm sure no one could possibly speak ill of
her."
The young man looked sadly at his old uncle; even if he said a civil
thing, it always left an impression as if he had given you a pinch.
"Yes, uncle," continued the young man, "how oft enduring the last few
days of her life, did she say (and it went to my heart to hear her),
'Lenz, I ought to have died six years ago for your sake; at five and
twenty you ought to have been married, and you will find it hard to
marry, for you have become so accustomed to me, and now that must end.'
I could not persuade her to the contrary, and that was the only thing
that made her unwilling to die."
"And she was right," said the old man, still crunching his sugar, "she
was good and kind, though somewhat self willed, but that is no one's
business; but her kindness tended to ruin you; you are sadly spoiled. I
did not intend to tell you of it just at this moment, there will be
time enough for me to talk to you further on the subject some other
time, but I hope you will come with me now, and not be so childish; you
really seem scarcely to know whether you are standing on your head or
your heels. It is the law of nature that your mother should die before
you, and at all events you have no cause to reproach yourself for ever
having behaved unkindly to her."
"No, thank God! I have not."
"Very well, then, show that you are a man, and give over crying and
sobbing. In all my life I never saw anything like the way you cried in
the churchyard."
"Indeed, uncle, I really cannot say all I felt. I wept for my mother,
but for myself also. When our choir sung those hymns, which I usually
sung with them myself, and there was I, dumb and desolate, I felt as if
I were also a corpse, and they were singing me into my grave, and that
I could not raise my voice."
"You are--" said the old man, but he gulped down what he was on the
point of saying, and strode on in front; his little dog, who trotted
along before him, looked into the old man's face, and shook his head;
he had never seen such an expression before in his master's face.
After a time the old man stopped of his own accord, and said: "I am
going to turn here. I have only one thing to say to you: don't take any
relation of your mother's to live with you, whom you must send away
afterwards. They would forget all the kindness you have shown them, and
only be indignant because they could not stay with you for ever. Above
all, don't give away any of your property, come who may. If you intend
to make any presents, wait till a few weeks are past. Take the keys
into your own keeping when you go home; now God bless you, and be a
man!"
"God bless you, uncle!" said the young man, and went on towards his own
house. His eyes were still fixed on the ground, but at every step he
took he knew where he was; he knew every stone on the path. When he
came opposite the house, he felt as if he could not possibly cross
the threshold. To think of all that has happened there, now past and
gone--and what may the future have yet in store! But it must be borne.
The old maid was sitting in the kitchen beside the cold hearth, holding
her apron to her eyes, and when the young man came up to the house, she
said, sobbing: "Is that you, Lenz? God help you!"
The room seemed so empty, and yet everything was in it just as usual;
the work bench, with five partitions for the five workmen, beside the
straight rows of windows, and the materials for work hanging on the
walls by hooks and straps; the clocks ticked, the turtle doves cooed,
and yet everything looked so empty, and dead, and deserted. The easy
chair stood there with outspread arms, waiting. Lenz leaned on it and
wept bitterly; then he raised his head, and turned to the bedroom. "It
cannot be that you are really no longer there, mother," said he, almost
aloud: he shrunk from the sound of his own voice, and sunk down
exhausted into the chair, where his mother had so often sat.
At last he summoned up courage to go into the next room. "I feel as if
I must send something after you--as if you had forgotten something!"
said he again, and with a cold shudder he opened his mother's press,
into which he had never looked in his life. It seemed to him almost a
crime to dare to do so, and yet he did it. Perhaps she had left him
some sign or token. He found the godfathers' and godmothers' presents
to his deceased brothers and sisters, all marked with their separate
names, and his own also; some ancient coins, the Confirmation
Certificate of his mother, her bridal wreath, dried and withered, but
carefully preserved; her string of garnets, and, in a box by itself, in
several folds of fine paper, a small white velvety looking plant, and a
scrap of writing in his mother's hand. The son first read in a low
voice, and then as if wishing to hear his mother's words, he read
aloud: "This is a plant of Edelweiss."
"Dinner is ready," said a voice, suddenly, through the half open door.
Lenz started, as if he had heard the voice of a spirit, and yet it was
only old Franzl calling to him.
"I will come immediately," answered Lenz, shutting the door, and
bolting it. He then restored everything carefully to its place, and at
last returned into the next room. He did not observe how ominously
Franzl shook her head at such secret doings.