"Not so very well, sir," she replied in her Mark dialect. "When one has
seventy-seven years on one's back the old eyes are of little use. But I
can still manage tolerably with the hymn-book. I need only see the
numbers and the big letters at the beginning to remember the whole at
once; and if I can't get one verse exactly right, I think of the next
one. Whoever has had experiences, and fears and loves the Lord, can
make a verse for many a hymn in the book."
"You have a beautiful spot for your old age, mother, and are well taken
care of, it seems to me."
The aged dame wore a new dark calico dress, and over her thin shoulders
lay a black shawl, which, spite of the heat, she had pinned close.
"It's very comfortable, my dear sir, it's very comfortable," she
replied, taking a pinch of snuff with her trembling hand. "The Canoness
said so, too; that's why she didn't wish to go away again, not even
when they wanted to take her to the castle. But she planted the
flowers, and we have only kept our gardens so neat since she has been
here. Well, everything will soon be at sixes and sevens again. You see,
when I first came, thirteen years ago, just after my husband and my
eldest daughter died, and there wasn't a soul to care for Mother
Schulzen, I thought I should lead a wretched life in the almshouse. A
silver groschen every day, free lodging, peat, and light, six groschen
every quarter for beer money, and a bit of land where everybody can
plant potatoes--that was hardly enough for a living. Dear me! A person
who hasn't much is soon satisfied, and there is apt to be something put
by for a rainy day. When the Canoness first came, though she had
nothing herself, yet she always found something to give away. See, she
gave me this woolen petticoat"--she pulled her dress up to her knees to
show it--"on her last birthday, and the shawl at Christmas. That's why
I wear it in her honor to-day, though it's certainly warm; but I want
to look respectable when I follow the body, for a woman like her won't
come again, and, as the hymn says:
'Alas, my Saviour, must Thou die,
That we the heirs of life may be?
Let not Thy woes, grief, agony,
On us be lost, but win to Thee.'"
She muttered to herself for a while, with her chin buried in her shawl,
and seemed to have entirely forgotten my presence.
"Mother," I began after a time, "you are always talking about a
Canoness. Is there a chapter-house in this neighborhood?"
The old dame slowly raised her head and scanned me with a
half-suspicious, half-pitying look.
"Why, what a question!" she said at last. "I suppose you don't belong
here, my dear sir; but you must live very far away, for everybody in
the neighborhood knows who the Canoness was, and that she died three
days ago and will be buried to-day. Have you never heard of
Spiegelberg, her husband, who is now standing before the throne of God?
She belonged to a noble family, and her cousin, the baron, when he
visited her, took me aside and said: 'I hope, Mother Schulzen, that you
don't let my cousin want for anything here.' Good Heavens! What we poor
old women could do to make her life easy--especially I! For she always
showed me the greatest kindness, and the teacher and I were with her in
her last hour. Yes! yes! If anybody had told me that such a poor,
useless body would close her eyes, and yet must creep about here on
earth a while longer, while she, who was still in her prime--But
perhaps you would like to see her? There is time enough. She is to be
buried at four, and the whole town will be present, and not a dry eye
in the throng, for nobody else in the whole place had gifts like hers;
and now they will see what we had in her, we old creatures especially,
for no one like her will come again--never again--never again--"
She shook her head mournfully as she spoke, but her weary, reddened
eyes were tearless, and, rising with some difficulty, she took up her
hymn-book, spectacles, and snuff-box, and, beckoning to me to follow,
hobbled through the entrance--the door stood ajar--into the long
corridor which divided the interior of the dwelling into two equal
parts.
It was pleasantly cool inside, only a strong smell of vinegar tainted
the air and enhanced the feeling of uneasiness with which I had
entered. It was uncanny to be conducted to the abode of death by this
old crone, incessantly mumbling her song of Destiny, while out-of-doors
the bright young summer was wandering over the fields. The bare hall,
too, from which opened more than a dozen whitewashed doors, had no
inviting aspect, especially as several dark figures, all dressed very
much like my guide, were crouching on little benches along the walls,
whispering together and casting distrustful glances at me. I afterward
learned that the almshouse had been erected for a pest-house centuries
before, when the Black Death was devastating the land, and afterward
remained a long time vacant and shunned, until it was at last converted
into a poor-house, and the chapel was rebuilt. But how had the Canoness
come under this humble roof?
Mother Schulzen had already opened the first door on the left, and I
entered a large room with two windows. In the center stood a piano, a
number of plain, rush-bottomed chairs were ranged along the walls, a
rack containing music-books stood on the table between the clean white
curtains. "She gave her singing-lessons here," the old dame said; "the
next room was her sleeping-chamber, where she died."
She opened the door of the adjoining room as gently as if she feared to
wake some sleeper, and let me stand on the threshold.
I saw a light, square chamber, through whose one window the sun was
shining. These walls, too, were merely whitewashed, but they were
adorned with a few engravings in dark wooden frames, and the simple but
tasteful furniture, a sofa with a bright calico cover, a book-case,
a chest of drawers, a bed with white curtains, the flowers on the
window-sill, would have made a cheerful impression, had not a coffin
stood on a low trestle in the middle of the room. Over the shining
boards was flung a large, gayly embroidered rug, whose artistically
wrought flowers and vines were almost entirely concealed by garlands of
natural blossoms. The dead woman was attired in a plain white shroud;
the head was toward the window; at the feet lay a large laurel wreath
tied with a broad white satin bow; the hands, which were large, but
very beautiful in shape, rested on the bosom, but were not clasped; the
head inclined a little to the right, so that I could see it perfectly
from the threshold.
There was nothing to inspire horror; a quiet, mysterious charm pervaded
the features, which, spite of the silvery hue of the smoothly brushed
hair, still wore a look of youth: it was the face of a beautiful woman
in her prime, who had lain down on her last couch in the full vigor of
life. I said to myself that to have known this sleeper, while living,
must have been no ordinary happiness, and those whom she had chosen for
her friends had been most fortunate. A feeling of regret stole over me
that I had never pressed that firm hand, nor heard a word from those
calmly closed lips, never seen the face brightened by a smile.
Who was she? How had this noble woman condescended to make one of the
number of the inmates of the almshouse, and who had laid the laurel
wreath at her feet?
My eyes quitted the pallid face a moment and wandered to the sunny
window. There I saw the mute figure, clad in black, still gazing
fixedly in. He did not even seem to see me, but stood motionless,
watching the lifeless form, of which only the head and the tips of the
feet were visible to him. I now distinctly saw large tears gush from
his dilated, motionless eyes, and course down his pale cheeks.
"Mother," I asked softly, "who is the man outside of the window?"
I had forgotten that her deafness would prevent her understanding me.
Just at that moment a clear little bell began to ring from the steeple
of the chapel. The old dame looked up.
"It is four o'clock," she said; "the services will begin. You can't
stay here any longer, sir; the pastor and the others will come
directly. But if you stand by the trellis outside you can see
everything. Oh, dear! Now the sad end is coming! But God's will be
done! Only, may it be my turn soon. Come, sir, there are the bearers."
Six men in long black coats entered, and I was obliged to leave the
room. In the corridor I met the pastor in his robes, and a tall,
broad-shouldered man, with a sorrowful face--the burgomaster, the old
dame whispered. Outside the house a large crowd of people had
assembled, who eyed me with surprise and curiosity. Most of them were
women in mourning-garments, but in their midst was a group of young
girls dressed in white, with large black bows, and black veils on their
heads. Each carried a garland of flowers on her arm, and the eyes of
all were full of tears. I perceived that, as a total stranger, I ought
to keep myself as much out of sight as possible, and hurried around the
house to a post by the garden-fence, whence I could overlook the chapel
and the cemetery.
The solitary man in the black coat had disappeared.
The bell continued to toll, the birds twittered in the linden boughs,
but spite of the surging throng the spot was otherwise so still that we
could distinctly hear the coffin-lid screwed on. A few minutes after,
the funeral procession began to move, headed by the pastor; then came
the bearers with the coffin, over which hung the gay rug covered with
garlands, close behind it the aged paupers, six in number, then the
young girls, two by two, carrying their wreaths, and behind them the
burgomaster and many stately men, evidently the dignitaries of the
little place. Last of all came the women and less important citizens,
in such a throng that the open space between the house and the
chapel was filled with the crowd. But scarcely had the pastor
entered the consecrated ground, when, from behind a dense clump of
elderberry-bushes on the edge of the cemetery, floated the notes of a
chant, a beautiful, simple melody, wholly unfamiliar to me, which
did not sound as if it came from a hymn-book. Clear, boyish voices,
well-trained, fresh, and pure, as children alone sing ere they have
learned to understand the solemnity of death and can not belie their
joyousness even in a dirge.
There were only three verses, then the clergyman began his address, of
which I could distinguish but a few words in my distant corner. But it
must have been very touching, for all present showed the deepest
emotion, and the suppressed sobbing was communicated to the farthest
ranks. I regretted that I had not ventured nearer, I so much desired to
know who this noble woman was, and why she had enjoyed such universal
reverence and love.
But I could only indistinctly see the pastor raise his hand to bless
first the open grave and then the mourning parish, the young girls
approach and throw their wreaths upon the coffin, and the whole
assembly press forward to scatter a handful of earth upon the flowers.
During this ceremony, which occupied some time, the boys' voices were
again raised, and this time I plainly heard the words:
"Like her in sweet repose,
All the sainted--"
and, as a sunbeam now pierced the elder-bushes, I saw the bared head of
the man at the window, who was standing among the young singers, slowly
and solemnly beating time with his hand.
The little bell had stopped ringing, the throng noiselessly dispersed
without the unfeeling buzz and murmur which usually rise at once when
people have merely dutifully paid the last honors to one who has
departed from their midst. I remained quietly in my place watching the
throng move off in the direction of the town, while the old dames,
coughing and panting, returned home. My intention was to approach the
lonely man, who I thought would be the last to quit the grave, and
modestly express my desire to learn some particulars of the dead woman.
But when I entered the cemetery and glanced toward the elder-bushes,
there was no trace of him.
It was now quite time for me to return to the hotel, where my carriage
must already be waiting. I consoled myself by the belief that the
postmaster would undoubtedly be fully informed about the Canoness. The
pale, still face, with the silvery halo around the head, in the
mysterious twilight, still hovered before me, and I quickened my pace
to obtain a solution of the mystery.
The path I took through the grain-fields, along whose edges grew small
cherry-trees, did not lead me back to the city-gate, but to a different
part of the wall, which I found entirely deserted. There was not a
single baby-carriage, nor a pedestrian resting on any of the benches.
Yet it was pleasant to saunter along in the shade, and I lapsed into a
comfortable, dreamy state, which is really the greatest advantage of
travel, because we shake off our daily dull routine of occupation, and,
in some strange manner, feel as if we had just dropped from the moon
and were strangers in this world, to whom the most trivial thing
appears new and wonderful.
Suddenly I stopped. Sitting on the next bench, in front of me, I saw
the man in the black coat whom I had just vainly sought. He was
evidently so much absorbed in his own thoughts that he did not hear me,
but sat gazing out over the open country and the waters of the lake, or
rather at the little chapel and the small portion of the almshouse
cemetery visible from this point. I could now obtain a near view of his
delicate, regular features, and was particularly struck by the
beautiful arch of the brow, and the character expressed in the nose,
which was by no means small. His hat lay on the bench at his side, and
his clasped hands rested on his knee.
He now perceived me, but remained perfectly motionless, as if he could
thereby render himself invisible and induce me to pass on.
But I was not disposed to let the favorable chance slip.
"Allow me to sit with you a moment, sir," I said. "I am passing through
here on a journey, and am somewhat fatigued by rambling about. I must
set out again in fifteen minutes, much as I regret not becoming more
familiar with the pretty town. A walk on the walls like this can not be
easily found, far or near."
He made no reply, merely bent his head slightly and took up his hat to
give me the other half of the bench. I sat down, and we remained silent
for a time.
"Pardon me," I said at last, "if I seem intrusive, and perhaps disturb
you in a mood in which one prefers to be entirely alone. But I was a
witness of the funeral that has just taken place, and, as the image of
the lifeless form I saw just before in the coffin has haunted me ever
since, and I fancied I read a remarkable destiny on the noble brow, you
can probably understand that I am reluctant to leave here without
learning some particulars of her fate. One of the old women in the
almshouse below gave me some information which, though very vague and
insufficient, only increased my interest. You seem to have been on more
intimate terms with this universally respected woman. If you would see
a better motive in my question than idle curiosity, I should be very
grateful to you for any details of her life you might be willing to
give."
I saw a faint flush mount into his face. He gazed steadily into vacancy
for a while, as if irresolute what to answer. Suddenly he seized his
hat, rose, and, bowing to me, said:
"Pardon me, sir--I have--my time will not permit--I wish you a pleasant
journey."
Then he turned and walked away with long, but not hurried steps, while
I remained on the bench in a mood of painful discomfiture.
At first I was uncertain whether I had done wrong, or merely applied to
the wrong person. But I soon distinctly perceived that the fault was
mine. This resident of the provinces, on whose deep grief I had
intruded with a bold question, as if he must consider it an honor to
afford a traveler information about anything worthy of note, even if it
concerned his most sacred private feelings, had given me a well-merited
lesson. How indelicate to put the question point-blank, without any
introduction, like a police-officer inspecting a passport, and, ere the
tears were fairly dry on his lashes, request from him an obituary of
the dead woman, such as a newspaper reporter would unfeelingly insert
in a daily journal. Perhaps, had I been more considerate of his
feelings, cautiously gained his confidence without revealing my
object--! But, as it was, I ought not to complain of having received a
refusal, whose manner showed that I had addressed a cultivated man.
At last, very much displeased with myself, I rose and tried to reach my
hotel by the shortest cut. Even the desire to question the postmaster
had deserted me. I would gladly have driven the Canoness--who was now
associated with a humiliating remembrance--entirely out of my mind,
and, in fact, at that time I was to learn nothing more about her. My
light carriage stood waiting in front of the house, but the landlord
had been suddenly called away on some business; so I remained no longer
than to drink a little wine and seltzer-water, for my tongue was
parched, and then urged the driver to hurry that I might reach my
destination before night.
Even at my friend's house I did not mention my experiences in St. ----.
As he had only lived in the neighborhood a short time, and was
completely engrossed by his immediate duties and occupations, he had
scarcely had an opportunity to become familiar with the local history
of the place. Only it chanced to be mentioned that the dismantled
coasting-steamer had belonged to a bankrupt firm and been taken by one
of the creditors, who had hoped to sell it again for the value of the
material. As it did not immediately find a purchaser, he had had the
worn-out invalid brought to the inland lake, where it was now enjoying
rest from its labors.
I spent a few refreshing days in my friend's pretty house, which
unfortunately was situated in a most prosaic neighborhood, and when I
returned to Berlin the memory of the hour in the cemetery had already
become considerably fainter.
But, like every reminder of our weaknesses and follies, it never wholly
vanished. So no one will marvel that I was most agreeably surprised
when, a year afterward, I received by mail a heavy parcel, accompanied
by the following lines:
MOST HONORED SIR: Unfortunately, I am not so happy as to be able to
present myself as a total stranger. For I must commence my letter by
apologizing for an offense committed more than a year ago, when I had
the honor of making your acquaintance, if this word can be applied to a
meeting in which both persons remained wholly unknown to each other.
True, I am ignorant whether you have retained any recollection of the
uncourteous person who had no other reply to a friendly question than
to quit you so abruptly. You are living in the current of the world,
which washes away so many trivial things, and effaces old impressions
with a thousand new ones. An inhabitant of the provinces, of my
temperament, has nothing to interrupt him in the unpleasant task of
thrusting still deeper into his flesh, in the endeavor to withdraw
them, the thorns implanted by a fleeting moment.
Directly after leaving you I had, it is true, no other unpleasant
feeling than that a total stranger had disturbed me amid the indulgence
of a fresh sorrow. But at the end of an hour, when I recalled your
words and tones, and the gestures accompanying them, I was seized with
shame for my boorish conduct. You had been present at the funeral, had
even gazed with deep interest at the face of the dead: what was more
natural than that you should marvel how that queenly head could rest on
the hard pillow of an almshouse coffin, though the mourning of a whole
city followed it? And how could you suspect that the man to whom you
applied for information suffered most keenly from the universal loss,
and at that hour had so bitter a taste of the earth-mold on his tongue
that he could not have uttered a word, had his own brother accosted
him?
When I clearly perceived this, and had partly regained my calmness, I
hurried to the hotel, firmly intending to apologize for my incivility
and tell you at least enough to have enabled you to understand my
sorrowful obduracy. You had already continued your journey. I only
found your name in the landlord's book, and doubly regretted my
unseemly conduct. I was familiar with some of your books, and said to
myself that you, of all men, could not have spoken from mere empty
curiosity, but from genuine interest in everything relating to human
nature, and you, if any one, would have been capable of feeling with me
that the death of such a woman is a loss to the whole world.
What had happened could not be altered, but, to somewhat alleviate the
discomfort of my regrets, I began the very next day to write down, for
my justification and penance, everything I had left unsaid, intending
to lay it before you and thereby obtain absolution for the sin of
silence I had formerly committed.
I meant to be very brief. But my heart took possession of my pen, and
the short narrative of this remarkable life has become a shapeless
"history in detail," whose swelling daily alarmed me, though I was
unable to confine the overflowing torrent of memories into a narrower
channel.
I have spent a whole year in writing, as I only found leisure for it
during a few evening hours, and often for weeks together could not find
courage to summon up the spirits of the departed. Will you have
patience to read to the end? Far more important persons and destinies
have passed before your notice, and you will more than once have
occasion to smile at the value attached to apparently trivial incidents
by a person whose horizon is so limited as that of my insignificant
self. Besides, I am a clumsy writer, and do not understand the literary
art of polishing even a pebble till in the sunlight it looks like a
costly gem.
Yet, even if you merely cast a pitying glance at these memoranda, I
think I can venture to promise that the principal character in this
true story will fix your interest and win from you the acknowledgment
that it was worth while to follow her unusual life-path with the care
of a truth-loving chronicler.
So I trustfully commit to you the clumsy manuscript, which I entreat
you to burn after you have read it. It owes its existence solely to my
purpose of paying my debt to you, and with sincere respect, I am