When a brother of the Order went out on a mission he received a pair of
new shoes made out of one piece of goat-skin, and a willow-staff
sprinkled with holy water. The Abbot gave him his blessing and the
brethren said the prayer "_cum fratribus nostris absentibus_" for him.
For his sustentation and comfort he carried on his back a scrip with
some bread in it, and a wooden flagon of wine. Thus cared for, body and
soul, the wanderer could set forth cheerfully on his way. Not so
brother Donatus.
He was indeed provided with bread and wine, with willow-staff and
shoes, with blessings and with prayers; but that was lacking to him
which the traveller chiefly needs--he had not eyes. With a hesitating
step, sick and fever-stricken, he crossed the threshold of the
convent for the first time in his life, excepting that short wild
night-excursion. He was dazed with the thought that he must thus wander
on from night to night, ever onwards without support, without any power
of measuring far from near, without any dividing of the infinite
darkness. Would his next step even fall on the firm earth; might he not
lose his footing in space or fall over some obstacle? Would he not run
up against something, find himself unexpectedly in front of a wall or
be caught in the thick brushwood that he heard rustling round him and
that often touched him as he passed? And he stopped again and again in
involuntary terror before this or that imaginary danger. Nor could he
put full confidence in his guide, for brother Porphyrius had no idea of
what blindness was and led him on his way so heedlessly that the poor
youth often stumbled and fell.
It was indeed a weary journey; sweat stood on his brow, his temples
throbbed and many a blood-streaked tear fell from the unhealed wounds
of his eyes. But he was patient; he thought of the procession to
Golgatha and when his foot stumbled--was he not treading in the
Redeemer's foot-steps! A number of young trees were lying about felled
by the recent whirlwind and his guide dragged him across them, suddenly
he picked one up in his strong arms and laid it across his shoulder.
"What are you doing with that tree?" asked his companion.
"I bear it instead of a cross, as Simon of Cyrene bore the cross after
the Saviour."
"That is not right," said his guide. "You must not overburthen
yourself, lest your strength should fail you before you have fulfilled
your task. And this is not the Saviour's cross and it will profit you
little to bear a mere profane log of wood."
"Oh, shortsighted man!" cried Donatus, with a glow in his cheeks. "If
the bread which we ourselves have baked can be turned into the Lord's
body, may not a tree be turned into the Lord's cross if it be borne in
the name of the Lord? Truly I say unto you who doubt of such miracles,
that you know not the power of faith."
"But how can it avail the Redeemer when you do such things to serve
him; he is enthroned on the right hand of God and no longer bears his
cross."
"But he still bears the burthen of the cross, and heavy enough it is; a
burthen that each one of us must strive to lighten: the burthen of our
sins that He took upon Himself in the sight of His Father, and that
every act of true penance serves to diminish. Do you believe that He
who died for us threw from Him at His death all that he had suffered
and bled for, and that He now for ever rejoices in celestial bliss, and
says, 'Let them do as they will, I have done my part. If they will not
follow they may be damned, what do I care?' Do you think He would be
indeed Christ if He thought this? I tell you that when He sees that He
has died in vain, and that His holy teaching has no power over our
sinful natures, He mourns over us, and His loving heart is oppressed
with woe. And when one bears his cross in His name that he may follow
Him into the kingdom of Heaven, he serves Him as Simon of Cyrene did."
"Donatus, you are indeed a Saint," cried the monk. "We truly are the
blind and you it is that see."
And they went on, each lost in his own thoughts.
A light step seemed to be following them, close to them but yet
invisible; Porphyrius looked round several times, but he could see
nothing in the thick bush of the upland forest. It was not like a human
foot-fall, but could not be the fleeting step of some forest animal,
for it kept up evenly with theirs, now near and now distant; a
devotional shudder ran over brother Porphyrius: it must certainly be an
angel sent by the Lord to be an invisible support to the penitent, to
help him to bear his burthen; and he dared to look round no more, lest
he should drop down dead if he caught a glimpse of that Heavenly face.
Thus they proceeded for about an hour through the damp wood; the
dripping boughs flung a cooling dew on the penitent's head, the wet
brambles brushed against his robe, and his parched lips inhaled the
reviving freshness. But the consuming fever which was burning in the
two seats of pain which he himself had made, seemed to dry up every
kindly drop of dew like a red hot iron; at every pulse his arteries
drove the blood more furiously to his temples, his breath grew shorter
and shorter, his steps slower and slower, his tall figure was bent and
panting under his heavy load. When at last they reached the hem of the
forest, and stepped out on to the high road, he began to totter and
fail.
"I can go no farther," he gasped, and fell to the ground under his
burthen.
"I knew it would be so!" cried the monk, looking helplessly round for
some succour.
Far and wide there was no living creature to be seen. By the wayside
stood an old picture of a saint under a weather-beaten shrine,
overgrown with wild roses; the storm had half overthrown it, and no one
had set it up again; not a soul could have passed that way. A few birds
were perched on the roof bickering over their food. It was in vain that
brother Porphyrius listened for the steps that had accompanied them
through the wood, they had ceased since the monks had come out of it.
The protecting angel appeared to have forsaken Donatus, and that was
why his strength had failed. Porphyrius relieved him of his burden, and
laid him in the scanty shade of the shrine, for the sun had risen
again, and pierced very sensibly through the mists which rose from the
deserted and flooded road; it could no longer dazzle the eyeless man,
but it scorched his shaven head which he grasped in his hands with
faint groans. There was no spring in sight whence to fetch water for
the unhappy man. Should he go back to the wood? Could he leave the
blind man alone for so long?
"Is there no one near," he shouted to the empty distance. "Hi, hallo,
help!--help." Then again he listened to the silence, holding his hand
over his eyes.
Something moved at the edge of the wood, a young girl came out of it.
In one hand she held a rush basket, and in the other a hazel-rod; on
her shoulders she carried a small bundle and a round wooden water-jar,
such as pilgrims used. Her hair shone in the sun like flaming gold, her
little bare feet showed below her short petticoat like white flowers.
Her gait was as light, and she ran forward as quickly as if she were
moved by some mysterious power. That must be the light step that has
accompanied them so far.
Brother Porphyrius stared fixedly at the marvel as it came forth from
the dim shade of the wood, so brilliant and yet so modest, simple, and
maidenly--half a child and half a maiden--so sweet and yet so grave.
Had the blind man's guardian angel indeed assumed a human form, so as
not to reveal itself in all its glory to the unworthy eyes of the
brother who could see?
Before he had time to think of all this, the little girl was by his
side.
"Did he fall down, has he hurt himself?" she asked, and her large
golden-brown eyes were filled with tears of unutterable anxiety;
brother Porphyrius did not answer, he gazed at her, speechless; she did
not wait for the answer, but knelt down by the sick man. "My angel,"
she said softly, "my lord and my angel, do not die and leave me." And
she gently raised his head, and poured water on his brow from her
flask; Donatus began to breathe again, and raising himself he asked,
"Who is that?"
"A child that has been following us," said Porphyrius. "She does not
belong to our neighbourhood. I never saw her before."
"I thank you, my child," said Donatus. "You refresh the weary; blessed
are the merciful."
"Let me wet your handkerchief, to cool you," said the girl, carefully
taking the bandage from his eyes. He instinctively covered the wounds
with his hand, but she did not heed it, for she was wholly absorbed in
her helpful zeal. She wetted the linen with the water in her bottle.
"It is all bloody," she said. "Have you hurt yourself?"
"Yes," he replied hardly audibly. She folded it into a square pad and
laid it on his head; but he still kept his eyes covered that the child
might not be frightened.
"That will do you good," said she, and then she took some of her
wood-strawberries and put them into his mouth. "There, eat them; I
picked them for you, and you--the other one, have some too--but the
best are for Donatus."
"Do you know me then?" asked Donatus in surprise.
"Certainly I know you. You are the angel I saw that day."
"Are you in your right senses, child? When was I ever an angel?"
"Yes--don't you remember--that day when they made you a priest?"
"Oh! I never was farther from being an angel than in that hour,"
murmured Donatus, and he let his hand fall from his face.
"But you had wings then; why have you lost them?" continued the girl.
"Child, you are dreaming, I never had wings."
"I thought I saw you with wings. But there is something different in
you now--" she studied him attentively; suddenly she started up,
"Oh--now I know--you have not got any eyes?"
Donatus clasped his hands over his face; the child stood by pale and
trembling, and tear after tear forced its way through her long lashes
and fell on her little clasped hands. "Poor, poor man!" she sighed from
the depths of her child's heart. Brother Porphyrius had to turn away
his head, he was so deeply moved.
Donatus started up. "Let us go on," he said hastily.
"I will go with you," said the little girl.
"Why, where are you going?" asked Porphyrius.
"Wherever you go."
"Do you know then whither we are going?" asked Donatus.
"No."
"Then how can you know that our roads are the same?"
"Your road is my road, where you are I will be--and when you stop I
will stop."
"Ruth!" exclaimed Porphyrius involuntarily.
"Child, what has come over you!" said Donatus. "What do you want with
me?"
"Nothing," said the child, for in truth she herself did not know.
"But you cannot wander about the world alone in this fashion," said
Donatus.
"Alone! I shall be with you," answered the girl.
"But think, what will your mother say?"
The child's eyes filled with tears. "My mother is dead," said she.
"And your father?"
"He is dead too."
"Then you are an orphan?"
"Yes."
"That makes a good pair, an orphan and a blind man. Where is your
home?"
"Nowhere."
"You must have been born somewhere."
"I do not know."
"But how came you here, what were you seeking in this neighbourhood?"
"I was looking for you."
"Leave her alone," Porphyrius whispered in Donatus' ear. "Do you not
perceive that she is no mortal being?"
Donatus drew back a step. "What do you mean?"
"It is a spirit that has taken a maiden's form--your guardian spirit
sent to you by God--believe me. Do not press her any more with
questions or you will drive her away."
Donatus pondered on the marvel for a while, "Suppose it were a demon?"
he said.
"You say that only because you are blind; if you could see you could
not doubt," Porphyrius persisted. But Donatus made the sign of the
cross over her and drew his missal from his breast.
"If thou art born of woman or sent by God, kiss this book; but if thou
art come from the nethermost pit to lead us astray, depart--in the name
of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost," and he held up
the open book before her to exorcise her. She seized his hand and drew
it towards her with the book to kiss it. It was still warm from the
fevered heart on which it had been lying, and she pressed her lips to
it long and fervently. It seemed to Donatus that the book was part of
his very self, and he felt the kiss as she impressed it on the book.
"She is pure," he said, and concealed the breviary again in his bosom.
"If then you will accompany me, come on. I will ask you no more
questions. If you will tell me whence you come, do so unquestioned."
The girl was silent, she knew not what to say; she took up the sick
man's scrip and slung it over her shoulder with her own.
"What are you doing?" asked Donatus, feeling himself suddenly relieved
of the weight.
"I will carry it for you."
"Nay indeed you shall not; you are yourself but a tender child."
"Yes, let me, let me, I will do it willingly, it is for you," said the
child and they set forward. But Donatus still paused for a moment. "The
log that I was carrying for a cross, can I leave that?"
"Yes, let it lie, you have cross enough in your blindness."
"Do you hear?" Porphyrius said in a low awe-stricken tone. "It is God
that speaks by her."
"Then break off a twig from it and give it me that I may keep it, it
will bring me a blessing."
The little girl ran back and broke off a twig which she brought to him.
"If you will only wait a few minutes longer I will make you a wreath of
leaves from the little tree so that the sun may not burn your head."
The two men were quite content to do everything the child wished, was
not her will God's will? And with nimble fingers that moved as if by
magic, the little one twined a broad wreath to give a cool shade to the
wounded man's burning head; then they went on again.
"Let me lead you, I shall do it better," said the child, and she took
the blind man's hand from that of the other monk. This too they agreed
to, and Donatus felt as if the child's touch infused new strength into
him.
"There is a blessing in your hand, it leads me softly," he said
gratefully.
The little girl was silent, only her eyes told of unutterable happiness
as she looked speechlessly up at him. And on went the three, now over
slippery morasses, now over green hills and fields, and after taking
the little girl's hand the blind man's foot stumbled no more, and the
thorns no longer tore him; she carefully cleared every stone out of his
path; where it was uneven she warned him by word or sign and guided his
steps slowly and cautiously. No mother could guide her child, no sister
tend her infant brother, no angel lead a soul to Heaven, as she watched
over the blind man in his helplessness. The girl's pure breath fanned
him like forest-airs when her bosom rose and fell quickly from some
steep ascent or the fatigue of guiding him. He neither saw nor heard
her; for her little bare feet went on by his side as softly as those of
a fairy, he only felt her. He felt as if an angel of pity was walking
by his side to cool his deadly pain with the waving of tender wings.
They spoke no word and yet they understood each other as spirits do
without any earthly speech. What they could say to each other was but
little and very simple, but what they told in that dumb discourse was
higher than human wit and worldly wisdom and echoed in their soul like
angelic hymns.
It was by this time noon; the sun brooded hotly on the gorgeous
landscape. The wanderers took their first rest outside the village of
Glurns in the shade of the churchyard wall and eat their meagre meal,
while far and near the solemn noontide peal was rung. The glaciers
looked down kind and radiant from above the high cliffs of micaceous
schist, which, turning here towards the south-east, form the opening of
the gorge of the Münster-thal. Far and wide, spread a picture of
blooming life and sturdy strength; villages and towns lay scattered all
round while, veiled in the misty noon-tide blue, the haughty walls of
the fortresses of Reichenberg and Rotund stared down from their rocky
eminence like border watchers over the Münsterthal overlooking the
smiling plain.
Porphyrius looked across at them with grave consideration. "I would we
were only safely past Reichenberg," he exclaimed. "They can overlook
the whole valley from thence and it seems to me that it is dangerous to
take the road by day; our dress will betray us and we might be carried
prisoners to the castle."
"Does any danger threaten you from thence?" asked the girl.
"Yes," said Porphyrius anxiously.
"Then let us rest in the wood till nightfall," the little one
counselled, "and take the road at dusk."
"That will not do, we might lose our way in the dark," said Porphyrius.
"Not if I lead you; oh no! I am used to find my way in the dark," and a
shadow of deep pain passed across her face as she spoke. Porphyrius
looked at her much disappointed. "Do you not come from higher realms
than we do?"
"Oh God knows!" sighed the child, folding her little hands across her
bosom. "My foot has carried me as a fugitive about the world all the
days of my life, and my eyes shun the light like a nightbird's, for the
sun has rarely shone on me. I have hidden myself by day in the darkness
of the wood and walked about at night."
"God preserve us!" cried Porphyrius, signing himself with a cross.
"That is a hard lot," said Donatus.
"Oh, it was well that it should be so, for thus I am able to guide you
wherever you must go in the dark."
"But, you poor child, you were not born merely to be my guide," said
Donatus compassionately.
"What for then?" asked the child.
"That I do not know," replied Donatus. "But you must have some purpose
and some end. What will become of you when our journey is ended and we
must part?"
"Oh! no," said the child, "we shall never part."
"Child, you are talking foolishly, we must part, I shall return in two
days to the convent, and unless you have the art of making yourself
invisible, you cannot follow me there."
"Then I shall go to the blessed maidens up on the heath and ask them to
set you free--or I will ask them to let me find the blind worm that
makes folks invisible. Then I will go into the convent and stay with
you."
"What folly are you talking, child, in the name of all the Saints! The
blessed maidens and the blind worm! who put them into your head?"
"Did you never hear of the blessed maidens?"
"No--of such blessed maidens as those--certainly not."
"Don't you know that--not even that? Oh, the folks that brought you up
can have very little sense if they did not tell you that. Up there on
the heath--going towards Nauders--there is a cave which is called the
way to the blessed--that is the entrance to their country. You must
have a wishing-rod made of a white hazel stick which has grown where
cross ways meet and that was cut with a pure heart at the new-moon;
then the door will fly open. Take hold--here is one," and she gave him
the hazel wand she held in her hand that he might feel it; but he fell
into a fit of righteous rage and broke the rod into pieces and flung it
away.
"Oh, folly, folly! Woe to you if you carry on such night-magic and
witches arts--we can never go on together, for these are not the ways
that lead to the Light."
The girl had cried out with alarm when she saw him break the hazel-rod
that she had been searching for all her life and had never found till
the last new-moon; with that wand all she had ever hoped for had fallen
into ruins--all the splendour of the kingdom of the blessed that it was
to have opened to her--the help of the beneficent phantoms--all, all
was gone. But worse even than the loss of her joys was her "Angel's"
wrath and the words he had spoken; their ways could never lie together.
The child threw herself at his feet crushed with despair, and wept
bitterly. "Forgive me--I only meant to do it that they might release
you from the convent and so I might always stay with you. Only tell me
what I am to do so that you may never be angry with me again. I will do
anything in the world that you tell me. If you wish that I should
hunger and fast, I will do it, and if you wish that I should die, I
will die--only be kind to me again, I beseech you."
The blind man laid his hand lovingly on the child's innocent head, and
a strange emotion came over him as he felt her trembling beneath his
touch. "Do not tremble, young soul! You have had pity on me and I will
have pity on you. I will save you from the ways of error and darkness;
I will show you a path to the blessed--but to the truly blessed. It
opens not to wishing rods nor spring-herbs--only by penance and prayer
may it be found."
"Aye, my lord, teach me to act according to your will, as I guide your
blindness do you guide me where you see while I am blind."
"Amen!" said Donatus, and he felt as though the tears which he could no
longer shed fell back like heavenly dew on the drought of his lonely
heart. God had sent him this soul to be saved by him for Heaven. For
the first time in his life he had found something he could call his
own, and he felt that she was wholly his, absolutely given up to him,
and that her salvation was in his hand. Thus must a father feel when a
child is born to him.
He clasped the girl's head as if he wished to grasp this new-born joy,
and said only one word; "My child!" but in a tone like the soft
melodious ripple of the newly melted snow as it trickles down from the
cliff under the beams of the first spring-sunshine; and the girl bowed
under the touch of her "Angel's" hand, speechless and motionless, as
though she feared to disturb the miracle even by drawing breath.
The soft breath of noon bore the perfume of lilies and roses from the
graves in the churchyard, and the little screech-owl[3] shouted from
the wood his cry of "Come here, come here." The girl listened to the
call knowing what it betokened, but she only smiled at it; for her life
had but just begun--a life in which there is no death. And as soon as
Donatus released her she sprang up, and her shout of joy went up to
Heaven like the song of the lark, and she ran through the little
gate in the wall into the church-yard and flung herself down by the
first grave to pray in front of its wooden cross. But she could not
pray--could not think; she flung her arms round the cross and pressed
her cheek against it as against her mother's breast. Brother Porphyrius
meanwhile, sitting under the wall, shook his head.
"We have been deceived in her, Donatus, she is not a spirit, but a
child of man like us, and God only knows whence she came, for her paths
lie through the darkness as she herself told us--"
"But I shall lead her to the Light!" interrupted Donatus.
"Be not presumptuous--to me there is something uncanny about her since
I have learnt that she is of this world; she is too fair for an earthly
maiden and I am uneasy about you." Donatus smiled in melancholy but
proud calmness as in the morning.
"What is there to fear?" he said. "Am I not blind!"