Stephen Fausch: stood once more at the anvil as at Waltheim, and his
workshop was even blacker and gloomier than the one in the woods. It
had a single blind window, but a huge door. The house was built of
great blocks of granite, with the workshop in the lower part, and the
superstructure projected far out over the workshop door, and was
supported on wooden pillars, so that a sort of large, covered portico
resulted. The sun never made its way into the dark room, but that did
not trouble Stephen Fausch. He would have been somewhat out of place in
a more cheerful workshop.
This large building was the oldest of the hospice buildings. Formerly
the monks had lived here and had for many years kept the travelers'
shelter in the mountain pass. The traffic over the long Alpine road was
now increasing from year to year. Simmen, the landlord of the hospice,
had been for the past ten years managing the new tavern, which stood
opposite to the old shelter, and he had at this time become a man of
substance.
Stephen Fausch, whose hammer was ringing through the stillness of a
cloudless morning, the second since his arrival at the hospice, was
just as he had always been. He was wearing his stiff, greasy leather
apron, a dirty shirt, and fresh coal dust had already settled in his
tangled curly hair.
"Lord!" laughed the stout landlord, Simmen, who was leaning against one
of the wooden pillars and looking into the workshop, "Hallheimer had no
eye for beauty, when he sent you to us."
"You must have forgotten to put it in the contract, that a man must be
handsome if he wants your blacksmith shop," said Fausch; but he laughed
too--an odd, contented laugh--and stepped outside to Simmen. In some
way the two men liked each other, perhaps because each one saw in the
other that he had been accustomed to hard work and that his life
depended upon it.
Simmen was in his speech, bearing and appearance a peasant like Fausch
but less rugged, and stouter, though strong and broad shouldered. He
had a fat red face, a grayish white beard, and was not as large as the
smith, though he was a well grown man, and had rather a large stomach,
and very large arms, but he was as quick at his work as a young and
slender man. The expression of his face was intelligent, and his manner
of speaking was loud and commanding; one saw at once that on the
mountain he was like a king whose word was the only law in his
dominion.
There began to be quite a commotion in the courtyard with its worn
stone pavement that lay between the two buildings. Muleteers and
travelers, who had spent the night at the hospice, were getting ready
to leave. A stable boy led two horses to the smith in his workshop; in
his short, selfsufficient way, Stephen took one by the halter and tied
him. He did not ask what work was to be done, but cast a look over both
animals and started to shoe the first. The stable boy was accustomed to
take hold and help, but Fausch did not seem to notice his well meant
offers, and managed the horse alone, every motion he made being
peculiarly quick and sure. Simmen and the stable boy exchanged glances,
and then laughed. "He knows his job," said the latter. Then he turned
to leave. But just then Cain came along toward the smithy bringing a
pail of milk from one of the little sheds which were scattered here and
there on the meadow land around the hospice. As Simmen saw the boy
coming toward the shop, he paused again and looked at him.
The morning was warm, for it was summer, and the sunlight was already
flooding the meadow from which the young man was approaching. He was
barefooted, like the Alpine peasants, indeed he had been used to run
barefooted as a child. His well worn trousers were turned up above his
ankles, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up nearly to his elbows. He
came forward with a light, swaying step, dressed only in shirt and
trousers. Everything about him seemed as fresh and free as the morning.
"Heavens and earth!" said Simmen.
Fausch did not pause in his work. Only once he looked quickly, almost
secretly at the lad who was approaching.
"That's a fine looking boy of yours, Fausch," Simmen went on.
The smith muttered something or other. As he kept on driving nails into
the horseshoe, no one would have suspected that his breath was coming
faster and that Simmen's praise had aroused in him a wild joy, that
seemed to be set free for the first time. Just so--with his heart
beating stormily--had he gone to see Maria, in the old days when they
had given their promise to each other.
Cain now reached the workshop, and said, as he passed, "Good morning!"
"Good morning!" answered Simmen, and turned to Fausch: "What is the
boy's name?"
The smith looked up with a sullen expression and was so slow in
answering, that it seemed as if he first had to recollect himself, and
then as if the words stuck in his throat: "The boy's name is Franz." At
this very moment his stubbornness almost got the upper hand of him, and
as Cain, who had carried the milk to the house, came quickly back,
Fausch's hands itched to take hold of him, and show him to the landlord
and say: "His name is Cain. I chose and I still choose that he should
bear that name." The inner conflict in Stephen Fausch was not yet
ended.
From the tavern, a voice now called to the landlord, just as Fausch was
finishing his work. Simmen started to go, but the girl who had called
him came out in front of the tavern, looked over toward him and then
walked toward the shop, as if she were curious; so then the landlord
beckoned her to come over to them.
"I want you to see my child, smith," said he, "the only one, and a
tardy blossom. It had seemed as if the house would always be empty." He
put his arm around the shoulders of the fifteen-year-old girl, who had
approached, and pushed her toward Fausch.
The stable boy was now leading the two horses away. Just then Cain came
to call Fausch to breakfast.
The girl gave her firm brown hand to the smith. "Good morning!" said
she.
"There is some one else too, Vincenza," said the landlord, and pointed
to Cain, and the child, without any timidity, laughed and gave her hand
to the boy also.
"His name is Franz," said her father.
"Good morning, Franz!" said Vincenza.
"You look like a negress beside the boy," laughed Simmen, and placed
the girl close beside Cain. Her deep black, curly hair was braided and
wound around her head, which reached to Cain's shoulder. She had a
brown complexion, brilliant black eyes and handsome features of the
Italian type. When she laughed at what her father said, her white teeth
flashed, and the whites of her eyes too, producing a curious and
striking effect between the brown skin and the black pupils.
"She is an Italian," said Simmen, "she looks like her mother."
It was curious how Cain's almost feminine and yet fair and strong
beauty came out by contrast with the other three people.
As the girl, Vincenza, immediately turned away with Simmen, she looked
back at the boy more than once; she had never seen any one like him.
Stephen Fausch was still busy in and around the workshop, and Cain
stood near by. His eyes were full of careless joy, and his chest
expanded. Once he began to sing. Then he reminded his father once more:
"Come now, the milk is waiting."
As they were about to enter the house, through the open door which was
near the workshop, the boy once more looked about over the distant
view. "It is beautiful here," said he. And Stephen Fausch did the same,
only he did not speak; his words were too costly. Then they went into
the house together.
From this morning on they began to feel at home without the least
difficulty. Fausch found plenty of work. At the hospice there was an
almost incessant coming and going of travelers on foot or in wagons,
traders and trains of pack horses or mules. Many of them needed the
smith's help for their animals or their wagons. By some strange chance,
no acquaintance came along the road for a great while. Even Hallheimer
did not come, and just as both Simmen and Fausch began to wonder at his
absence, the smith got a letter saying that the trader was confined to
the house by a severe illness, so that not only had he been unable to
make his usual trips to Italy, but the smithy at Waltheim was still
unsold, because he had been unable to attend to such business. But
because no familiar face reminded them of the old days at Waltheim, the
memory of what had driven them away from there faded imperceptibly from
Fausch's mind as well as from the boy's. Cain heard no more scornful
speeches or mysterious whispers. And so he quite outgrew the
bashfulness that had clung to him formerly; he went about freely,
holding up his head, and some song was always on his lips. But Fausch
too was probably passing the most peaceful days that had fallen to his
lot in all his life. He was rejoiced that there was no one here, who
knew about his boy's name and origin, though, indeed, he did not admit
this even to himself, but still stammered over Cain's new name, and
every time had, as it were, to drag it out by force. But more than all,
it was the wonderful beauty of the high mountain country, that made
them both feel that the change they had made was a happy one. "I always
wanted to see it once," said the taciturn smith. He and Cain loved to
go out in front of the house, or wander down through the meadows, or
sit on some rock, to marvel over the beauty in the midst of which they
lived. The wonder was ever new, in the early morning, before the dawn
glimmered in the east, in the brilliancy of noon, at sunset, when the
mountains and the heavens were all aflame, and in the night, when no
sound broke the silence and the sky was full of stars. At these times
they did not talk, but they drew great deep breaths, and felt such joy
merely in living, that the two unspoiled men were almost without a
wish.
All day long Cain helped his father in the shop; but when, at Simmen's
wish, the smith took an apprentice, Cain had more free time and could
help Katharine, who was no longer very strong, or else he was called on
by Simmen for all sorts of services. He was both skilful and quick, and
in dealing with people he had a ready, almost fine manner, for which
also Katharine deserved credit, for no matter how weak and tremulous
her hands had grown, she still kept control of the boy. The hospice
tavern, this summer, was surprisingly full of life. The guests came in
such numbers that often the four large, ground floor rooms could not
accommodate them all. Thus it often happened, and as his usefulness
came to be known, daily, that little Vincenza would come running to the
workshop: "Come, Franz, you must help us."
Then the boy would get rid of the dust of the shop, put on clean
clothes, and would soon be up at the tavern, and it did not take long
to teach him. He was soon able to move about among the tables and wait
on the guests just as the maids, the host and his wife and the slender
Vincenza did. It was a pleasure to see Franz and the others at work;
they seemed to turn everything off so easily. The landlord's wife was a
very tall woman, nearly a head taller than her husband; she was pale,
with clear-cut features, and black hair and eyebrows. She had a sharp,
decided manner, and if she went to manage matters in the room where the
servants and common people, tradesmen and apprentices were, where it
was often noisy and not always peaceful, she did not need any masculine
intervention, to maintain order among the turbulent folk. Simmen, in
spite of his rather unwieldy figure, was active and quick, and took
hold himself, when there was too much for the maids to do, and helped
to bring in the food and drink. But Vincenza and Cain moved swiftly and
easily among the guests who crowded the rooms, were now here, now
there, and their work and their pleasure in their work gave them rosy
cheeks and brightly flashing eyes. It soon appeared that in the special
dining room, where those of the upper classes sat, and where Simmen,
who had a keen eye for the rank of his guests, always brought the more
important travelers, these guests took especial pleasure in the two
young people, and gradually Simmen told them to devote their whole
attention to the service of this room. Many eyes were fixed upon them.
They received many friendly nods and kind words, and because they
enjoyed all this together, they quite unconsciously came to feel that
they belonged together, and this feeling was not confined to their work
in the guests' rooms. They began to stand talking together after their
work was done, then one day Vincenza ran over to see Katharine, with
whom she was growing quite friendly. A few days later Cain brought her
a book, that he had kept since his own school days. But when he saw
that she was but little accustomed to reading, and therefore could not
rightly enjoy what she read, he asked her to come with him that
evening, which was a Sunday, to the meadow behind the old monastery;
there he sat with her, leaning against one of the many blocks of stone,
and read to her. She was so delighted, that she would not let him stop
until he had read her story after story, and it grew so dark that he
could no longer make out the letters. Then the young girl, who was
usually impetuous and far from serious, looked very dreamy, and said,
drawing a long breath: "You read beautifully."
And that was true. Cain's voice had a deep, full tone, that was
excellent in reading as well as in singing.
Thus their friendship grew day by day, and this was scarcely
surprising, since they were the two youngest people on the mountain, in
fact the only young people.
When the summer gave way to autumn, there was less travel over the
mountain road, although it never ceased entirely, even in the deepest
winter, and there were many hours in which Cain and the young girl
could well be spared, or thought they could. They began to wander about
the mountains together. Vincenza acted as the guide, for she had
climbed about everywhere with the goatherds when she was a child, and
knew the way. Hand in hand, singing lightheartedly in the pure, early
morning they would climb some green slope, or clamber over rocks and
boulders to the snow near by, or they would wander to a dark valley not
far away, where a third lake lay quite inclosed by steep rocky walls,
and known to very few people in all the world. Simmen kept a boat on
this lake, a homely old thing with only one oar. When Vincenza brought
Cain over here one day, he was much excited and' thought that he had
never in his life seen anything so beautiful as this water and the
perfect stillness that brooded over it, and he would go to see it again
and again, whenever he had time enough. Vincenza always went with him.
One Sunday afternoon they both found their way to the lake once more.
It was Vincenza's sixteenth birthday.
At the north entrance to the mountain pass they turned off from the
main road into a little rough stony path, on one side of which was a
swift mountain stream, on the other a high rocky wall, and then the
path disappeared in the dark valley of this black lake, like a snake
creeping in among the stones. They soon reached the broad, unpainted
boat, whose rusty chain was passed around a rock on the bank. Cain
stepped in, took the oar and pushed the bow of the boat further up on
the bank, so that Vincenza could get in more easily. With a quick
spring she jumped in and sat down on the movable seat that was
laid across the boat. Cain stood in the stern and dipped his old
weather-beaten oar slowly and quietly. Imperceptibly they slid away
from the shore. The water was black, and as smooth and still as if no
breath of wind could find its way into the walled valley. The dark
walls of the bank descended abruptly to the lake, and only here and
there lay a gentler slope of the mountain, but even such spots were
desolate and strewn with rocky débris, and the valley had no outlet
excepting the way by which Cain and Vincenza had entered. The lake was
as dark and still as night, but now a bit of sky, as large and still as
the water, lay above it and lent the lake its beauty. It rested on the
dark and jagged mountains that dipped their feet in the water, and
every change of light and shade and color in the sky was mirrored in
the lake.
The late afternoon was clear, and beautiful in its deep stillness, as
it often is before bad weather comes on, when the storm is drawing a
deep, long breath and only the clouds are moving. The clouds mounted
silently and solemnly in the west above the black, rocky peaks, now a
heavy brown one, that trailed and twisted, and stretched out, till it
looked like a bridge reaching from one sky margin to the other, and
then rolled together again and fled away to the east just as it had
approached from the west--now a thin white one, that flew past like
smoke, and then a still more delicate one, that hung like a spider's
web in the blue, and suddenly vanished in the midst of the sky, as if
the depths had opened to draw it in.
Cain's boat sped over the water, and the play of the clouds in the sky,
was all around the boat on the lake.
"Look at the clouds," said Vincenza, pointing to the water.
When they had pushed off from the shore, clear sunshine had been
shining over the lake. Now it was quenched, and the shadows always made
the valley seem gloomy like night. But all at once the clouds that were
sailing over the sky began to glow. The white ones turned to fragments
of flying flame, and a mysterious light shone through the dark ones,
and bordered them with purple. And the steep and desolate banks and the
lake itself glowed with the rosy hue of the clouds. It was almost as if
an invisible torchlight procession were climbing upward over one of the
mountains or rocky wildernesses, and all the flickering torches cast
their light into the lonely valley as they moved onward and upward,
step by step.
"It was never so beautiful before," said Vincenza, speaking softly for
surprise and reverent joy. "You're on fire, Franz," she added with a
smile, that like her voice was almost reverent.
The glow poured over the boat and the two figures in it. Cain had laid
aside his workman's blouse and stood in his dark trousers and white
shirt. As he sculled, his figure bent forward and back with a great
pleasure in the motion, and something like timidity came over Vincenza
as she kept on looking at him, and she said hesitatingly: "You are--a
handsome fellow--Franz Fausch."
"Shall we sing something?" asked Cain.
Vincenza did not answer, but as he unconsciously began to sing, she
joined in with him.
They used often to sing together, when they were climbing some mountain
path, but always before their singing had been some gay melody to which
their steps kept time, and they had not paid much attention to what
they were singing: But now Cain started one song after another, and the
boundless silence that surrounded them, carried their voices back to
them, in a way that delighted them. At first they sang of their
fatherland, then one of the soft Italian songs that Vincenza knew and
had taught Cain, and then a home song of longing: "Why, oh why, my
heart, this sadness."
Cain sculled quite silently. His voice was like a bell, whose tone rose
from the water, and Vincenza's like a little bell, ringing on the
mountain, and they found each other, and it was as if they were
floating together over the silent lake, further and further, to lose
themselves among the rocky mounds beyond.
And so Cain and the young girl had almost reached the further bank
which was wholly lost and solitary. Cain drew in his oar and sat down.
"Let's stay here a while," said he, and they drifted contentedly and
talked of this and that, and looked down into the lake, and dipped
their hands into the ice-cold water and then looked up again at the
clouds. Because the motion of the clouds could be better seen from
Vincenza's seat, Cain got up and sat beside her in all simplicity. Then
they began to interpret the manifold forms of the clouds, and laughed
and made fun of each other, when one of them failed to see in the cloud
picture what the other seemed to see, and got quite excited when both
could plainly see the same thing. By and by a curious picture came
floating past, which was composed of two clouds, one narrow and light
colored and one smaller and darker, but both clinging together as if an
arm held them. They floated upward, now closer together, now almost
separating, so that it seemed as if the arm that joined them must be
rent in two, but yet it still held fast, and drew them, linked
together, far away across the sky. At first they did not know what to
make of this. Then Vincenza said: "That is you and I, Franz."
They laughed, and for the first time, they could not look at each
other, but gazed almost shyly into the distance. At the same time, each
felt the other's presence as something infinitely good and comforting.
Cain playfully stroked the girl's left hand, which lay on the seat,
with his right, and she permitted him and looked quietly down before
her. They might perhaps have sat so for a long while, if Vincenza had
not happened to look toward the entrance to the valley, where something
suddenly caught her attention. She looked more carefully. "Isn't
that--? Your father is over there, Franz," said she to her companion.
He stood up and recognized Fausch, who was standing close to the shore
and looking over toward them. He was not beckoning to them, but yet he
looked as if he were waiting for them.
"We must go home," said Cain, and seized the oar. But even now they did
not go fast. The darkness that swept down suddenly over the Schwarzsee
deepened around them. The ruddy glow was quenched. The lake lay like
polished black glass, and the rocky banks seemed to grow higher.
Stephen Fausch still stood and waited. In the uncertain light his
figure seemed to have grown bigger, like the rocks. As the young people
approached the bank, he gave them no greeting, but turned away, with
his hands in his pockets, and grumbled, as they bid him Good evening:
"Where have you been all this time, you two?"
He had on his black, Sunday clothes; but his face had not a Sunday
expression. His brow had an angry look.
They stepped out quietly onto the bank, looked at the smith, to see
if he was coming with them, then all three started on the homeward
road. The night had almost descended upon them before they reached the
hospice. During the whole walk they hardly spoke ten words; only Fausch
grumbled once, turning to the side where Cain was walking: "Pretty
soon we shall not see you all day long."
Vincenza was inwardly angry. What a bull-headed, unfriendly man he was,
the smith!
Cain did not know what to make of his father. Was he displeased with
something? What could have come over him? He did not know that Stephen
Fausch was always looking for him when he was not by. He could not know
that the man was hungering for him, perhaps without knowing it himself,
and that his restlessness and that strange wild hunger, that his
shut-in nature hid under a rough, ill-tempered manner, had today driven
him to follow them to the lake.