From 'The Massacre of the Innocents, and Other Tales by Belgian
Writers': copyrighted 1895, by Stone & Kimball
It was fair-time, yet Rika Let, the young dairymaid of _baes_
Verhulst, was sad. She had worked so hard all August that this
morning, before mass, the _baezine_ had given her a bright florin and
spoken kindly to her:--
"Rika, it is fair-time for every one. Enjoy yourself, my girl. Here is
something to buy yourself a neckerchief at the fair, a bright-colored
one with fringe to cross over your breast."...
Rika accepted her mistress's present. Alone in her garret above the
stable, she turned the shining coin over and over, but hesitated to
exchange it for some coveted trifle at Suske Derk's stall, down there
by the church. Great tears sprang to her eyes, eyes which were faintly
tinged with green. What sorrow filled the heart of this fair young
girl of eighteen summers?
"Ah," she sighed, "if only one of the village lads would take me to
the fair and give me a gay kerchief! But who cares for poor Rika? Our
lads woo other girls, better born and richer than I am! _Baezine_
Verhulst knew that, or she would not have given me money to buy a
thing which the poorest laborer, or even the humblest thresher, gives
gladly to his sweetheart to-day.... Who will dance this evening with
Rika Let at the Golden Swan?... No one.... No, _baezine_ Verhulst, it
is not a fete day for every one!"
Tears rested on her fair lashes as the morning dew clings to the
bearded ears of corn. Mechanically she looked at herself in a piece of
glass which hung beneath a little Notre-Dame of Montaigu. She was not
plainer than many of her companions who were admired by the ardent and
happy lovers. Ugly--Rika! No indeed. Fair as the August cornfields of
the Verhulsts were her tresses. Her lips were red and full as ripe
cherries. If you feel aught of the charm of the young peasant girls of
our country, you would admire Rika.
She dressed herself in her simple Sunday clothes; a little collar and
flat cap, both of dazzling whiteness; a skirt and bodice, unsoiled by
any speck of dust.
The bell sounded for mass.
Go and pray, Rika! Who can say? the good God mayhap will unseal the
eyes of the blind gallants of Viersel.
She told her beads so earnestly, that a friend had to remind her when
the service was at an end.
Outside the church a crowd of gay youths, with crossed arms and
flowers between their lips, watched the blushing procession of girls
who were to be their partners in the evening. Sympathetic glances were
exchanged, and with a smile or a simple movement of the head a meeting
was arranged, a promise confirmed, a consent given. Eager hearts
throbbed under the blue smocks, the many-colored kerchiefs; but no
glance sought to attract the bright eyes of the orphan girl, not one
of those young hearts beat in unison with hers.
To reach the farm, Rika had to pass through the fair. Suske Derk had
displayed her wares. Rika did not even deign to look at them. The
mercer called to her:--
"Ha! my pretty devotee! Won't you even wear a scapulary?"
At midday there was a great feast at the Verhulst farm in honor of the
fair. Masters, friends, and servants, all with big appetites, seated
themselves round a table laden with enormous dishes, brought in by the
farmer's wife and Rika. A savory smell filled the large room; the
steam dimmed the copper ornaments on the chimney-piece, the crucifix,
the candlesticks, the big plates, which were the pride of the cleanly
Rika. At first the guests, speechless, gravely and solemnly satisfied
their hunger. Then came the bumpers to wash down the viands, for mealy
Polder potatoes make one thirsty. As the tankards were re-filled,
tongues were loosed, and jokes piquant as the waters of the Scheldt
flew apace.
Rika in her turn sat down to the table, but the sorrow at her heart
robbed her of appetite, and she ate little. The lively guests,
distressed by her silence, attributed it to arrogance, and turned
their attention elsewhere. Later they would rejoin their buxom
wenches, and think no more of the poor little soul tormented with the
desire for love.
The more the day advanced, the less Rika thought of purchasing a fichu
at Suske Derk's stall; she would rather return the florin to her
mistress! Bugles and screeching fiddles could be heard from the Golden
Swan.
_Houpsa!_ rich and poor hasten to the dance, some in shoes, others in
sabots. _Lourelourela!_ The quadrilles form. The couples hail their
vis-a-vis across the room. All is ready. They set off....
Rika alone is absent from the ball. Seated on the threshold of the
barn, the sound of the brass and wind instruments, the patter of feet,
the laughter and oaths, reach her ear.
The low-roofed houses of the village fade slowly in the twilight. The
church steeple rises heavenward as the watchful finger of God; at its
base lies the Golden Swan; against the four red-curtained windows the
figures of the dancing couples are outlined black as imps.
Rika could not tear herself away from this scene. Her heart, till now
pure as the veil of a first communicant, was filled with bitter
thoughts.
Marvelous tales were told of Zanne Hokespokes. The little old woman
possessed some wonderful secrets; she could give rot to sheep, make
cows run dry, and poison nurses' milk. She could see the fate of those
who consulted her in cards and in coffee-grounds. She could recall the
fickle lover to the side of the deserted maiden. Perhaps she could
find a sweetheart for lonely Rika?
Unholy thoughts rose with the oppressive mists of the evening. They
grew in the solitude, in the remoteness from others' joy. The ungainly
couples danced up and down, black as imps, against the four red
windows. The music grated and jarred; but for the last hour the
village steeple, which rose heavenward as the watchful finger of God,
had been lost in the darkness.
Would it be well to take advantage of the absence of her master and
mistress and consult the fortune-teller? No one would meet her. All
the village was at the Golden Swan.
Holy Virgin! how they are enjoying themselves! Among the whirling
couples Rika saw two figures intertwined, their faces so close that
their lips must meet!
Yes, she would have recourse to the spells of the old woman
Hokespokes, whatever might happen. She had still the bright coin in
her pocket. This and the few coppers which she had saved would
suffice.
The sorceress lived in a clay hut deep in the dark woods of Zoersel.
The peasants avoided these woods and passed through them in broad
daylight only, making the sign of the cross. At nightfall weird
melancholy sounds, which seemed to come from another world, murmured
in the tree-tops. It took an hour to reach the cottage from Viersel.
Rika calculated that she could be home before midnight. Her master and
mistress would not return earlier than that. She overcame her last
fears, and set out bravely towards the lonely heath.
"In this bag, little one, are the ashes of the tooth of a corpse; the
tooth was picked up in the cemetery of Safftingen, the village that
was submerged by the Scheldt; therein is also a mushroom, called
'toadstool,' gathered at the foot of the tree on which Nol Bardaf the
cobbler was hanged. Next full moon, on a cloudless night, sprinkle the
magic powder at the foot of your bed, and prick the mushroom deeply
with a hairpin, uttering these words three times:--'I command thee,
charmed plant, to bring me the man who shall wound me as I wound
thee!' Then go to bed with the mushroom under your pillow, and wait in
perfect quiet without speaking. The beloved one will appear. Open your
eyes, but above all things neither speak nor move. You must even hold
your breath. If he leaves you, do not try to detain him. You will see
him again, and will then become his wife."
Thus spoke Zanne Hokespokes.
Rika followed the instructions of the sorceress. She waited several
days for the fine cloudless night, and when the full moon rose she did
as the witch had bidden her.
"I command thee, charmed thing, to bring me the man who shall wound me
as I wound thee!"
Once--twice--thrice.
Rika, with wide-open eyes and strained ear, lay in bed eagerly
awaiting the promised vision. Shadow became substance in the garret,
which was bathed in the silvery-blue beams of the moon. The silence
was so overwhelming that Rika thought she heard the sound of the white
light as it fell on the bare floor.
Now she regretted her traffic with a servant of the Devil, now she
rejoiced at the prospect of seeing _him_, the man who would love her;
but again she feared that he might not come.
The yard door swung on its hinges. A hasty, heavy step crossed the
court without disturbing the watch-dog. _He_ opened the kitchen door.
_Clope! Clope!_ rapidly he climbed the ladder which led to the attic.
Terror seized Rika; she stifled a cry, as the trap-door opened.
There he was in her room; a soldier, a young artilleryman. He passed
by her unnoticed in the white light of the moon.
Ah! Rika loves him at first sight; it is he for whom she has waited.
He has a round face, curly auburn hair, a well-cut mouth, a slightly
aquiline nose, with dilating nostrils, a square chin, and broad
shoulders. A fine mustache covers his upper lip. He wears a
brigadier's braids on his sleeve, and spurs on his heels. What mad
race has he been running? His broad chest rises and falls, he gasps
for breath, and throws himself down on the only stool. Rika longs to
rush to him, to wipe the sweat from his brow. As if overpowered, he
loosens his tunic, unclasps his belt, and exposes his fine chest.
Somewhat rested, oblivious of Rika, he scrutinizes his uniform from
head to foot, and notices that one of the buttonholes of his
boot-strap is torn. He takes off the strap, and with a knife which he
draws from his pocket makes a fresh hole in the leather. Then he
readjusts the strap to the trouser.
Rika observed all these movements. More and more she admired his
military bearing and the ease with which he moved. Animated by his
run, the soldier's face struck her as more expressive than the faces
of the other fellows of her acquaintance, even than the faces of the
scornful Odo and Freek, the Verhulsts' two sons, whom she had once
admired.
The stranger re-buttoned his coat, fastened his belt, put his cap on
his head, and left the room with the same quick firm step. She dared
not call to him and hold out her arms. The door closed.
The sound of his footsteps, the clank of his sword, were lost in the
distance. To Rika a memory only remained.
Has it not all been a dream, poor impressionable little thing?
No; a moment ago he sat quite near Rika's bed.
By the wan light of the moon she saw a sparkling object, the knife
which he had just used; here was her proof. She could no longer doubt.
She picked up the knife, pressed the still-open blade to her lips, and
as her breath dulled the steel, she wiped it, kissed it again; twenty
times she repeated the same childish trick.
Truly the good Zanne Hokespokes keeps her word. The pretty knife with
its tortoise-shell handle will henceforth be a pledge for Rika. Her
fingers lovingly caressed the blade, as if they stroked the mustache
of the brigadier; she would fain see her reflection in the dark eyes
of the beloved one, as she saw it in the shining metal.
Her eyes grew weary with gazing on the bright surface; she was
compelled to lie down. She slept and dreamt of her soldier visitor,
with the precious knife clasped to her breast.
Tarata! Tarata! Tarata!
"Wake up, Kors Davie! ... Perhaps you're sorry to leave the barracks!
Confound it! the fellow snores as if he did not care for his holiday!"
Brigadier Warner Cats, Davie's fellow-countryman and comrade, tired of
speaking, shook Kors roughly, as the bugle sounded the reveille. Kors
sat up, stretched himself, appeared astonished, and rubbed his eyes
with his fists.
"That's strange! Pouh! What a vile dream!" he muttered with a yawn.
"Comrade, just listen: I was out in the country, very much against my
will, I assure you.... A horrible old woman pursued me with repeated
blows. We crossed heath and swamp; my shoulder-belt and my sword
caught in the thickets; my skin was scratched with thorns.... I flew
over ditches three yards wide to escape from my persecutor. But the
wicked old woman galloped after me and belabored me incessantly....
I was too much of a coward to turn and face her.... Oh! that race by
starlight!... I almost hated our beloved Campine,... for all this
happened in La Bruyere.... But I'll be hanged if I know where!...
Oh! my legs, my poor legs.... You'll not believe, but I'm as
exhausted...."
"Pouh! Pouh!" interrupted the faithful Warner Cats.... "Dreams are
lies! so my grandmother used to say. You'll have forgotten all about
these phantoms by the time you're beyond the ramparts, on the way to
our beautiful Wildonck, these phantoms will all vanish.... Be done
with grumbling.... Hang nightmares, if only the awakening is sweet!"
Kors got up, packed his kit, folded his blankets, and cheered by the
thought of his holiday, hummed a soldier's tune.
As he felt in his pocket he stopped suddenly. "Good heavens! I could
have sworn that I put it in my waistcoat pocket."
"What? What's up now, you grumbling devil?" asked Warner.
"Dash it! Begga Leuven's penknife, ... my Begga.... The pretty knife
which she bought me for my fete day when I was last in Antwerp."
"Well?"
"I cannot find it!... There's a fine state of things.... What will
Begga say? I wanted to show her the little treasure still bright and
new. The dear soul will never forgive my carelessness."
"Nonsense! she'll give you another.... Besides, it is not lucky to
give knives; they cut the bonds of love!" Warner added gravely; "they
bring misfortune."
"In the mean time, the bother is that I've lost the knife. Damn it!"
He turned his pockets inside out in vain.
"Well, I suppose I must make the best of it," he said at last.
When he was ready, he shook hands with his comrade and took up his
bundle.
"Au revoir!" said Warner. "Remember me to all friends, and drink a
pint to my health next Sunday at Maus Walkiers. Don't forget to go and
see my old parents, and tell them that my purse is as flat as a
pancake. Remember me also to Stans the wheelwright."
"Good. Are these all my orders?"
Davie hastened into the street.
Having left the town by the Vieux-Dieu fort, he followed the treeless
military road on a hot July morning. When he came within sight of the
spire of Wommelghem, he turned off by the short cut which led to Ranst
and Broechem. Here the copses and brushwood protected him from the
intense heat of the sun. He walked sharply, cap in hand, the sweat
standing on his brow. Over his shoulder he carried his bundle, tied in
a red handkerchief and fastened to a stick which he had cut on the
way. He stopped for a drink of beer at the toll-houses and
cross-roads, chatted with the barmaids if they took his fancy, then
went happily on. Towards midday he had passed through or skirted four
villages, and was a mile only from the home where his father and Begga
awaited him. As he recalled the bright healthy face of his young
sweetheart, the remembrance of his bad dream and of the loss of the
knife came back to him. Confounded knife! Kors could not separate the
thought of Begga from the lost treasure, and by a strange
contradiction of human nature he was almost angry with the poor girl,
because she had bought him this pocket-knife which had now come
between them. This ungenerous conclusion more and more took possession
of him. So preoccupied was he that he forgot to look where he was
going. Suddenly he noticed that he had gone astray.
He was about to cross a bridge over the Campine canal, though this
bridge did not really lie in his route. Beyond it, trees lined the
road on either side for a great distance. Between the trunks could be
seen vast meadows, which stretched towards an immense purple heath,
bathed in soft mist. Four fine cows stood knee-deep in the
meadow-grass which fringed the banks of the canal; not far from the
cows a young girl with a branch in her hand sat on the slope guarding
them.