As Kuni's troubled soul had derived so much benefit from the short
pilgrimage to Altotting, she hoped to obtain far more from a visit to
Santiago di Compostella, famed throughout Christendom.
True, her old master, Loni, whom she had met at Regensburg, permitted
her to join his band, but when she perceived that he was far less
prosperous than before, and that she could not be useful to him in any
way, she left him at Cologne because a kindhearted captain offered to
take her to Vlissingen without pay. Thence she really did set out upon
the pilgrimage to Santiago di Compostella; but St. James, the patron
saint of the Spaniards, whose untiring mercy so many praised, did
not prove specially favourable to her. The voyage to Compostella,
the principal place where he was reverenced, which annually attracted
thousands of pilgrims, cost her her last penny, and the cold nights
which she was obliged to spend on deck increased her cough until it
became almost unendurably violent.
In Santiago di Compostella both her means and her strength were
exhausted. After vainly expecting for a long time some token of the
saint's helpful kindness, only two courses were left: either she must
remain in Compostella and join the beggars in the crowded road to the
place of pilgrimage, or she must accept the proposal made by tongueless
Cyriax and go back with him to Germany. At first she had been afraid of
the brutal fellow, who feigned insanity and was led about by his
wife with a chain; but once, when red-haired Gitta was seized by the
Inquisition, and spent two days and two nights in jail, and Kuni nursed
her child in her place, she had found him more friendly. Besides, in
Compostella, the swearer had been in his most cheerful mood. Every
day had filled his purse, because there was no lack of people and he
understood how to extort money by the terror which horrible outbreaks of
his feigned malady inspired among the densely crowded pilgrims. His wife
possessed a remedy which would instantly calm his ravings, but it was
expensive, and she had not the money to buy it. Not only in Compostella,
but also on the long journey from Bavaria through the Swiss mountains,
France, Navarre, and the whole of northern Spain, there were always
kind-hearted or timid people from whom the money for the "dear
prescription" could be obtained.
A cart drawn by a donkey conveyed the child of this worthy couple. When
Kuni met her at Compostella she was a sickly little girl about two years
old, with an unnaturally large head and thin, withered legs, who seemed
to be mute because she used her mouth only to eat and to make a movement
of the lips which sounded like "Baba." This sound, Cyriax explained, was
a call that meant "papa." That was the name aristocratic children gave
their fathers, and it meant him alone, because the little girl resembled
him and loved him better than she did any one else. He really believed
this, and the stammering of the fragile child's livid lips won the rough
fellow's tender love.
The man who, when drunk, beat his wife till the blood came, and
committed plenty of cruel deeds, trembled, wept, and could even pray
with fervent piety, when--which often happened--the frail little
creature, shaken by convulsions, seemed at the point of death. He had
undertaken the long journey to the "world's end," not only because the
pilgrimage to Compostella promised large profits, but also to urge St.
James to cure his child. For his "sweet little Juli's" sake, and to
obtain for her a cheap nurse who would be entirely dependent upon him,
he burdened himself with the lame ropedancer. But he had no reason to
repent this; Gitta had enough to do to lead him by the chain and answer
the questions of the people, while Kuni nursed her charge with rare
fidelity, mended the clothing of the father, mother, and child, as well
or as badly as she could, and also helped Gitta with the cooking. The
sickly, obstinate little girl certainly did not deserve the name of
a "sweet" child, yet Kuni devoted herself to it with warm, almost
passionate affection.
The vagabond couple did not fail to notice this, and, on the whole, it
pleased them. If Cyriax was vexed when little Juli began to show plainly
enough that she preferred her nurse even to him, he submitted because
the lame girl watched the child through severe attacks of convulsions
and fever as if it were her own, and willingly sacrificed her night's
rest for its sake. True, he often talked loudly enough in Kuni's
presence of the witch potion which the lame girl mixed in the porridge
of his child, who loved him better than anything in the world, to
estrange it from him and win it to herself.
Kuni paid little heed to these offensive words; she knew that she had
gained the child's love by very different means from the "black art."
With far more reason, she dimly felt, the sick child might have been
reproached for exerting a secret spell upon her. Her name, "Julie,"
which she owed to her patron saint, Kuni supposed was the same as
"Juliane." Besides, the daughter of the vagabond with the mutilated
tongue was born a few days after the death of little Fraulein Peutinger,
and this circumstance, when Kuni knew it, seemed significant. Soon after
meeting the vagrant pair she had listened to a conversation between two
travelling scholars, and learned some strange things. One believed that
the old sages were right when they taught that the soul of a dead person
continued its existence in other living creatures; for instance, the
great Pythagoras had known positively, and proved that his own had
dwelt, in former ages, in the breast of the hero Palamedes.
The ropedancer remembered this statement, questioned other Bacchantes
about these things, and heard the doctrine of the transmigration of
the soul confirmed. Hence, during many a solitary ride, while the cart
rolled slowly along, she pondered over the thought that Juliane's soul
had lived again in foolish Julie. How? Why? She did not rack her brains
on those points. What had been a fancy, slowly became a fixed belief in
the mind thus constantly dwelling upon one idea. At last she imagined
that whatever she did for Cyriax's child benefited the soul of the
little Augsburg girl, whose life had been shortened by her wicked prayer
on the rope.
Yet she had not bought the indulgence in vain. But for that, she
believed that Juliane's soul would still be burning in the flames of
purgatory. The indulgence of the "Inquisitor" Tetzel had proved its
power, and rescued her from the fire. To demonstrate this fact she
devised many a proof. For instance, one day the idea entered her mind
that foolish Juli's brain was so weak because Juliane, during her brief
existence, had used more of hers than was fair.
At first this had been a mere fancy; but, true to her nature, she
reverted to it again and again, while in the cart which she alone shared
with the child, until it had matured to an immovable conviction.
During her changeful, wandering life, she had had no fixed religious
principles. But, since the notion had entered her mind that Lienhard
would reward her for her love by giving her a share, even though a very
small one, of his heart, she had clung tenaciously to it, in spite of
all rebuffs and the offensive indifference with which he had treated
her. On her sick bed and during her convalescence, she had dwelt upon
the fear that her sinful prayer had killed the little wearer of the
laurel wreath, until she could say to herself that events had proved it.
With the same firmness she now held to the belief that she had found the
right idea concerning little Juli's soul.
With the passionate desire to atone to the patrician's daughter for the
wrong which she had inflicted upon her, she clasped the vagabond's
child to her heart with the love of the most faithful mother, and her
affectionate care seemed to benefit herself as well as the ailing little
one. Juli was as devoted to her Kuni as a faithful dog. The kindness
which the lame ropedancer showed to the fragile child was lavishly
returned to her by a thousand proofs of the warmest attachment.
So Kuni had found one heart which kept its whole treasure of love for
her alone, one creature who could not do without her, one fragile human
plant to which she could be useful and helpful day and night.
Under the care of a faithful nurse little Juli gradually grew stronger,
both physically and mentally. The little girl's wan cheeks began to be
rosy, the convulsions and fever attacked her less frequently. Besides
the faint "Baba," she learned to babble "Duni," (instead of Kuni) and
afterward "Mother," and many other words. At last she talked nearly as
well as other children of her age. All this afforded the lame girl a
wealth of sweet joys wholly new to her, which afforded her heart such
warmth and solace that, in spite of the cough which tormented her during
many an hour of the day and night, she felt happier during her homeward
journey with the fierce blasphemer Cyriax, from whom she expected the
worst things, than in the brilliant days of her fame as an artist.
Doubtless, as they approached Germany, she often wondered what Lienhard
would think of her, if he should meet her amid such surroundings, as the
companion of so worthless a couple; but the terror that overpowered her
was transformed into pleasant satisfaction at the thought that he would
approve, nay, praise her conduct, when she could show him the child, and
tell him what she had done for it.
This state of affairs had continued until two months before. Then,
at Schaffhausen, her darling had suddenly been attacked with violent
convulsions, and the feeble intellect, which her love had so toilsomely
and faithfully waked from its slumber, only too soon attained eternal
peace. In all Kuni's sorrowful life she had scarcely experienced any
grief so bitter. When she closed the little eyes which had gazed into
her pale face so often and so tenderly, it seemed as if the sun, moon,
and stars had lost their light, and henceforth she was condemned to live
in dreary gloom.
What terrible days had followed the child's death! Cyriax raved as if he
had really been seized with the lunacy whose pretence helped him to
beg his bread. Besides, he gave himself up to unbridled indulgence in
brandy, and, when drunk, he was capable of the most brutal acts.
The dead Juli's mother, who, spite of an evil youth and a lenient
conscience, was by no means one of the worst of women, had to endure the
harshest treatment from her profligate companion.
The blow which had fallen upon him filled him with savage rage, and he
longed to inflict some pain upon all who came in his way that they, too,
might feel what it was to suffer.
The death of his "sweet little Juli" appeared to have hardened the last
tender spot in his brutal soul.
Kuni was the only person toward whom at first he imposed some restraint
upon himself. True, without any consideration for the girl's presence,
he sometimes asked Gitta why they still burdened themselves with the
useless hobbler and did not sell the cart and the donkey. But though
there was no lack of good offers for the excellent Spanish beast of
burden, he allowed matters to remain as before. If the rage seething in
his heart led him, in his drunken frenzy, to make Kuni feel its effects,
too, the pleading glance of the blue eyes, still large and expressive,
with which she had so often hushed the wailing child, sufficed to soothe
him.
Yesterday, for the first time, he had seriously threatened to drive the
ropedancer away, and she knew that Cyriax was capable of anything. True,
his wife was attached to Kuni, but she had little influence over her
vicious husband. So the sick cripple might only too easily find herself
left on the highway.
Still, she had given Cyriax cause for the threat. All day and during the
night she had been busy with the unfortunate mother and her twins, and
therefore had frequently neglected to fill his brandy bottle. But this
could not be helped, and she was not accustomed to think of the future.
Whatever her heart urged she did, no matter what might happen. If Cyriax
left her in the lurch, she must beg or starve unless chance, which so
often mingled in her existence, willed otherwise.
With the child's life the modest happiness which Kuni had enjoyed
during the last few months had vanished, not only because the tongueless
blasphemer had become a different person, and she sorely missed the
delicate little creature who had filled and cheered her heart, but she
had also lost the peace of mind which she enjoyed during the existence
of her charge.
The young Augsburg maiden, whom she thought she had bought out of the
flames of purgatory, did not appear to her again, but the vagrant's
child came all the more frequently, and whenever she showed herself she
wailed and wept bitterly. Sweet little Juli's soul must now--whether it
had been Juliane's or not--endure the tortures of purgatory, and
this pierced Kuni's heart the more deeply the more affectionately she
remembered the sickly-child.
Ever since she had used a black plaster, given to her at Singen by
a quack, the stump of her foot had become sore again, and sharp pain
tortured her so cruelly that, especially when the cough racked her
emaciated body and she was jolted to and fro in the springless cart over
stony roads, she was afraid that she should lose her reason.
At Pforzheim a barber had examined the wound and, shaking his head,
pronounced the black plaster a malignant blood poisoner, and when she
refused to have the leg amputated, applied a yellow one, which proved
no better. When Cyriax counted up his receipts in the evening, called to
red-haired Gitta his favourite maxim, "Fools never die," and handed to
her--Kuni--the larger brandy bottle to fill, she had often summoned up
her courage and begged him to buy an indulgence for his sweet little
Juli. The result was certain--she knew it from her own experience.
Shortly after the child's death he had thrust his hand into his purse
more than once at such an appeal and given money for a few candles, but
it had not been possible to persuade him to purchase the paper.
This refusal was by no means due to mere parsimony. Kuni knew what
induced him to maintain his resistance so obstinately, for in her
presence he had told pock-marked Ratz that he would not take the
indulgence gratis. Wherever he might be, his family ought to go, and he
did not wish to be anywhere that he would not find Juli.
He did not doubt the continued life of the soul after death, but
precisely because he was sure that the gates of paradise would remain
closed to him throughout eternity he would not help to open them for the
dead child. When his imagination tortured him with fancies that mice and
beetles were leaping and running out of his pockets and the breast of
his doublet, he thought that his end was drawing near. If the devil then
had power over his soul, his imps might drag him wherever they pleased,
if only he might see little Juli there and hear her call "Baba" and
"Father." It would lessen the tortures of hell, however severe they
might be. Was it possible for him to conceive of any greater folly than
to rob himself of this consolation by transporting the child, through
the indulgence, to the kingdom of heaven, where he could never see her
again. He had accumulated a goodly sum by begging, it is true, but,
strangely enough, he did not think of purchasing salvation for himself
in order to meet his child again in heaven, instead of amid the flames
of purgatory. Though he had become as rich as the Fuggers, paradise, he
knew, would still be closed to him. He was not fit for it.
He hated everybody who was rich and respectable. He would rather be
with his child in the mire of hell than to go with her to a magnificent
garden of paradise where swearing was forbidden, where there was no
brandy and no highroad, and which offered only pleasures which were none
to him.
So Kuni was forced to see the child remain in the fires of purgatory,
which hurt her little less than her aching limb.
At her entrance into The Blue Pike pain and mental suffering had driven
her to the verge of despair. But the day which began so sorrowfully was
followed by an evening of delight--she owed to it her new meeting with
Lienhard.
From childhood she had been homeless, and every quarter of the globe to
which a highroad led was her native land. Yet in Spain and during the
journey back she had felt a gnawing longing for Germany, nay, nothing
had troubled her more than the thought of dying and being buried outside
of its frontier. Her mother, a native of the Rhine country, had given
her birth during the fair at Cologne on the Spree; but, whenever
homesickness assailed her, it was always the steeples of St. Sebald
and St. Ulrich which beckoned to her, and she had longed for the Frank
country, the Main, or the richly wooded banks of the Pegnitz. Was this
because, in Nuremberg, for the only time in her life, she had been a
member of a decorous household, or had the love which, wherever Cyriax's
cart and donkey carried her, always drew her heart back to the same
ancient city, made it so dear to her?
Probably the latter, for yesterday she had yearned ardently to reach
Nuremberg; but since she had seen Lienhard again, she rejoiced that she
was in Miltenberg and at The Blue Pike.
Never had he seemed to her so handsome, so manly. Besides, he had spoken
to her, listened to her reply, and even given her money with lavish
generosity. It was like him! No one else would have been capable of it.
She could live a long time on his three gold florins, if Cyriax
abandoned her; yet the unexpected wealth burned in her hand and
perplexed her. Did Lienhard no longer know that she would not accept
money from him? Had she robbed herself of the certainty that beautified
existence; had she failed to show him her superiority to other vagrant
girls? Yet no! What he gave her was more, far more, than even a prince
bestowed upon an ordinary mendicant. He must measure her by a special
standard. If he had only given her the gold with a kind word, not
flung it silently into her lap. This half destroyed her pleasure in the
present, and the ample supply of money clouded her already disturbed
peace of mind still more. Had it been possible, she would have returned
the gift as she did the alms at Augsburg. But how was this to be
accomplished in the over-crowded inn?
Yet, if she kept the florins, the sacrifice at the convent would lose
a large portion of its value, and the good opinion which her act at
Augsburg must have inspired might be shadowed.
For some time before leaving the room in the tavern she had turned the
coins restlessly over and over under her kerchief, and meanwhile, as
if in a dream, made but evasive answers to the questions and demands of
Cyriax and Gitta.
Then she glided nearer to the gentlemen at the table, intending to
return Lienhard's gift; but the landlord of The Pike followed her
suspiciously, and drove her back to her companions.
Thence she had been called to the sick woman and went out of doors.
She found the mother of the twins in the meadow by the Main and eagerly
devoted herself to them.
The widow's burning head and gasping breath were no favourable symptoms.
She herself felt that her end was approaching. Her tongue was parched.
The water in the jug was warm and flat, yet she longed for a cool drink.
During the day Kuni had noticed a well in the kitchen garden, and, in
spite of her aching foot, hastened to it at once to draw the cool water.
While doing so, the red and white pinks which she had noticed at noon
again caught her eye in the starlight night. The sick woman could enjoy
their fragrance now, and to-morrow, feast her eyes upon their bright
colours.
From childhood she had always been fond of flowers. Stealing was
prohibited by her father as wicked and dangerous, and she had never
transgressed his commands. When she picked up the costly rosary in
Nuremberg, she had intended to return it to the owner. But to pluck the
flowers and fruit which the Lord caused to grow and ripen for every one
was a different thing, and had never troubled her conscience. So she
carelessly gathered a few pinks. Three should go to the sick woman, but
Lienhard Groland would have the largest and finest. She would try
to slip the flowers into his hand, with the money, as a token of her
gratitude. But even while saying to herself that these blossoms should
be her last greeting to him, she felt the red spots burning more hotly
on her cheeks. Ah, if only he would accept the pinks! Then the most
cruel things might happen, she could bear them.
While kneeling before the bed, the waiter, Dietel, noticed her. As she
saw him also, she hurried back to the suffering mother as fast as her
lame limb would carry her, and raised the jug of fresh water to her
parched lips.
This had been a delicious refreshment to the sick woman, and when Kuni
saw how much comfort her little service afforded the invalid, her heart
grew lighter. Had it been possible she, who was of no importance to any
one, would willingly have lain down on the heap of straw in the place of
the mother upon whom two young lives depended.
How delightful it was to bring aid! And she possessed the means of being
helpful.
So, with sparkling eyes, she pressed the three gold coins into the
sufferer's burning hand, and told her that the village authorities would
rear the twins for such a sum. Then the parched lips of the fevered
woman lauded the merciful kindness bestowed by the lame ropedancer--who
at that moment seemed to her as powerful as a queen--so warmly and
tenderly that Kuni felt the blood again mount into her cheeks--this
time with shame at the praise which she deserved so little, yet which
rendered her so happy. Finally, the sufferer expressed a desire for a
priest, that she might not pass from earth without a sacrament. Her
sins oppressed her sorely. She, and she alone, was to blame for Nickel's
being hanged. Never in all her life had she been a glutton; but before
the birth of the twins the devil had tormented her with a strange
longing for roast fowl, which she had been unable to repress and keep
to herself. Solely for her gratification, Nickel stole the goose and the
hens. In spite of many a bad business in which his reckless nature had
involved him, he was a good fellow, with a loving heart.
For her sake he would have tried to steal the ring from the
executioner's finger. Now he had gone into the other world unshriven,
with the rope about his neck, for though the benefit of the sacrament
was usually granted even to the worst criminals, the peasants strung
Nickel up to the nearest tree as soon as they caught him, without
heeding his entreaties. This made death even harder for her than the
thought of the poor little creatures yonder in the bundle of rags.
Kuni's charity had provided for the orphans, but her Nickel would find
no mercy from the heavenly Judge throughout eternity.
She had sobbed aloud as she spoke, and then writhed in such violent
convulsions that Kuni with difficulty prevented her from throwing
herself out of the hot straw in the cart upon the damp meadow.
When she grew somewhat calmer, she repeated Nickel's name again and
again till it was heartrending to hear her.