I do not know how often on All Souls’ Day she had been to the graveyard
of Koscher, but to-day she is hurrying there again, and her feet do not
bear her as nimbly as of yore. Everything else, however, was just as it
used to be years ago. At eleven o’clock her heavy body got out of the
_droshky_, then came the coachman carrying grave-wreaths, wrapped in a
piece of white cloth, and last a five year old child, warmly dressed.
This little girl had been five years old for fifteen years. Every year
Miss Mary borrows her in the neighborhood.
“There, my dear! Now look--look at the crowd of people. It’s a good
sized crowd, isn’t it? And the candles, and the little lamps, and the
flowers! Go on, my child--go on! Don’t be afraid. Go right ahead
wherever you wish. I am coming right behind you.”
The child walks timidly along. Miss Mary follows, encourages it, but
she does not point out the direction which they are to take. It trots
along and turns this way and that until at last Miss Mary says: “Wait,
dear!” She takes the child by the hand and guides it between two graves.
She takes down from an iron cross, the wreath, bleached by wind and
weather, and hangs up the fresh one--made of black and white--in its
place. Then she places her hand upon the cross and begins to pray. It
would be too hard for her to kneel down. At first her eyes rest upon the
withered grass and the grey earth, then she lifts her head. Her wide,
pleasant face and blue eyes are looking into space. Her eyes become sad,
her lips tremble, and tears course down over her face. The little girl
is abashed, but her companion hears and sees nothing. Then she draws a
long sigh as if she had just gained possession of herself again, smiles
through her tears at the child, and speaks in a voice that frames the
words a little harshly:
“Go now where you wish! I’m coming right after you.”
Then she began again the strange promenade, and the little girl,
trembling and uncertain, decides the direction. Again Miss Mary says:
“Stop!” and she goes up to another grave. There she does what she did
before, and tarries perhaps a minute longer. Here she places the second
withered wreath in the white cloth beside the first one, and then takes
her little companion by the hand.
“You are cold, isn’t that so? Well, come on--we must not delay then.
We’ll get into the _droshky_ and drive home. You like to drive, don’t
you?”
After some effort they reached the _droshky_, the little child and the
wreaths ahead and Miss Mary follows not without difficulty. The wheels
creak, two blows fall upon the horse and they set out.
Thus it goes, year out and year in. Miss Mary, secretive and
unapproachable, had attached herself to no one throughout her life. From
childhood she had had but one friend, Miss Louise, who now was the faded
widow of the superintendent of finance, Nocar. Today she will visit Mrs.
Nocar a while. Only seldom does she visit her friend, because she goes
out little, and only leaves her dwelling on Sunday morning, when she
goes to mass in Nicholas church. As fat as she is she cannot join
walking parties. Therefore, she is spared by her friend Mrs. Nocar, who
usually calls upon her daily. As result of sincere friendship extending
over a period of years, they are one heart now, one thought.
Today especially if Miss Mary were at home alone she would be
melancholy. The house would be emptier than usual. For Mrs. Nocar, too,
it is a holy day. Never on any other day is she so especially careful at
the coffee roasting, so particular that the cakes be light and well
baked. Today her conversation is always carried on in a sort of subdued
voice. They do not say very much, but what they do say, sounds
monotonous. From time to time a tear shines upon the cheek and the
number of their friendly embraces is increased. They sit long upon the
sofa side by side, until they reach the yearly point of their
conversation.
“The dear God,” begins Mrs. Nocar, “has treated us both alike. I had a
good brave husband and two years ago he was taken away from me
forever--and he did not even leave me a little baby to take care of.
Since then I am all alone. I don’t know which is worse--to have and lose
or not to have.”
“You know, do you not,” replied Miss Mary, solemnly, “that I have always
complied with the will of God? I knew my life long ago. I was to have
only a dream. I dreamed--when I was only twenty years old--that I was at
a ball--you know, of course, that I never went to a ball in all my life.
We were promenading in the splendidly lighted salon, while the music
played. But the dance-salon was just like a great empty attic! Suddenly
I saw couples, one after the other, walk down the great stair-case; I
was the last to come--with my dancing partner. I can’t recall just now
how his face looked. There were only a few of us left up above there,
when I turn my head and see Death drawing near to us. He wore a green
velvet mantle, a white feather in his hat, and he carried a sword. Then
I looked upon the stairs where the others were--and they were all gone;
even my dancing partner had vanished. Then Death took my hand and led me
away. For a long time after that I was in a palace and Death was
there--my husband. He treated me real well and he seemed to like me, but
I could not get used to him. We lived in the most astonishing splendor.
There was crystal and gold and velvet. But I did not care anything
about it. I wanted to go back to the world, and my page--he was another
Death--kept telling me all the time what happened there. My grief at
length affected my husband and I saw it. Then I knew that I should never
marry and that Death would be my bridegroom. Now, Louise, don’t you see
that dreams come from God? Has not a two-fold death separated my life
from other people?”
And Mrs. Nocar wept and wept, although she was not listening to the
dream for the first time, and she poured refreshing balm upon the grief
filled heart of her friend.
The fact that Miss Mary never married is interesting. She was left an
orphan early, and in possession of a comfortable two-storied house. She
was not an ill-favored girl. Any one could see that today. She was
tall--as only few women are--her blue eyes were good to look at, and her
face, although a trifle too broad, was pleasant and the features were
regular. It was perhaps, because as a child she had been too fat, and
they gave her the nickname of “fat Mary.” Because of fat she was a
little indolent and did not take active part in the play of the other
children. When she became a young lady she did not go to parties often
and limited her exercise to a daily walk. The people then all
corresponded to marked types, and Miss Mary was the type of an old maid.
If any of her acquaintances put to her the question, she invariably
replied: “Can one not serve God, married or single?” And when anyone
asked Mrs. Nocar, she shrugged her shoulders and replied: “Why she did
not wish to! She could have married many times--and men of
consequence--I know of two myself--good people. She did not wish to!”
I, however, know that the two men were vagabonds and not worth
considering. They were the merchant, Cibulka, and the engraver, Rechner,
and whenever anyone spoke of them they said--“_The vagabonds!_” They
were good for nothing in every way, no mind, no character. Rechner never
worked before Wednesday, and Saturday afternoon again, he did not work.
“He might have scraped together a little competence because of his
dexterity,” said a friend of my mother, Mr. Hermann--but he didn’t like
to work. And the merchant Cibulka would rather be in a wine shop than in
his own place of business. He did not get out of bed until broad
daylight, and then when he went behind the counter he was sleepy and
cross. He learned French, I believe, but business was something he did
not care to learn, and his clerk ran the shop.
They were always together, these two, and if a spark of nobility flamed
up in the soul of one of them, the other was sure to be on hand to
extinguish it. But you could not find two more jovial companions--in the
beer-hall or the wine shop. Over the narrow, smooth-shaven, pointed face
of Rechner, there was always a smile twinkling, like sunshine over
fields. His lofty brow, from which long chestnut brown hair was brushed
back, did not show a furrow, and about the thin, pale lips played scorn
and irony. His thin, dried up body, usually clothed in the yellow-brown
that suited him so well, was extraordinarily active and expressive.
Cibulka, his friend, wore black and gave himself the airs of a
distinguished gentleman. Like Rechner, he was thin, but he was larger.
His small head had a low forehead. It sheltered sparkling eyes under
thick, dark brows. The black hair was combed forward toward the face. A
long, soft black beard shaded his well formed mouth and under his beard
one could see snow-white teeth. His face expressed good humor, lack of
control, and emotion. Usually he restrained his laughter as long as he
could, and then it burst forth. Then again his face assumed its usual
mask. They understood each other. A little twinkle in the eye, and each
knew everything the other thought. But they did not have many friends,
their jokes were too rough for their honest neighbors. They had the
reputation of dissipated men who squandered life. Cibulka and Rechner
did not care what the others thought of them. They reveled and played
pranks throughout the entire city. They even went as far as distant
Frantischek[4] when, late at night, laughter echoed through the streets,
it was Cibulka and Rechner coming home.
They were the same age as Miss Mary. They had attended with her the
Nicholas Parochial School, but since then they had _never troubled
themselves about her_. They met occasionally upon the street and an
indifferent nod was the greeting. Then suddenly, Miss Mary received a
letter written in a fine, almost microscopic hand. When she had finished
the reading, her hands sank upon her lap, and the letter fluttered to
the floor.