"She opened her eyes even before Martin arrived. The first thing she
did was to send away the women who were crowding round her! then she
whispered to me, 'Don't tell him that I fainted;' and then when he came
hurrying in, looking quite pale, she went to meet him apparently quite
cheerfully and said, 'My shoe hurts me; it is nothing else.'"
"And then?"
"Then he took her outside. But I just happened to see how she burst out
sobbing and hid her face on his shoulder. Then I thought to myself,
'God knows what else may be hurting her.'" Johannes hears no further.
Without a word of thanks to his friend he rushes off.
The canvas which covers the entrance to the Rockhammer tent is let down
low. Johannes listens for a moment. Soft weeping mingled with Martin's
soothing voice is audible from the interior, he tries to tear the
curtain open, but it does not give way; it is evidently fastened down
with a peg, "Who is there?" calls Martin's voice from the other side.
"I--Johannes!"
"Stay outside."
Johannes winces. This "stay outside" has given him a very stab at his
heart. When there is a chance of being at her side to help her in her
trouble,--of giving her peace and comfort, he is to "stay outside." He
grates his teeth and stares with hungry eyes at the curtain, through
the apertures of which a faint red gleam pierces.
"Johannes!" Martin's voice is heard anew.
"What do you want?"
"Go and see if our carriage is here."
He does as he is bid. He is just good enough to go errands! He inspects
the rows of conveyances, and, when he does not find what he is seeking,
he returns to the tent.
Now the curtain is drawn aside. There she stands--a little transparent
shawl about her shoulders, looking pale and so beautiful.
"Just as I expected," says Martin, when he reports to him--"the
carriage wasn't ordered till daybreak."
"But what now? Does Trude want to go?" he asks anxiously.
"Trude must!" says she, giving him a look out of her tear-stained eyes,
which are already trying to smile again.
"Resign yourself to it, my child," answers Martin, stroking her hair.
"If it were only the foot, it would not matter. But your crying just
now--all this excitement--I think your illness is still hanging about
you and rest will do you good. If only it did not take so long to fetch
the carriage! I believe it would be best if you could walk the short
distance across the fields--of course, only if you have no more pain.
Can you manage it?"
Trude gives Johannes a look; then nods eagerly.
"The air is warm, the grass is dry," Martin continues, "and Johannes
can accompany you."
Trude gives a start, and he feels his blood mount in a hot wave to his
head. His eyes seek hers, but she avoids his glance.
"You can easily be here again in half an hour, my dear boy," says
Martin, who takes Johannes' silence to mean vexation. He shakes his
head, and declares, with a look at Trude, that he too has had enough of
it now.
"Well then, good speed to you, children," says Martin, "and, when I
have disbanded my party, I will follow!"
Johannes sends a look into the distance; the plain which lies before
him, swathed in silver veils of moonlight, appears to him like an abyss
over which mists are brewing; he feels as if the arm which is just
being pushed so gently and caressingly through his were dragging him
down--down into the deepest depths.
"Good-night," he murmurs, half turned away from his brother.
"Aren't you even going to shake hands?" asked Martin, with playful
reproach, and, when Johannes hesitatingly extends his right hand, he
gives it a hearty shake. What pain such a shake of the hand can
inflict!
The din of the fete more and more dies away into the distance. The
many-voiced tumult becomes a dull roaring in which only the shrill
tinkle of the merry-go-round is distinguishable, and when the
dance-music, which has been silent so long, commences anew, it drowns
everything else with its piercing trumpet-blasts.
But even that grows more and more indistinct, and the big drum alone,
which hitherto has played only a modest part, now gains ascendancy over
the other instruments, for its dull, droning beat travels furthest into
the distance. Silently they walk beside each other--neither ventures to
address the other. Trude's arm trembles in his; her eyes rest upon the
mists which rise up in the greenish light from the meadows.
She steps along bravely, though she limps a little and from time to
time gives vent to a low moan.
They have perhaps been walking for about five minutes when she turns
around and points with outstretched hand towards the twinkling lights
of the festival ground, that glisten against the black back-ground of
the pine-wood. The merry-go-round is spinning its glittering hoop
round, and the canvas partition of the dancing-room sparkles like a
curtain of woven flames.
"Look, how lovely!" she whispers timidly.
He nods.
"Johannes!"
"What is it, Trade?"
"Don't be cross with me!"
"Why--should I?"
"Why did you go away from the dancing?"
"Because it was too hot for me in the room."
"Not because I danced with some one else?"
"Oh! dear no!"
"You know, Hans, I suddenly felt so lonely and forsaken that it was all
I could do to keep from crying. He might have said he didn't want me to
dance with anyone else, I said to myself--for whom else did I go to the
fete but for him? For whom did I adorn myself but for him? And my foot
hurt me a thousand times worse than before; and then suddenly--well,
you know yourself what happened."
He sets his teeth; his arms twitch, as if he must press her to him. Her
head leans softly against his shoulder; her shining eyes beam up at
him--when suddenly she gives a loud cry: her injured foot which she can
only just drag along the ground, has hit against a pointed stone. She
tries to keep up, but her arm slips away from his, and overcome by
pain, she lets herself drop on to the grass.
"Just for a moment I should like to lie here," she says, and wipes the
cold perspiration from her brow; then she throws herself down on her
face and lies there for a while motionless. He grows frightened when he
sees her thus. "Come on," he exhorts her, "you will catch cold here."
She stretches out her right hand to him with her face turned away and
says, "Help me up," but when she attempts to walk, she breaks down once
more. "You see, it won't do," she says with a faint smile.
"Then I will carry you," he cries, opening out his arms wide.
A sound, half of pain, half of joy, escapes her lips; next moment her
body lies upraised in his arms. She sighs deeply, and, closing her
eyes, leans her head against his cheek--her bosom heaves upon his
breast; her waving hair ripples over his neck; her warming breath
caresses his glowing countenance. More firmly does he press her
trembling body to him. Away, away further, ever further away, even
though his strength fail! Away, to the ends of the earth! His breath
becomes labored, acute pains dart through his side, before his eyes
there floats a red mist--he feels as though he were about to drop down
and give up his ghost--but he must go on--further, further.--
Over there the river beckons; the weir's hollow roaring comes through
the silent night; the splashing drops of water sparkle in the
moonbeams.
She lets her head fall back upon his arm; a melancholy yet blissful
smile plays about her half-opened lips; and now she opens her eyes, in
whose somber depths the reflection of the moon is floating.
"Where are we?" she murmurs.
"At the river's edge," he gasps.
"Put me down."
"I must--I cannot."
Close to the water's edge he lays her down; then he stretches himself
full length on the grass, and presses his hand to his heart and
struggles for breath. His temples are throbbing, he is in a fair way to
lose consciousness; but, pulling himself together with an effort, he
bends his body towards the river, ladles out a handful of water and
bathes his forehead with it.
That restores him to consciousness. He turns to Trude. She has buried
her face in her hands and is moaning softly to herself.
"Does it hurt very much?" he asks.
"It burns!"
"Dip your foot in the water. That will cool it."
She drops her hands and looks at him in surprise.
"It has done me good," he says, pointing to his forehead, from which
single drops of water are still trickling down. Then she bends forward
and tries to pull off her shoe, but her hand trembles, and she grows
faint with the effort. "Let me help you," he says. One pull--her shoe
flies to one side; her stocking follows, and, pushing herself forward
to the very edge of the bank, she dips her bare foot up to the ankle in
the cooling stream.
"Oh, how refreshing it is!" she murmurs with a deep breath; then,
turning to right and to left, she seeks a support for her body.
"Lean against me," he says. Then she lets her head drop upon his
shoulder. His arm twitches, but he does not dare to twine it round her
waist; he hardly dares to move. His breath comes heavily; his eyes
stare on to the stream, through the crystal waters of which Trude's
white foot gleams like a mother-o'-pearl shell resting in its depths.
They sit there in silence. Just in front of them, at the weir, the
water's rush and roar. The spray forms a silver bridge from bank to
bank, and the waves break at their feet. From time to time the soft
night-breeze wafts hushed music towards them, and the monotonous
droning of the big drum comes to them mingled with the dull note of the
bittern.
Suddenly a shudder passes through her frame.
"What is the matter with you?"
"I am shivering."
"Take your foot out of the water at once." She does as she is bid, then
draws from her pocket the dainty little cambric handkerchief which she
had for the ball. "That is no good," he says, and with a trembling hand
pulls out his own coarser handkerchief. "Let me dry you!" Silently,
with a dumb, pleading look, she submits, and when he feels the soft,
cool foot between his hands, everything seems to whirl before him; a
sort of fiery madness comes over him, and, bending down to the ground,
he presses his fevered brow upon it.
"What are you doing?" she cries out.
He starts up. In wild ecstasy their eyes meet--one wild, exuberant cry,
and they lie in each other's arms. His kisses burn hot upon her lips.
She laughs and cries and takes his head between her hands and strokes
his hair and leans her cheek against his cheek and kisses his forehead
and both his eyes.
"Oh, my darling, my darling! How I love you!"
"Are you my very own?"
"Yes, yes!"
"Shall you always love me?"
"Always! Always! And you--you will never again leave me alone like
to-day so that Martin--"
Abruptly she stops short. Silence weighs upon them! What terrible
silence! The big drum drones in the distance. The waters roar.
Two deathly pale faces gaze at each other.
And now she screams aloud. "Oh Lord, my God!" is the cry which resounds
through the night.
Loudly moaning, he covers his face with his hands. Tearless sobs
shake his frame. Before his eyes everything is aflame--aflame with a
blood-red light as if the whole world were set on fire. Now it is all
suddenly made clear as day to him! What dawned mysteriously within him
in yonder midsummer night, what flashed like lightning through his
brain on that evening when Trude broke down sobbing in the middle of
her song--all now arises before him like a glowing ball of fire. Every
flame speaks of hate; every ray flashes with torturing jealousy through
his soul, every gleam pierces his heart with fear and guilty
consciousness.
Trude has thrown herself face downwards upon the ground, and is
weeping--weeping bitterly.
With bowed head and folded hands he gazes upon her fair form, lying
before him in an agony of woe.
"Come home," he says tonelessly. She lifts her head and plants her arms
firmly upon the ground; but when he attempts to help her up, she
screams out: "Do not touch me!" Twice, thrice, she endeavors to stand
upright, but again and again she breaks down. Then without a word she
stretches forth her arms, and suffers herself to be drawn up by him. In
silence he guides her feeble steps to the mill. Her tears are dried up.
The rigidness of despair has settled upon her deathly pale features.
She keeps her face averted and resistingly allows him to drag her
along. Before the threshold of the veranda she loosens her arm from
his, and, with what little strength is left to her, she darts away from
him towards the house-door. Her figure disappears among the dark
foliage.
The knocker gives forth its dull beats. Once--twice, then shuffling
footsteps become audible in the entrancehall; the key is turned; a dark
yellow ray of light beams out into the moonlight night.
"For heaven's sake, madam, how pale you look!" the maid ejaculates in a
terrified voice.... The door closes with a bang.
For a long time Johannes keeps on staring at the place where she has
disappeared.--A cold shiver which runs through him from head to foot
rouses him at length. Absentmindedly he slinks across the moonlit
yard,--strokes the dogs that with joyous barking drag at their
chains,--casts an indifferent glance towards the motionless mill-wheel,
beneath the shadows of which the waters glide along like glittering
snakes. Some indefinable impulse drives him forward and away. The
ground of the mill-yard burns beneath his feet. He wanders across the
meadows, back to the weir--to the spot where he was sitting with Trude.
On the grass there gleams her blue silk shoe, and not far from it lies
her long, fine stocking. So she must have limped home with her bare
foot and probably is not even conscious of the fact! He breaks into a
shrill laugh, takes up both and flings them far into the foaming
waters.
Whither shall he turn now? The mill has closed its portals upon him
forevermore. Whither can he go now? Shall he lay himself down to rest
under some haystack? He cannot sleep even if he does. Stay! He knows of
a jolly set of fellows--though he despised them a little while ago,
they will just suit him now.
When, at two o'clock in the morning, Martin Rockhammer has shaken
himself free of his drinking companions and is stepping, in the
happiest of moods, out on to the festival ground, when the bluish-gray
light of dawning day is beginning to illumine the doings of these
night-birds, he is met by a band of drunken louts, who, singing obscene
songs, break in single file through the ranks of the promenading
couples. They are headed by the locksmith Garmann, a fellow of bad
repute who practices poaching by night and in whose train now follow
other good-for-nothing scamps. Intending to turn them out of the place
forthwith, Martin steps towards them. But suddenly he stops as if
turned to stone; his arms drop down at his sides: there in the midst of
this crew, with glassy eyes and drunken gestures staggers his brother
Johannes.
"Johannes!" he cries out, horrified.
He starts back; his drink-inflamed face grows ashy pale; a frightened
gleam flickers in his eyes--he trembles--he stretches forth his arm as
if to ward him off--and staggers back--two--three paces. Martin feels
his anger disappear. This picture of misery arouses his pity. He
follows after Johannes, and, taking him by the arm, he says in loving
tones: "Come, brother; it is late, let us go home." But Johannes
shrinks back in horror at the touch of his hand, and fixing his gaze
upon him in mortal agony, he says in a hoarse voice: "Leave me--I do
not wish to--I do not wish to have anything more to do with you--I am
no longer your brother." Martin starts up, clutches with his two hands
at the slab of the table near him and then drops down upon the nearest
bench as if felled by the stroke of an axe.
Johannes, however, rushes away. The forest closes in upon him.
Henceforth come sad days for the Rockhammer mill.
When Martin reached home on that morning, when he found the whole house
quiet, as quiet as a mouse, he took the key of the mill from the wall
and slunk off to that melancholy place which he had built up as the
temple of his guilt. There his people found him at midday, pale as the
whitewashed walls, his head bowed upon his hands, muttering to himself
incessantly: "Retribution for Fritz! Retribution for Fritz!" The
phantom, the old terrible phantom, which he had thought was laid for
evermore, has cast itself upon him anew and is twining its strangling
claw about his neck.
The men had to drag him almost by force from his den. With weary,
halting steps he staggered out of the mill. His wife he found crouching
in a corner, with hollow cheeks and gaunt, terrified eyes. Then he took
her face between his two hands, looked for a while with stern looks at
the trembling woman, and once more murmured the mournful refrain:
"Retribution for Fritz! Retribution for Fritz!"
When she heard his ominous words, a cold shiver ran through her frame.
"Does he know? Does he not know? Has Johannes confessed to him! Has he
found out by chance? Does he perhaps only suspect?" Since that time her
soul is fretting itself away; her body repines in fear of this man and
in yearning for that other, whom love of her has driven away. She grows
pale and thin; her cheeks fade. She steals about like a somnambulist.
Round her eyes bluish grooves are outlined, and grow broader and
broader, and about her mouth is graven a tiny wrinkle which keeps on
twitching and moving like a dancing will-o'-the-wisp.
Martin remarks nothing of all this. His whole being is absorbed in
sorrow for his lost brother. During the first few days, he has hoped
from hour to hour for his return--hoped that he was possibly quite
unconscious of the words he spoke in the madness of intoxication. As
for him--he would verily be the very last to remind him of them. But
when day after day passes without any news of Johannes, his fear grows
more and more terrible, he begins to search for the lost one;--at first
with little result, for the intercourse between one village and the
next is very slight. But gradually one report after another reaches the
mill. To-day he has been seen here, yesterday, there--erring restlessly
from place to place but always surrounded by a band of merry-makers.
The people call him "Madcap Hans," and, wherever he appears, the
public-house is sure to be full--corks fly and glasses clink, and
sometimes, when things become specially lively, the window-panes clink
too, for the bottles go flying out through them into the street. Keep
it up! "Madcap Hans" will pay up for the whole lot. He will stand treat
to any one he happens to come across, and there are boisterous songs
and comic anecdotes fit to make one's sides split with laughing. Yes,
he's a fine bottle-companion, is "Madcap Hans."
Soon, too, various very doubtful personages appear at the door of the
Rockhammer mill, people with whom one does not like to come into
contact; such as the corn-usurer. Lob Levi from Beelitzhof, and the
common butcher Hoffman from Gruenehalde; they present yellow, greasy
little papers which bear his brother's signature and turn out to be
promissory notes with such and such interest for so many days.
Martin stares for a long time at the unsteady hand-writing; where the
strokes are all tumbling over as if drunk, then he goes to his safe
and, without a word, pays the debts as well as the usurious interest.
How gladly he would give the half of his fortune, could he buy his
brother's return therewith!
At length he has the horses put to the carriage and himself sets out in
quest. He drives miles away; he is about whole nights through, but
never does he succeed in getting hold of his brother. The information
he receives from the inn-keepers is scanty and confused--some answer
him with awkward prevarication, others with sly attempts at
concealment--they all seem to guess that their rich profits will go to
the devil as soon as the owner of the Rockhammer mill once more gets
possession of his scape-grace brother. When Martin begins to notice
that he is being taken in, he loses heart. He has the carriage put up
in the coach-house and locks himself in for several days in his
"office." During that time he is gravely considering whether it would
be advisable to secure the service of the Marienfeld gendarmes. For
him, of course, by virtue of his official authority, it would be an
easy matter to extort the truth from these people. Yet no!--it would
hardly be compatible with the honor of the Rockhammer family to have
his brother hunted for by the police--why it would make his old father
turn in his grave!
A cold, brought on by his nocturnal expeditions, throws him upon the
sickbed. Through two terrible weeks Trude sits by day and by night at
his bedside, tortured by his delirious ravings in which his two
brothers, the dead and the living one, now singly, now together,
transformed to one horrible two-headed monster, haunt and encircle him.
As soon as he is halfway convalescent, he has the carriage got ready.
_Some_ time he must find him!
And he does find him.
Late one evening at the beginning of September, his road happens to
pass through B----, a village two miles north of Marienfeld.
Through the closed shutters of the tavern boisterous noises reach his
ears--stamping of feet, brawling and drunken singing. Slowly he gets
out of the carriage, and ties up his horse at the entrance to the inn.
The lantern flickers dimly in the night wind--heavy drops of rain come
pelting down. The handle of the taproom door rattles in his hand; one
push--it flies open wide. Thick, bluish-yellow tobacco fumes assail him
as he enters, mixed with the odor of stale beer and foul-smelling
spirits.
And there, at the top end of the long, roughly-hewn table, with flabby
cheeks, with his eyes all red and swollen, with that glassy stare
habitual to drunkards, with matted, unkempt hair, with a dirty
shirt-collar and slovenly coat to which hang blades of straw--perhaps
the reminders of his last night quarters--there that picture of
precocious vice and hopeless ruin, that, that is all that remains to
him of his darling, of his all in all ...
"Johannes!" he cries, and the driver's whip which he holds in his hand
falls clattering to the ground.
A dead silence comes over the densely crowded room, as the tipplers
gaze openmouthed at this intruder. The wretched man has started up from
his seat, his face petrified with nameless fear, a hollow groan breaks
from his lips; with one desperate leap he springs upon the table; with
a second one he endeavors to reach the door over the heads of those
sitting nearest to him.
No good! His brother's iron fist is planted upon his chest.
"Stay here!" he hears close to his ear in angry, muffled accents;
thereupon he feels himself being pushed with superhuman strength
towards the fire-corner, where he sinks down helplessly.
Then Martin opens the door as far as ever its hinges will allow, points
with the butt-end of his whip towards the dark entry and plants himself
in the middle of the taproom.
"Out with you!" he cries in a voice which makes the glasses on the
table vibrate. The tipplers, most of them green youths, retreat in
terror before him, and hastily don their caps; only here and there some
suppressed grumbling is heard.
"Out with you!" he cried once more and makes a gesture as if about to
take one of the nearest grumblers by the throat. Two minutes later the
taproom is swept clear ... only the innkeeper remains, standing half
petrified with fear behind the bar; now, when Martin fixes his gloomy
gaze upon him, he begins to complain in a whining tone of this
disturbance to his business.
Martin puts his hand in his pocket, throws him a handful of florins and
says: "I wish to be alone with him."
When he has bolted the door after the humbly bowing innkeeper, he walks
with slow steps towards Johannes, who is crouching motionless in his
corner, with his face buried in his hands. He places his hand gently
upon his shoulder and says in a voice in which infinite love and
infinite pain tremble: "Rise up, my boy; let us talk to one another."
Johannes does not stir.
"Will you not tell me what grievance you have against me? It will do
you good to speak out, my boy! Relieve your feelings, my boy!"
Johannes drops his hands and laughs hoarsely: "Relieve my feelings!
Ha-ha-ha!" That secret terror that distorted his features before as
with a cramp has now changed to dull, obstinate stubbornness.
Wavering between horror and pity, Martin looks upon this countenance
in which deep furrows have left nothing, not a trace of his former
open-faced, good-natured Johannes. Every evil passion must have worked
therein to disfigure it so wretchedly within six short weeks. Now he
raises himself up and casts a searching look towards the door. "It
seems you have locked me in," he says with a fresh outburst of laughter
that cuts Martin to the quick.
"Yes."
"I suppose you intend dragging me with you like a criminal?"
"Johannes!"
"Go on. I know you are the stronger! But one thing let me tell you: I
am not yet so wretched but that I should resist. I would rather fling
myself from the carriage and dash my head against a curbstone than come
back with you."
"Have pity, merciful God!" cries Martin. "My boy, my boy, what have
they made of you?"
Johannes paces the room with heavy tread and snaps open the lids of the
beer-mugs as he passes.
"Cut it short," he then says, standing still. "What do you want with me
that you imprison me here?"
Martin goes silently to the door and lets the bolt fly back; then he
places himself close in front of his brother. His bosom heaves as if he
were laboring to raise the words he is about to speak from the
uttermost depths of his soul. But what good is it? They stick fast in
his throat. He has never been a fluent talker--poor, shy fellow that he
is, and how is he to find tongues of flame now with which to talk this
madman out of his delusions? All he can stammer forth is that one
question:
"What have I done to you? What have I done to you?"
He says the words twice, thrice, and over and over again. What better
can he find to say? All his love, all his misery, are contained in
these.
Johannes answers not a word. He has seated himself on a bench, and is
running the fingers of both his hands through his unkempt hair. About
his lips there lurks a smile--a terrible smile, void of comfort or
hope.
At length he interrupts his helpless brother who keeps on repeating his
formula as if to conjure therewith. "Let that be," he says, "you have
nothing to say to me; nor can you have anything to say to me. I have
done with myself, with you, with the whole world. What I have been
through in these last six weeks--I tell you, since I left the mill, I
have slept under no roof, for I felt sure it must fall down upon me."
"But for heaven's sake, what ...?"
"Do not ask me.... It is no good, for you won't get to know, not
through me.... Let all talking alone, for it is to no purpose ... and
if you were to entreat me by the memory of our parents...."
"Yes, our parents!" stammers Martin joyfully. Why did he not think of
that sooner?
"Let them rest quietly in their graves," says Johannes with an ugly
laugh. "Even that won't catch on with me. They can't prevent me from
going to the dogs nor from hating you!"
Martin groans aloud and drops down as if struck.
"It is just because I _did_ always think of them, because I tried again
and again to remember that Martin Rockhammer is my brother, that things
have turned out like this and not differently. It has cost me a heavy
sacrifice,--you may believe me that! I have behaved quite fairly
towards you, ha-ha-ha, brother--quite fairly!"
Martin inquires no further. The solution of this riddle is perfectly
clear to him. Old blood-guilt has risen from the grave to claim its
penalty.... He folds his hands and mutters softly:
"Retribution for Fritz! Retribution for Fritz!"
"For one reason, however, you are quite right to remind me of our
parents; I must not bring shame upon their name, upon the name of
Rockhammer! That is the one thing which has been worrying me all
along--even though it did not alter matters; for surely a man must
enjoy himself somehow ... ha-ha-ha! After all I am quite glad to have
met you, for we can talk things over quietly ... I intend going to
America!"
Martin looks for a while into his glowing, bloated face; then he says
softly, "Go, in God's name!" and lets his hand drop heavily upon the
table slab.
"And soon, too, what's more," Johannes continues. "I have already made
enquiries. On the first of October the ship sails from Bremen--next
week I shall have to leave here,--you know what part of our inheritance
is owing to me--I dare say, by the bye, that I have got through a good
bit of it already; give me as much as you happen to have handy in cash
and send it to Franz Maas; I will fetch it from him."
"And won't you come just once more to the--to the--"
"To the mill? Never!" cries Johannes starting up, while a restless
gleam, full of terror and of longing, comes into his eyes.
"And you expect me to--I am to bid you good-bye here--here in this
disgusting hole--good-bye forever? good-bye forever?"
"I suppose that is what it will be," says Johannes, bowing his head.
Then Martin falls all in a heap and once more murmurs, "Retribution for
Fritz!"
With burning eyes Johannes stares at his brother, crouching there
before him as if broken, body and soul.... He is quite determined never
to see him again ... but he must give a hand at parting!
"Farewell, brother," he says, approaching him, as he sits there
motionless. "Keep well and happy!" Then, suddenly, a warm, gentle
sensation comes over him. His brain reels. A thousand scenes seem
simultaneously to be evoked. He sees himself as a child, petted and
spoilt by his elder brother, he sees himself as a youth proudly walking
at his side, he sees himself with him at their parent's death-bed, he
sees himself hand in hand with him at that solemn moment when they
vowed never to part, nor to let any third person come between them.
And now!--And now!
"Brother!" he cries aloud--and loudly sobbing he falls at his feet.
"My boy--my dear boy." He sobs and cries with joy, and catches hold of
him with both hands and presses him to him as if he nevermore would let
him go.
"Now I have got you ... oh, thank heaven--now I have got you! Now
everything will come right again--won't it? Tell me it was all only a
dream--only madness! You did not know what you were doing--eh? You
don't remember anything of it--eh? I bet you haven't any notion of it
all--eh? Now you have woke up, haven't you--you have woke up again
now?"
Johannes digs his teeth into his lips till they smart and leans his
face upon his breast. Then suddenly a thought takes possession of him
and weighs him down and buzzes in his ears--a thought like a vampire,
cold and damp, and beating the air with bat's wings.... In these arms
Trude has rested this very day--this very day....
He jumps up abruptly.
Away from this place, away from this atmosphere--else madness will
really assail him!
He rushes towards the door. One creak of its hinges, one click of the
lock: he has disappeared.
Martin looks after him, mute with consternation; then he says, as if to
quell his rising fear:
"He is too excited; he wants some fresh air. He will come back!"
His glance falls upon the wooden clothes=pegs on the opposite wall. He
smiles, now quite reassured, and says "He has left his cap here; it is
raining outside, the wind blows cold; he will come back." Thereupon he
calls the innkeeper, orders his horse to be put up and has some hot
grog mixed for his brother, and a bed prepared for him. "For," he says
with a blissful smile, "he will come back again."
When everything is made ready he sits down on the bench and becomes
lost in brooding. From time to time he murmurs as if to resuscitate his
sinking courage:
"He will come back!"
Outside the rain beats against the windowpanes, autumn blasts are
soughing around the housetop, and every gust of wind, every drop of
rain, seems to proclaim:
"He will come back! He will come back!" The how's pass; the lamp goes
out.... Martin has fallen asleep over his waiting and is dreaming of
his brother's return.
In the morning the people of the inn wake him. Haggard and shivering he
looks about him. His glance falls upon the empty bed in which his
brother was to have slept. The first bed since six weeks!--Sadly he
stands there in front of it and stares at it. Then he has his
conveyance brought round and drives off.
This year autumn has come early. Since a week there has been a rough
north wind which cuts through one's body as if it were November. Gusts
of rain beat against the window-panes and the ground is already covered
with a layer of yellowish-brown half-decayed leaves off the lime-trees.
And how soon it grows dark! In the bakery a light burns in the swinging
lamp long before supper-time. Beneath its globe sits Franz Maas,
eagerly reckoning up and counting. On the baker's table before him
where as a rule the little white round heaps of dough are ranged,
to-day there are little white round heaps of florins, and instead of
the crisp "Bretzels" to-day the paper of bank-notes is crackling.
This is the treasure which Martin Rockhammer entrusted to him the
Sunday before, with instructions to hand it over to Johannes. He also
left a letter in which the various items of the inheritance are set
down to a penny.
Every morning since then he has knocked at the door, and each time
asked the selfsame question, "Has he been?" Then when Franz Maas shook
his head, has silently departed again.
To-day the same. To-day is Friday; today he must come if he wants to be
in time for the Bremen ship. Noiselessly he has opened the door and is
standing behind him, just as he is about to lock the money away. "I
suppose that is all for me," he asks, laying his hand on his shoulder.
"Thank heaven I you have come," cries Franz, agreeably startled. Then
he casts a critical glance over his friend's figure. Martin must have
been exaggerating when, with tears in his eyes, he described his
dilapidated appearance. He looks decent and respectable, is wearing a
brand new waterproof, beneath the turned-back flaps of which a neat
gray suit is visible. His hair is smoothly brushed--he is even shaved.
But of course his dark, dulled gaze, the bagginess under his eyes, the
ugly red of his cheeks, are sad witnesses in this face, eretime so
youthfully joyous.
And then he grasps both his hands and says:
"Johannes, Johannes, what has come over you?"
"Patience; you shall hear all!" he replies, "I must confide in one
living soul, or it will eat my very heart out over there."
"Then you really mean it? You intend--"
"I am off to-night by the mail-coach. My seat is already booked. Before
I came to you, I went once more through the village. It was already
dark, so I could venture--and I took leave of everything. I went to our
parents' grave, and as far as the church door, and to the host of the
'Crown,' to whom I owed a trifle."
"And you forgot the mill?"
Johannes bites his lips and chews at his moustache; then he mutters:
"That is still to come."
"Oh, how glad Martin will be," cries Franz Maas, quite red with
pleasure himself.
"Did I say I was going to see Martin?" asks Johannes between his teeth,
while his chest heaves, as if it had a load of embarrassment to throw
off.
"What? You intend slinking about on your father's inheritance like a
thief,--avoiding a meeting with any one?"
"Not that either. I have to bid good-bye to some one, but not to
Martin!"
"To whom else then?--To whom else, man?" cries Franz Maas, in whom a
horrible suspicion dawns.
"Lock the door and sit down here," says Johannes,--"now I will tell
you."
The hours pass by; the storm rattles at the shutters. The oil in the
lamp begins to splutter. The two friends sit with their heads together,
their looks occasionally meeting. Johannes confesses--conceals nothing.
He begins with that first meeting with Trude, up to the moment when
horror drove him forth from Martin's embrace--out into the stormy
night.
"What came after that," he concludes, "can be told in a few words. I
ran without knowing whither, until the cold and wet restored me to
consciousness. Then the post-chaise from Marienfeld just happened to
come along. I stopped it--at last I got under cover by this means. Thus
I came to the town, where I have been putting up till now. Lob Levi had
just given me a hundred thalers. With these I rigged myself out afresh,
for I did not want to face Trude in the dilapidated state I was in."
"Miserable wretch--are you going to ...?"
"Don't kick up a row," he says roughly. "It is all arranged, already. I
gave a note for her to a little boy I met in the street, and waited
till he came back. She took it from him in the kitchen without even a
servant noticing anything. At eleven o'clock she will be at the weir,
and I--ha-ha-ha- ... I too!"
"Johannes, I beg and implore you, don't do it," cries Franz in sheer
terror. "There's sure to be a misfortune." Johannes' reply is a hoarse
laugh, and, with burning eyes, his mouth put close to his friend's ear,
he hisses: "Do you really think, man, that I could manage to live and
to die in a strange country if I did not see her just once more? Do you
imagine I should have courage to stare for four weeks at the sea
without throwing myself into it--if I did not see her once more? The
very air for breathing would fail me, my meat and drink would stick in
my throat, I should rot away alive if I did not see her just once
more!"
When Franz hears all this he refrains from further discussion.
Johannes' restless glance wanders towards the clock. "It is time," he
says, and takes his cap. "At midnight the mail-coach comes through the
village. Expect me at the post office and bring me two hundred-thaler
notes; that will be enough for my passage. The rest you can give back
to him; I shan't want it! Good-bye till then!" At the door he turns
round and asks: "I say, does my breath smell of brandy?"
"Yes."
He breaks into a coarse laugh; then he says: "Give me a few coffee
beans to chew. I don't want Trude to get a horror of me in this last
hour."
And when Franz has given him what he wants he disappears into the
darkness.
It is high water to-day. With a great hissing and roaring the waters
shoot down the declivity, then sink down into their foaming grave with
dull, plaintive rumblings, while the glistening spray breaks over them
in one high-vaulted arch.
The howling of the storm mingles with the tumult of these volumes of
water. The old alders alongside the river bow and bend to each other
like shadowy giants come forth in their numbers to dance a reel in one
long line. The heavens are obscured by heavy rain-clouds,--everything
is dark and black except the snowy froth, which seems to throw out an
uncertain light against which the outlines of the wood planking are
dimly visible. Above that projects the rail of the little drawbridge,
in appearance like the phantom form of a cat, creeping with
outstretched legs across a roof.
On the drawbridge the two meet. Trude, her head covered by a dark
shawl, has been standing for a long time beneath the alders, seeking
shelter from the rain, and has hurried to meet him as she saw the
outline of his figure appear on yonder side of the weir.
"Trude, is it you?" he asks hurriedly, looking searchingly into her
face. She is silent and clings to the rail. The foam is dancing before
her eyes, in blue and yellow colors.
"Trude," he says, while he tries to catch hold of her hand, "I have
come to bid you farewell for life. Are you going to let me go forth to
a strange land without one word?"
"And I have come for the peace of my soul," says she, shrinking back
from his groping hand. "Hans, I have borne much for your sake; I have
grown older by half a lifetime; I am weak and ill. Therefore take pity
on me: do not touch me--I do not want to return again guilt-laden to
your brother's house!"
"Trude--did you come here to torture me?"
"Softly, Hans, softly--do not pain me! Let us part from one another with
clean and honest hearts, and take peace and courage with us--for all
our lives.... We must surely not rail at each other--not in love and
not in hatred," She stops exhausted; her breath comes heavily; then,
pulling herself together with an effort, she continues: "You see, I
always knew that you would come long before I got your note to-day;
and, a thousand times over I thought out every word--that I was going
to say to you. But of course--you must not unsettle me so."
His eyes glow through the darkness; his breath comes hot; and with a
shrill laugh he says:
"Don't make a halo round us. It is no good--we are both accursed anyway
in heaven and on earth! Then let us at least--"
He stops abruptly, listening.
"Hush! I thought--I heard--there in the meadow!"
He holds his breath and hearkens. Nothing to be heard or seen. Whatever
it was, the storm and the darkness have engulfed it.
"Come down to the river's edge," he says, "our figures are so clearly
defined up here."
She leads the way; he follows. But on the slippery woodwork she loses
her footing. Then he catches her in his arms and carries her down to
the river. Unresisting, she hangs upon his neck.
"How light you have got since that day," he says softly, while he lets
her glide down, then raises her up.
"Oh, you would hardly recognize me if you saw me," she replies equally
softly.
"I would give anything if only I could!" he says, and tries to draw
away the shawl from about her face. A pale oval, two dark, round
shadows in it where the eyes are--the darkness reveals no more.
"I feel like a blind man," he says, and his trembling hand glides over
her forehead, down to her cheeks, as if by touch to distinguish the
loved features. She resists no longer. Her head drops upon his
shoulder.
"How much I wanted to say to you!" she whispers. "And now I no longer
can think of anything--not of anything at all."
He twines his arms more closely around her. They stand there silent and
motionless while the storm tugs and tears at them, and the rain beats
down upon their heads.
Then from the village come the cracked notes of the post-horn, half
drowned by the blast.
"Our time is up," he says, shivering. "I must go."
"Now--the night?" she stammers voicelessly.
He nods.
"And I shall never see you again?"
A wild scream rends the storm.
"Johannes, have pity, I cannot let you go. I cannot live without you!"
Her fingers dig themselves into his shoulders. "You shall not--I will
not let you."
He tries to free himself by main force.
"Ah, well--you are going--oh--you--you--you are wicked! You know that I
must die if you go, I cannot--Take me with you! Take me with you!"
"Are you out of your senses, woman?" He covers his face with his hands
and groans aloud.
"So--this is what you call being out of one's senses! Does not even a
lamb struggle--when led to the slaughter? And you are capable of----Ah,
is this all your love for me? Is this all? Is this all?"
"Don't you think of Martin?"
"He is your brother. That is all I know about him. But I know that I
must die if I stay with him any longer. It makes me shudder to think of
him! Take me with you, my husband! Take me with you!"
He grasps both her wrists, and shaking her to and fro, he whispers with
half-choked utterance:
"And do you know besides that I am ruined and disgraced--an outcast, a
drunkard, no good at all in the world? If you could see me, you would
have a horror of me, good people shun me and loathe me--do you think I
should be good to you? I shall never forgive you for coming between me
and Martin--never forgive you for making me sin against him as I have
done for your sake. He will be between us as long as we live. I shall
insult you--I shall beat you when I am drunk. You will find it hell at
my side. Well? What do you say now?"
She bows her head demurely, folds her hands and says: "Take me with
you!" A scream of exultant joy escapes his lips. "Then come--but come
quickly. The coach stops for a quarter of an hour. No one will see us
except Franz Maas--the only one he will not betray us. In the town you
can get clothes and then.... Stop! What does this mean?"
The mill has awakened to life. A yellow light streams out into the
darkness from the wide-opened door. A lantern sways across the yard
then, thrown to one side, flies in a gleaming curve through the air
like a shooting star.
Martin lies in bed asleep. Suddenly there is a tap at the window-pane.
"Who is there?"
"I--David!"
"What do you want?"
"Open the door, Master! I have something important to tell you."
Martin jumps out of bed, strikes a light and hurries on his clothes. A
casual glance falls upon Trude's empty bed. Evidently she has dozed off
on the sitting-room over her sewing, for it is a long time since she
has known sound, healthy sleep.
"What is the matter?" he asks David, who steps into the entrance
dripping like a drowned cat.
"Master," he says, blinking from under the peak of his cap, "it is now
more than twenty-eight years since I first came to the mill--and your
late father already used to be good to me always...."
"And you drag me out of bed in the middle of the night to tell me
_that_?"
"Yes, for to-night when I woke up and heard the rain pelting down, I
suddenly remembered with a start that the sluices of the lock were not
opened.... Perhaps the water might get blocked up and we could not
grind to-morrow."
"Haven't I told you fellows hundreds of times that the sluices need
only be opened when the ice is drifting? At high water it only means
unnecessary labor."
"Well, I didn't touch them," observes David.
"Then what do you want?"
"Because, when I got to the weir I saw two lovers standing on the
drawbridge!"
"And that's why?..."
"Then I thought it was a regular disgrace and a crying shame, and no
longer--"
"Let them love each other, in the devil's name!"
"And I thought it my duty to tell you. Master, when Master Johannes and
our lady--"
He gets no further, for his master's fingers are at his throat.
What has come over Martin, wretched man? His face becomes livid and
swollen; the veins on his forehead stand out; his nostrils quiver, his
eyes seem to start from their sockets--white foam is at his mouth.
Then he gives vent to a sound like the howl of a jackal, and, loosening
his grip of David, with one wrench he tears the shirt at his throat
asunder.
Two or three deep breaths, like a man who is achoking; then he roars
aloud in suddenly unfettered rage: "Where are they? They shall account
to me for this. They have been acting a farce! They have deceived me!
Where are they? I'll do for them! I'll do for them, then and there!"
He tears the lantern out of terrified David's hand and rushes out. He
disappears into the wheel-house; a second later he reappears. High
above his head there gleams an axe. Then he swings the lantern thrice
in a circle and flings it far away from him into the water. He storms
along in the direction of the weir.
"There's some one coming," whispers Trude, nestling closer up to
Johannes.
"Probably they have something to do at the sluices," he whispers back.
"Don't stir and be of good courage."
Nearer and nearer hastens the dark figure. A beastlike roaring pierces
through the night, above the fury of the storm. "It is Martin," says
Johannes, staggering back three paces.
But he collects himself quickly, clutches Trude and drags her with him
close up to the woodwork at the weir, in the darkest shadow of which
they both crouch down.
Close to their heads the infuriated man races along. The axe, lifted on
high, glints in the half-light of the foam. On the other side of the
weir he stops. He seems to be gazing searchingly across the wide
meadow, which spreads before him in monotonous darkness without tree or
shrub.
"You keep watch at the hither sluice, David," his voice thunders out in
the direction of the mill. "They must be in the field. I shall catch
them there!"
A cry of horror starts from Johannes' lips. He has divined his
brother's intention. He is going to pull up the drawbridge and trap
them both on the island. And close behind Trude's neck hangs the chain
which must be pulled to make the bridge move back. His first thought
is: "Protect the woman!" He tears himself out of Trude's arms, and
springs up the slope of the river-bank to offer himself as a sacrifice
to his brother's fury.
Trude utters a piercing shriek. Johannes in mortal danger; over there
the infuriated man, the axe gleaming bright; but behind her there is
that chain, that iron ring which is almost tearing her head open. With
trembling hands she grasps hold of it; she tugs at it with all her
might. At the very moment when Martin is about to climb upon the
foot-plank, the drawbridge swings back.
Johannes sees nothing of it; he only sees the shadow over there, and
the gleaming axe. A few paces further, and death will descend swiftly
upon him. Then suddenly, in the moment of direst distress, he thinks of
his mother and what she once said to the enraged boy.
"Think of Fritz!" he cries out to his brother. And behold! The axe
drops from his hand; he staggers; he falls--one dull thud--one splash:
he has disappeared. Johannes rushes forward; his foot hits against the
draw-up bridge. Close before him yawns a black hole. "Brother,
brother!" he cries in frenzied terror. He has no thought, no feeling
left, only one sensation: "Save your brother!" whirls through his
brain. With one jerk he throws off his cloak--a leap--a dull blow as if
against some sharp edge.
Trude, who is half unconsciously clutching at the chain, sees a long
dark mass shoot down the incline into the white waters, and disappear
into the foaming whirlpool, a second later another follows.
Like two shadows they flew past her. She turns her gaze upwards towards
the woodwork. Up there all is quiet; it is all empty. The storm howls;
the waters roar. Fainting, she sinks down at the river's edge.
Next day the bodies of the two brothers were pulled out of the river.
Side by side they were floating on the waters; side by side they were
buried.
Trude was as if petrified with grief. In tearless despair she brooded
to herself--she refuses to see any of her relations, even her own
father. Franz Maas alone she suffers near her. Faithfully he takes
charge of her, kept strangers away from her threshold and attends to
all formalities.
There was some rumor of a legal investigation to be held against the
wretched woman, on the ground of David's dark insinuations. But even
though the statements of the old servant were too incomplete and
confused to build up a lawsuit upon them, they still sufficed to brand
Trude Rockhammer as a criminal in the eyes of the world. The more she
shrinks from all intercourse, the more anxiously she closes the mill to
all strangers, the more extravagant grow the rumors that were spread
about her.
"The miller-witch," people come to call her, and the legends that
surrounded her were handed down from one generation to the next. The
mill now becomes the "Silent Mill," as the popular voice christened
it. The walls crumble away; the wheels grow rotten; the bright, clear
stream becomes choked with weeds, and when the State planned a canal
which conducted the water into the main stream above Marienfeld--then
it degenerated into a marsh.
And Trude herself became entirely isolated, for soon she would not even
allow her one friend to approach her, and closed her doors to him.
Before her own conscience she was a murderess. Her terrors drove her to
a father confessor and into the arms of the Catholic Church. She was to
be seen crawling at the foot of a crucifix or kneeling at church doors,
telling her beads and beating her head against the stones till it bled.