It was late at night, when Thoma threw open the window of the room in
which she should have been asleep. Her cheeks glowed; but her lover,
who on this mild spring night, should have been talking with and
caressing her, came not. From the forest came the song of a
nightingale, and from the hill behind another answered, in rivalry.
Thoma did not hear them. She was struggling with a demon that night.
Thoma was a well-bred farmer's daughter. To be sure she had not had
much training. She had been one of the best scholars in the public
school, and at home she was taught to be diligent and honest; and this
she was. She was proud and imperious like her father, who had indulged
her from her childhood, and, as her mother cared nothing for the
outside world, had been her companion on all sorts of pleasure
excursions. He delighted in her decision of character, and above all
else had encouraged her pride.
A daughter of a neighboring farmer had been Thoma's playmate, but in
reality, her father was her only confidant. It might do for poor people
to fall in love, but Thoma, as became a rich farmer's daughter, had
made up her mind to marry only a rich and influential man of the same
class. Anton, to be sure, was of somewhat lower rank, but still he was
of a good family; and, though not rich, he was sought after by all the
daughters of the country side.
Even a princess is glad to be loved; and certainly no princess was ever
more deeply loved, or received truer homage than Anton gave Thoma.
And now how had it all turned out!
The pride which Landolin had fostered in his child until it had grown
all too powerful, was now turned against him, and against the whole
world.
Thoma clenched her hands. She did not want to be pardoned, or receive
anything as a gift, not even from her lover. "He shall not come and
say, or even hint by his manner--'The honor of your family is lost; you
are the daughter of a murderer; but still I will be good and true to
you.' No--it is over."
As she thought of her father, her hands tightened convulsively. How
could he have done such a thing! Common people, servants and beggars
may now look into her life, discuss it, and pass judgment upon it. They
may be respectful or not as they please. They will act as though she
should be thankful to them for greeting her.
With a rapidity which knows no distance, Thoma's thoughts hastened from
farm-house to farm-house, where the daughters were condemning or
pitying her--her--Thoma; or they were sleeping--_they_ could sleep
peacefully, but Thoma could not sleep.
As when the poison from an adder's fang permeates the body of a strong,
vigorous man; rushes through his veins, maddens him, urging him on, and
at the same time making him powerless; seeks outlet where there is
none; stifles his cry for help; destroys his life--so it was with
Thoma, when on this night she clenched her hands in silent desperation.
A concentration of thought, a subtlety of which she never dreamed,
possessed her. She struggled against it as against a bitter enemy, but
in vain.
Imprisonment, the penitentiary, capital punishment--these are things
for the poor; but not for the rich and influential. Thus Thoma had
always thought; or rather, scarcely giving it a thought, she had
considered it a matter of course. But now--if her father confesses what
he has done, eternal disgrace will be the consequence. Should he not
confess, eternal falsehood, hypocrisy, constant trembling, a cowardly
shunning of every glance, and a forced smile when criminals are
mentioned.
Thoma groaned, stricken to the heart, and then her thoughts became
pitiful; "Oh, my father! He is sitting sleepless and alone in prison.
This one day must seem to him like many years; like a whole life-time.
Who can help him? Who? Who can bring the dead to life, or wipe away sin
from the soul?"
Thoma looked up at the stars. "They stand still, and twinkle and
glitter over millions of sleepers; over millions of watchers in
sickness, sorrow, and distress, and no one of them is more unhappy than
I--"
Tears filled her eyes. She forced them back impatiently. She must not
allow herself to become faint-hearted, nor to lament. She would have no
pity from any one, for any one!----Proud, proud! "But where is my
pride? 'Tis gone. Over yonder lies a corpse, a murdered man!"
It seemed to Thoma that she could plainly see Vetturi, standing before
her with his bleeding head. She screamed aloud, but the terrible
picture did not vanish. She threw herself on the pillows, then raised
her head to listen. The cock crew. Her eyes closed tremulously, and, as
she lay there but half awake, fragments of the verse from the Bible ran
through her mind: "The cock crows--thou wilt deny"----In prison one
does not hear the cock crow.
Thoma buried her face deeper in the pillows. It was raining gently, and
she fell asleep.
The Thoma who awoke was a different girl from the Thoma of the
betrothal morning. She soon heard this from strangers. Her former
playmate, with whom she had quarrelled, came and told her how changed
she was, and that they must be friends again. Thoma soon showed her,
however, that she had not grown more lenient with the change, and would
accept no pity. She repulsed the disgraced girl coldly and sharply.