A STORMY NIGHT.
When Lenz left the Doctor to mount the hill, he was full of happy
confidence. Two paths were open to him--his uncle or the manufactory.
When he saw lights shining in his house, he said to himself, "God be
praised! those I love are expecting me. All will soon be right again."
Suddenly, like a fiery dart, the thought cut him to the heart "You have
this day been wicked--downright wicked--doubly and trebly so. Both when
you were with Kathrine and at the Doctor's, the sinful thought arose in
your heart--how different your fate might have been! You have hitherto
boasted of your honest heart--you can do so no longer. You are the
father of two children, and have been five years married. Good heavens!
This is actually our fifth wedding day."
He stood still, and his conscience smote him. He said to himself:
"Annele, good Annele! I have sinned in thought today in every way. My
parents in heaven will not forgive me if that ever occurs again. But
from this day we shall commence a new union."
With this feeling of indignation against himself, and in the joyful
security that all would soon be on a more pleasant footing at home, he
entered the house. "Where is my wife?" said he, finding the children
sitting in the kitchen with the maid.
"She has just lain down."
"What? Is she ill?"
"She did not complain of anything."
Lenz hurried to his wife. "God be with you, Annele! I say good morning
and good evening together, for I forgot it when I left you so early
today; and I wish you all happiness, and myself too. Please God, from
this day forth, all will go well with us!"
"Thank you."
"What is the matter? Are you ill?"
"No; only tired--very tired. I will rise immediately, however."
"No; stay where you are, if it rests you. I have good news to give
you."
"I don't choose to lie here. Go away, and I will come to you
presently."
"But first listen to what I have got to say."
"Plenty of time for that; a few minutes can't make much difference."
All Lenz's lightness of heart seemed to vanish; but he controlled his
feelings, and went out and caressed the children. At last Annele came.
"Do you want anything to eat?" said she.
"No. How does my hat come here?"
"Faller brought it. I suppose you gave it to him to bring to me."
"Why should I do that? The wind carried it off my head." He related
briefly his interview with Kathrine. Annele was silent: she was
carefully hoarding up the arrow with the lie about Faller's
security--the time will soon come when she can send it flying at his
head. She can wait.
Lenz sent the maid into the kitchen, and taking his boy on his knee, he
told Annele honestly everything, with one exception--the faithless
thoughts he had entertained towards her. And Annele said: "Do you know
the only reality in all that?"
"What?"
"The hundred gulden and three crown dollars old Franzl offered you. All
the rest is stuff."
"Why so?"
"Because your uncle will never help you. I suppose you will own now,
that you should not have helped him to slip through our fingers as to
his intentions towards you, this day five years?"
"But the proposal about the manufactory?"
"Who is to enter it besides you?"
"I know of no one at this moment but Proebler; and it is true he has
made many useful discoveries in his life."
"Ha! ha!--capital! Proebler and you!--a famous match, certainly! Have
not I told you a hundred times that you would sink to his level? But he
is better than you, for at least he has not brought a wife and family
to beggary by his misconduct. To the deuce with such hypocrites and
milksops! Go in harness with Proebler, by all means!" cried Annele.
And snatching the boy from his knee, she said passionately to the
child--"Your father is a scamp and an idler, and expects us to put
every morsel of bread into his mouth. It is a pity his mother is not
still living, to feed him with bread and milk. Oh! how low I am sunk!
But this I tell you, that so long as I live you shall not enter that
manufactory. I would rather drown both myself and my children; then,
perhaps, the Doctor's long-legged daughter, the young lady who is so
learned in herbs, might marry you."
Lenz sat still, entirely confounded. His hair stood on end. At last he
said--"Don't dare to call on my mother: leave her at peace in
eternity."
"I can do that easily enough. I didn't want anything from her, and I
never had anything from her."
"What?--have you thrown away the plant of Edelweiss that was hers?"
"Oh, stuff! I have it yet."
"Where? give it to me."
Annele opened a cupboard and showed him the plant. "I am thankful that
you still have it," said Lenz, "for it will bring a blessing on us
both."
"You seem pretty well out of your mind with your foolish
superstitions," answered Annele. "Must I submit to that, too? There!
fly away in the air, Edelweiss, along with the sacred inscription!"
She opened the window. A stormy wind was howling outside. "There,
wind!" called she, "come! Carry it all off with you--the whole precious
concern!" The writing and the plant were whirled away in a moment. The
wind shrieked and whistled, and deposited the writing on the bleak
hill.
"Annele, what have you done?" said Lenz with a groan.
"I am not superstitious like you; I am not so lost to common sense yet,
as to place any faith in the benefit of a spell."
"It is no superstition. My mother only meant, that so long as my wife
respected what came from her, it would bring us a blessing. But nothing
is sacred in your eyes."
"Certainly, neither you nor your mother are."
"Enough!--not another word," cried Lenz in a hoarse voice, dashing down
a chair. "Go with the boy out of the room. Not one word, or I shall go
out of my senses.--Hush! some one is coming."
Annele left the room with the child.
The Doctor came in.
"As I feared, so, alas, it is! Your uncle will do nothing--absolutely
nothing. He says that he tried to dissuade you from marrying, and takes
his ground on that point. I tried every persuasion, but all in vain. He
almost told me to leave the house."
"Is it possible?--and on my account too! The dreadful thing is, that
whoever is friendly to me, or wishes to do me good, is sure to come in
for a share of my misery. Forgive me, Herr Doctor--it was not my
fault."
"I know that well! how can you speak so? I have known many men in the
course of my life, but never yet such a man as your uncle. He opened
his heart to me, and he has the tender heart of your family, and I
thought I should be able to guide him with ease, and lead him to the
point I wished like a child; but, when it came to the grand climax,
money!"--the Doctor snapped his fingers;--"it was all up! no further
use talking! My belief is that he really has nothing of his own;
nothing but an annuity from some insurance office; but let us put him
aside altogether. I have talked to both my sons. If you don't wish to
enter the manufactory, you may have six or seven workpeople in your own
house here, as many as you can manage, and employ them for the benefit
of the manufactory."
"Do not speak so loud. My wife hears everything in the next room; and
just like you with my uncle, I unfortunately foresaw what she would
say. In my life I never saw her in such a state as she was, when I told
her about the manufactory. She won't hear of it."
"Think it over for a time. Won't you escort me a little way?"
"Pray excuse me, for I am so tired; I really can scarcely stand, for I
have not rested since four o'clock this morning; I am not much
accustomed to walk so far, and I almost think I am going to be ill."
"Your pulse is feverish; but that is natural enough. If you have a good
sleep tonight, you will soon be all right again; but be careful of
yourself for some time. You may have a very serious attack of illness
if you do not keep quiet, and spare yourself and nurse yourself. Tell
your wife from me," said the Doctor aloud, so that she might hear it in
the adjoining room, "that she should be very careful of the father of
her children"--here he made a pause on purpose--"and nurse him kindly,
and keep him at home; a clockmaker, from his constant sedentary habits,
is but a weakly creature. Good night, Lenz!"
The Doctor departed. He often stumbled by the way, and almost sunk down
into the snow drifts that were fast thawing in all directions, and on
the surface of which were many dangerous, loose, rolling stones. He was
forced to give his attention more closely to the path, and not to give
way to sad thoughts; for he recalled what Pilgrim had lately said to
him:--"Lenz lived, no doubt, tolerably enough with his wife, but a mere
formal intercourse with any one could not satisfy him; what he requires
is cheerfulness, happiness, and cordial love; and these he has not."
In the meanwhile Lenz was sitting alone. He was quite worn out with
fatigue, and yet he could find no rest. He walked up and down the room
restlessly, like a wild beast in his cage. He might justly have uttered
many more complaints to the Doctor, for he was really suffering
severely, and all at once he exclaimed in the bitterness of his
heart:--"Alas, alas! to be ill, with an unkind wife! not to be able to
go away--here must I be, and submit to her humours and to all her
bitter speeches. She will say that my invalid fancies proceed only from
folly, and my best friends dare not come to see me. To feel so ill, and
to be dependent on the kindness of a malignant woman! Death from my own
hand would be preferable!"
The wind extinguished the fire, and the house was filled with smoke.
Lenz opened the window and stood long looking out:--"There is no longer
a light at the blacksmith's; he is buried in the dark earth: happy the
man who can be at rest like him, and out of misery!"
The air was warm, singularly warm; water was dripping from the roof;
the wind was rushing and raging over hill and valley, and there were
crashes in the air, as if one blast of wind came in collision with
another, driving it forwards. On the hill behind the house there
sounded a constant rolling and rumbling; as if the storm were savage at
being deprived of the wood in which it was accustomed to career at
will; and now the blast wreaks its wrath on the old chesnut trees and
pines close to the house while they sway about wildly, and creak and
strain. It is most fortunate that the house is so strongly built; one
of the old fashioned kind, made of whole logs of timber laid crossways,
otherwise there would be good reason to fear that the hurricane would
sweep away the house and all in it.
"That would be famous!" Lenz laughed bitterly; but he often looked over
his shoulder in terror, for the old beams cracked today, as if the
house knew what was going on within its walls.
Such a night and such a mood, no inhabitant of this house had ever
known; neither Lenz's father, nor grandfather, nor great grandfather.
He went to fetch writing materials, and found himself, by chance, with
the light in his hand opposite the looking glass, staring at a human
face with wild, sunken eyes. At last he sat down and wrote; he paused
repeatedly, pressed his hand to his eyes, and then wrote on again
hurriedly. He rubbed his eyes but no tears came to his relief:--"You
can no longer weep; you have too much sorrow for one man to bear," said
he in a low voice. He wrote:--
"BROTHER OF MY HEART!
"It grieves me to write to you; but I must once more speak to you
freely. I think of the days, and the summer nights, when I roamed about
with you, dear friend. I cannot believe that it was I! it surely must
have been another man! God is my witness, and also my mother in heaven,
that I never willingly offended any one in my life; and if I ever
offended you, beloved friend, forgive me; I ask your pardon a thousand
times. I never did so intentionally. A man situated as I am, is not
worthy to live.
"And now, this is the point: I expect no deliverance but from death. I
know it is scandalous, but if I live the scandal will be greater. Each
day of my life I am a murderer. I can no longer bear this. I weep night
after night, and I despise myself for it. I may say that I might have
been a quiet, upright, honest man, if I could have kept in the straight
path. I am not equal to contend with others. Tears rush to my eyes when
I think of what I have become, and yet I was once so different. If I
continue to live, my life will disgrace my children; now it will only
be my death. In the course of a year it will be forgotten, and the
grass will be growing over my grave. I appeal to you by your good
heart, and by all the kindness you have shown me all your life long,
take a fatherly charge of my deserted children! My poor children! I
dare not think of them! I once thought I could be as kind a father as
any in the world--but I cannot--I cannot bring those to love me, who do
not do so of their own accord, and that is my chief misery, a misery I
am unable to conquer--it is like trying to climb a glass wall. My dear
mother was right; how often did she say--'We can sow and plant all
kinds of things, and by dint of culture make them flourish, but one
thing must grow voluntarily, and that is mutual affection.' It does not
grow in my case, where I would fain see it grow.
"Take my children out of the village when I am buried--I do not wish
them to be present. Beg the Pastor to let me lie beside my parents, and
my brother, and sisters. They were better off than me. Why was I alone
doomed to live, in order to die thus at last?
"You are my Wilhelm's godfather; pray adopt him. You always said he had
a talent for drawing, so take him under your care. If possible, be
reconciled to uncle Petrowitsch, perhaps he will do something for my
children when I am gone; and I tell you again, and certainly I tell you
the truth at such a moment as this, he likes you in reality, and you
may become good friends yet. He has a kind heart, far more so than he
wishes to have thought--my poor mother often and often said so. My
wife.... I will say nothing of her. If my children do well, then you
can say all kind of things to her from me, one day. I have been obliged
to hear, and to say, what I could never have believed possible. Oh!
world! what are you? I am in prison, and must make my escape. I have
lived through days and nights that seemed like years. I am weary; weary
to death; I can go no single step farther. For months past, when I
close my eyes and try to sleep, I see nothing but horrors, and they
pursue me by day also. As for the money I owe you, the watch I wear is
your property, it will beat on your faithful heart, after mine beats no
more--and when my things are sold, buy my father's file, and keep it
for my Wilhelm. I have nothing to leave him; but don't fail to tell him
often that his father was not a bad man. He inherits my unfortunate
disposition: try to drive it out of him, and make him strong and
energetic. And the little girl----
"It seems hard, hard indeed, that I must part with my life while I am
still so young, but it is best it should be so. The Doctor will see
that my body is not sent to the students at Freiburg. Greet him, and
all his family, in the kindest manner from me. He has long seen that I
was declining in health and happiness, but it was beyond the power of
any doctor to cure me. Say farewell from me to all my good comrades,
particularly to Faller, and the Schoolmaster. I fancy I have still much
to say, but my eyes are dim and dizzy. My beloved friend and brother,
good night! Farewell, for ever!
"Your faithful
"LENZ."
He folded up the letter, and wrote on the back "To my much loved
brother, Pilgrim."
Day was dawning. He extinguished the light, and still holding the
letter in his hand, Lenz looked out of the window, as his last greeting
to the wide world outside. The sun is rising over the hill; first a
pale yellow line, then a dark cloud stretches itself along, contrasting
with the clear, deep blue sky; the whole plain, covered with snow,
trembles in the pale, flickering light; a bright red glow steals
over the surface of the cloud, but the centre remains dark; when
suddenly--the cloud is rent asunder, in bright yellow shreds, the whole
sky is golden, till it gradually catches a rosy hue, and then all at
once the whole extent of the heavens becomes a mass of brilliant,
glittering crimson; this is the world--the world of light, of bright
existence; it will be seen but once more, before you leave it for ever!
Lenz concealed the letter, and went out round the house; he plunged
almost up to his knees in snow. He returned into the sitting room.
Annele had not yet risen, he therefore breakfasted alone with his
children; and when the bells began to ring, he desired the maid to take
Wilhelm to Pilgrim's. He first thought of giving the maid his letter
with her, but he took it again out of her hand and put it in the girl's
frock. When they undressed her at night, they would find it, and by
that time all would be over.
"Go to Pilgrim," said he to the maid again, "and wait in his house till
I come; and, if I don't come, stay there till night." He kissed the
boy, and then turned away, and laid his head on the table. He remained
thus a long time. Nothing stirred in the house. The bells in the valley
below were sounding for church; he waited till the last note had died
away, and then locked the house door, and came back into the room,
crying in despair of heart, "Heavenly Father! forgive me; but it must
be so!"
He sank on his knees, and tried to pray, but could not:--"Annele, too,
used to pray often; and yet scarcely was the last word of prayer
uttered by her lips, than strife and discord, scorn and mockery, broke
loose again; she has transgressed both against heaven and earth. And
yet I cannot die without seeing her once more."
He rushed into the next room, and drew aside the bed curtains.
"Father!" cried the little girl, who was sitting on her mother's bed;
and Lenz sunk down almost lifeless.
A hollow sound is heard. The earth is opening, surely, to swallow up
the house! It is like thunder--underground, and overhead. A violent
concussion makes the house shake. And suddenly all is pitch dark. The
blackest night reigns everywhere.
"In God's name, what is it?" screamed Annele.
Lenz raised himself with difficulty. "I don't know, I don't know."
"What has happened?" Annele and the child cried and screamed. And Lenz
called out, "Good God! what is it?" They were all stupefied. Lenz tried
to open a window, but could not succeed. He groped his way to the next
room, but all was dark there too. He stumbled over a chair, and ran
back into Annele's room, calling out, "Annele, we are buried alive!
buried in the snow!"Neither of them could utter a syllable, but the
child screamed loudly, and the poultry in their coops screeched wildly,
as if a weasel had come among them; then all was still, as still as
death.