It was evening, and Christian went to the forester’s house. The way was
very familiar to him now. He did not analyze the inner compulsion that
drew him thither.
Amadeus Voss sat by his lamp and read in an old book. Through the
second door of the room the shadow of his mother slipped away.
After a while he asked: “Will you go with me to-morrow to Nettersheim?”
“What am I to do there?” Christian questioned in his turn.
Amadeus raised his face, and his spectacles glimmered. He murmured:
“She may be dead by this time.”
He drummed on his knees with his fingers. Since Christian said nothing,
he began to tell him the story of the woman Walpurga, who was in the
service of his uncle, the wealthy farmer Borsche.
“She was born in the village, a cottager’s daughter. At fifteen she
went to the city. She had heard of the fine life one leads there and
had great ambitions. She was in service here and there. Last she was in
the house of a merchant whose son seduced her; and of course, when it
was discovered, she was driven out. So it comes to pass that those who
are by nature the victims must bear a punishment in addition.
“She bore a child, but the child died. She fell deeper and deeper,
until she became a street-walker. She practised this calling in Bochum
and in Elberfeld. But the life wore on her, and she fell ill. One day
a great home-sickness came upon her. She mustered her last strength,
and returned to her native village. She was penniless and weak, but she
was anxious to earn her bread, no matter at what wage or through what
labour.
“But no one would hire her. Her parents were dead and she had no
relatives, so she became a public charge. She was made to feel it
grievously. One Sunday the minister inveighed against her from the
pulpit. He did not mention her name, but he spoke of vile lives and
sinks of iniquity, of visitations and punishments, and of how the anger
of the Lord was visible in an example that was before the eyes of all.
Thus she was branded and publicly delivered over to the scorn of all
people, and she determined to put an end to her life. One evening, as
Borsche was returning from his inn, he saw a woman lying in the road in
dreadful convulsions. It was Walpurga. No man was near. Borsche lifted
her on his broad back, and carried her to his farm. She confessed that
she had scraped the phosphorus from many matches and eaten it. The
farmer gave her milk as an antidote. She recovered, and was permitted
to stay on the farm.
“On some days she could work, and then she dragged herself to the
fields. On others she could not, and lay in a remote corner. The
men servants, of whom there were many, regarded her body as common
property. Resistance was useless. Not until Borsche learned this, and
blazed out in anger, did things get better. She was only twenty-three,
and despite her illness and the wretchedness of her life, she had
preserved much of her youthful good looks. Her cheeks had a natural
glow and her eyes were clear. So whenever she could not work, the other
maids fell upon her, and called her a malingering bawd.
“Two weeks ago I happened to be wandering in the neighbourhood of
Nettersheim, and stopped at Borsche’s house. I was well received there,
for the family think highly of me as a future priest. They talked about
Walpurga. The farmer told me her story, and asked me to have a look at
her and give my opinion as to whether she was really ill. I objected,
and asked why a physician had not seen her. He said that the doctor
from Heftrich had examined her and could find nothing wrong. So I went
to her. She lay in a shed, separated from the cows only by a wooden
partition. She was wrapped in an old horse-blanket, and a little straw
kept the chill of the earth from her body. Her healthy colour and her
normal form did not deceive me. I said to the farmer: ‘She’s like a
guttering candle.’ He and his wife seemed to believe me. But when I
demanded of them that they give the sick woman decent lodging and care,
they shrugged their shoulders, and said that it was as warm in the
stable as anywhere, and that there was no sense in taking trouble or
undergoing discomfort on account of a creature who had fallen so low.
“On the third day I saw her again, and I have seen her on every other
day since then. My thoughts could not get rid of her any more. In all
my life no human creature has so tugged at my heart. She could no
longer get up; the most malevolent had to admit that. I sat with her in
the evil smelling shed on a wooden bench near where she lay. Each time
I came she was happier to see me. I picked wild flowers on the way, and
she took them in her hands and held them against her breast. They told
her who I was, and gradually she put many questions to me. She wanted
to know whether there really was an eternal life and eternal bliss. She
wanted to know whether Christ had died on the cross for her too. She
was afraid of the torments of purgatory, and said if they were as bad
as the torments men could inflict she was sorry for the immortal part
of her. She meant neither to revile men nor to complain of them. She
merely wanted to know.
“And what answer could I give her? I assured her that Christ had taken
her cross upon Him too. Her other questions left me silent. One is so
dumb and desperate when a living heart thirsts after truth, and the
frozen Christ within would melt into a new day and a new sun. They are
even now in purgatory and ask when it will begin. Hidden in blackness,
they do not see the dark; consumed by flames, they are unaware of the
fire. Where is Satan’s true kingdom--here or elsewhere? And can that
elsewhere be upon any star more accursed than this? The poor man is
thrust from the wayside, the oppressed of the land creep into hiding;
from the cities come the moans of the dying, and the souls of those
who are wounded to death cry out. Yet God does not put an end to the
iniquity. And is it not written that the Lord said to Satan: ‘From
whence comest thou? And Satan answered the Lord, and said, From going
to and fro in the earth and from walking up and down in it.’
“She confessed her sins to me, and begged me to grant her absolution.
But nothing that seemed sinful to her seemed so to me. I saw the
desolateness and loneliness of the world. I saw the bleak rooms and the
barren walls, the streets by night with their flickering lamps, and
the men with no compassion in their eyes. That is what I saw and what
I thought of, and I took it upon my conscience to absolve her from all
guilt. I set her free and promised her Paradise. She smiled at me and
grasped my hand, and before I could prevent her she had kissed it. That
was yesterday.”
Amadeus was silent. “That was yesterday,” he repeated, after a long
and meditative pause. “I did not go to-day, out of fear of her dying.
Perhaps she is dead even now.”
“If you still want to go, I am ready,” said Christian timidly. “I’ll go
with you. It’s only an hour’s walk.”
“Then let us go,” said Amadeus, with a sigh of relief, and arose.