Chapter III (2)

This visit, which of course was much discussed in the little city, greatly increased and strengthened the love and reverence my friend enjoyed. It was considered greatly to her credit that she had resisted the temptation to return to her aristocratic circle, and preferred the humble almshouse to the proud castle. Mother Schulzen, of course, under the pretext that she must be close at hand, had listened at the door, and, though she usually declared herself to be hard of hearing, had not lost a word of the conversation.

From that time Frau Luise was secretly regarded as a sort of honorary citizen of our town, and would have been cheerfully granted the most jealously guarded privilege of citizenship, that of fishing in the lake, had she displayed any love for angling.

Yet she continued to live on in the unassuming manner previously described, and, as she enjoyed perfect health, she compared, in her droll way, her own condition with that of the little dismantled steamer that lay anchored in the calm inland lake, resting comfortably from every storm.

But one more tempest burst over her, which threatened to shake even her steadfast nature.

* * * * *

We had been permitted for three years to call her ours. Spring had come again, but no March snow-flakes were fluttering through the air as in the time when she arrived; the sun was shining brightly, and, as the song says, the weather tempted one to walk. Still, though it was Saturday afternoon and school had therefore been dismissed, I was obliged to leave her earlier than usual, as I had taken charge of the lessons in German for a sick colleague, and had a whole pile of exercise-books to correct by Monday.

I was sitting at my work again early Sunday morning, when a hurried message, brought by one of the seven almshouse dames, startled me. I must come at once to the Canoness--as her train preferred to call her.

I could not learn what had happened from the messenger. It was not _her day_, and she had not seen Frau Luise.

When I entered, I was no little surprised to find her in bed for the first time since I had known her. She tried to smile in order to soothe me, but it was only like a fleeting sunbeam which instantly vanished behind clouds of gloom.

"My life is not threatened, dear friend," said she; "nay, I am not even really ill--only so exhausted by mental emotion that, when I tried to rise, I fell back again. Sit down and listen."

She then related the horrible story. On the afternoon of the previous day, as, lured by the beautiful sunshine, she continued her walk alone as far as the lake, a wretched figure had suddenly confronted her, just at the spot where a group of willows cast a dense shade. It was a man with long, gray locks and a haggard, sunken face, holding his hat in his hand with the gesture of a mendicant. Lost in thought, she had not at first noticed him particularly, but felt in her pocket to throw alms into his hat. Suddenly the beggar seized her hand, and, covering it with passionate kisses, exclaimed: "Do you no longer know me, Luise?"

The sudden fright fairly made her heart stop beating. She could not move a limb, but, wrenching her hand from his grasp, stood staring at him, as though the specter must dissolve into mist before her eyes.

But unhappily it remained, tangible and audible, and the wife perceived with horror the ruin time had wrought in the proud and stately man. Absolutely unable to utter a word, she had been forced to listen to the long, carefully-studied speech, in which the hapless actor gave her a succinct account of his adventures and experiences in two hemispheres, protested his eternal love and longing for his worshiped wife, and in exaggerated theatrical phrases besought her forgiveness.

Not until he paused and, panting for breath, again tried to take her hand, did she recover sufficient self-control to retreat a step and say, "We have parted forever." With these words she turned to leave him. But he grasped her dress, and again began the litany of his complaints, entreaties, and self-reproaches. Fearing that some person might pass whom the desperate man would make a witness of this pathetic scene, she imperiously commanded him to leave her at once, but inquire for her in the evening at that house--she pointed to the almshouse.

"And you did not inform me at once?" I interposed.

"Why should I, dear friend? I knew what I had to do, and no one could represent me. True, the hours before night closed in--the bitter and anxious feelings seething in my soul, shame at the thought that I had once imagined I loved this man, horror of his presence, and grief for the downfall of a human being who had once been good and noble--you can easily understand how all these things agitated me. But when he entered, I had at least attained sufficient outward composure to tell him my decision in curt, resolute words."

"'You will swear,' I said, 'never to appear before my face again. Your sins against me have long since been forgiven. You were like one dead to me, and will be so once more as soon as the door has closed between us. But you must remain unknown to others, and therefore must agree never to mention your name here, and to leave this place early to-morrow morning, not to return. The little I have saved I will give you. But, if you rely on my weakness and ever again remind me of your existence, either verbally or in writing, I will appeal to the protection of the law, and use the right of self-defense. Here on the table is the money. It will be enough to pay your passage to America. What you do there is your own affair. I have made many sacrifices for your sake; I will not allow you to ruin the last remnant of life and peace I have won.'

"Spare me the description of the scene the unfortunate man now rehearsed," she continued. "Dragging himself to me on his knees, he poured forth flatteries, curses on his evil destiny, imprecations on the stupid world that leaves genius to languish--in short, he used the whole stock of his pitiful theatrical arts. When he saw that he made no impression upon me, he staggered to his feet, straightened his shabby velvet coat, tossed back his thin locks, with a look into yonder little mirror, and then cast a quick glance toward the table on which the money lay. My loathing, especially as he diffused a horrible odor of bad liquor, had grown so strong that I was afraid every moment of fainting. Fortunately he speedily released me from his intolerable presence. With a flood of high-sounding words, he swore to respect my wish, until I myself changed, which he expected sooner or later from my generous heart. Meantime he found himself compelled to accept one last favor from me, of course only as a loan, which he would repay with interest, when I had become convinced of his complete regeneration, and recalled him to spend the evening of our lives in loving harmony, and look back with a pitying smile on the storm and stress of our wandering youth.

"With these words he went to the table, put the money in his breast-pocket, made a movement as if to take my hand, but, when I drew back, cast a sorrowful glance heavenward, and with a low bow tottered out of the room.

"I listened to discover whether he really went away. Then, with trembling hands, for I did not feel absolutely secure from a fresh surprise, I bolted the door, and threw myself, utterly exhausted, upon the bed.

"I told myself that I could have pursued no other course--that his life was not to be saved, even if I threw my own into the gulf of ruin after it. Yet, my friend--the man whom I was forced to drive from my threshold had once laid his hand in mine for an eternal union--and had been the father of my beloved child.

"I did not sleep quietly an hour. Every time the spring wind shook my window and rattled the blind, I started up and listened to hear if he was standing outside, rapping. And to-day I feel as though I were paralyzed, and moreover have constantly before my eyes the piteous figure of the poor, homeless man, and tremble at the thought of the woe that may still be in store for us both."

She then begged me to inquire whether he had been seen in the city, or where he had gone. I soon brought her news that he had spent the night at the "Crown Prince," did not enter the public-room, but ordered wine and rum to be brought to him. He had not mentioned his name, and early that morning--about eight o'clock--had departed as he came, on foot and without luggage, after paying his bill and buying a bottle of brandy to take with him. After giving the waiter a thaler for his fee, he turned his steps toward the north.

I succeeded in partially soothing her agitated mind. I spent nearly the whole day with her, played some of her favorite melodies, and shared the simple meal brought to her bed-side. When I at last went away, she pressed my hand with a touching look of gratitude. "Don't forsake me, dear friend," she said. "And do not think me an affected simpleton, because I am lying here so helpless. I shall be in my place again to-morrow. Only I will defer our spring concert"--she had been in the habit of giving a musical entertainment, aided by her pupils, every three months--"for a fortnight. I fear I should not be able to sing with them now."

* * * * *

These words proved true, but not in the way she had meant.

Her great strength of will soon roused her from the lethargy into which the sad meeting with her husband had plunged her, and even on Monday she gave her lessons as though nothing had occurred. But on Friday news came that tore the old wounds open afresh.

A few miles down the river, near a little village, a fisherman had found, drifting in the water among the reeds, the body of a man with long gray locks, dressed in a black-velvet coat. It must have been there several days, for it was swollen and livid, like the corpses of the drowned who do not instantly rise to the surface; besides, the pocket-book containing his papers was completely sodden, and the money in it spoiled by the water. In each of his two pockets he carried a half-empty bottle. There could be no doubt that he had met with his death while in a state of bewilderment, perhaps partial unconsciousness. With the exception of an American passport bearing a foreign name, nothing was found on him that could throw any light upon his personal relations.

Nevertheless the rumor spread with amazing celerity through the whole neighborhood that the Canoness's missing husband had returned to find his death in the waves of their native river. The burgomaster called on Frau Luise to impart the sad news considerately. But the old gossips who served her had anticipated him.

I was with her when she received the visit of the father of the city. "It is true," she said, "the man is my unfortunate husband. But do not expect me to feign a grief I do not feel. That he sought death I do not believe. He was supplied with money, and could indulge his sole passion, which had stifled all his nobler feelings. His death was an easy one, and now the poor restless wanderer has found repose. You can not desire me to see him again. Have him buried as quietly as possible; I will place a cross upon the grave at my own expense." Then, in a few brief words, she told the worthy magistrate about her last interview with the dead man.

This occasion clearly revealed the love and esteem in which she was held by the whole community, high and low. There was not a single malicious gossip who molested her with a visit of feigned condolence, while secretly gloating over the fact that the husband of this much-lauded woman had met with a miserable end like any common vagabond. On the contrary, all who could boast of her acquaintance endeavored to show her by little attentions that the misfortune of her life, which had here reached so tragical an end, had only made them love and honor her the more. Not one of her pupils came to take a singing-lesson without bringing a bunch of violets or early lilies-of-the-valley, or a hyacinth raised at home, and no coffee-party was given from which the hostess did not send her a plate of cakes, which, it is true, only benefited the almshouse dames. Though Frau Luise gratefully appreciated these discreet tokens of affection, she was remarkably quiet and thoughtful. She wore no mourning robe, but her soul seemed muffled in a black veil.

* * * * *

This mood was deepened by the death of the oldest of the almshouse dames, a feeble crone of eighty-four, who had recently been unable to perform her duties as attendant. During the last three days she was unconscious, and her exhausted flame of life went out without a flicker: When I spoke to my friend, who had not left her side, of this easy death as something enviable, she shook her head gravely, and replied: "I would prefer a different one, like my dear Uncle Joachim's. I wish to be conscious when I am dying, to experience my own death, and not, so to speak, steal out of the world behind my own back."

She insisted that, at the burial in the almshouse church-yard--where only the inmates of the almshouse were interred--her pupils should sing a choral and Mendelssohn's "It is Appointed by God's Will," an honor which had never before fallen to a poor woman's lot, so that some wiseacres asserted she was overdoing the matter. But that did not trouble her in the least.

"When they bear me out some day," she said, as we returned from the funeral, "see, dear friend, that I, too, find my last resting-place yonder. I do not wish to be dragged through the whole city to the other cemetery, with its pompous marble monuments. And place no cross on my grave. I have borne it enough during my life; in death, let the earth rest lightly on me. What I possess will go to my old guard; you must attend to it, after first choosing some memento you value. Promise me that! I have written my last will and given it to the burgomaster."

These words could not specially disturb or sadden me. I saw her walking by my side in the full vigor of life, and though, since the day she had sustained such a fright, her hair had grown still more silvery, she seemed, in her gentle melancholy, younger and fairer than ever.

She was also even more affectionate and tender to all, including myself. And, though I had already passed my fortieth year and ought to have grown sensible, her mild words and the faint air of sadness that surrounded her fanned the old flames I had with so much difficulty subdued, and one evening they not only flashed from my eyes but darted from my tongue.

The heat for several days had been equal to that of summer, so we had been weeding and watering the young plants in her garden. Then we sat down side by side on the little bench, and I said: "Do you know, Frau Luise, that this is the anniversary of the day on which, twenty years ago, I first saw you?"

She reflected a short time and then answered: "I have no memory for dates. But I know one thing, Johannes: there has not been a single day since then when I could have doubted you."

While speaking, she gazed thoughtfully into vacancy, as if this great truth were dawning upon her to-day for the first time. This gave me some little encouragement.

"Frau Luise," I continued, "that day seems to me like yesterday. And not one has passed since then that I have not felt you are the dearest creature in the world to me. But must we live on thus to the end, only together a few hours, though we feel that we belong to each other? You have long known my feelings. Can you not resolve to make the bond that unites us still firmer, to grant me the right to lay my whole insignificant self at your feet before the eyes of the world?"

The words had leaped from my lips as if some one else had lured them from my inmost soul, and I was startled at my boldness as I heard the sound of my own voice. I dared not look at her. I felt, or thought I felt, that she was forcing herself to keep calm and not rebuke my presumption. After a long pause, she replied, in a voice whose tones were sorrowful rather than indignant:

"Why have you said this, Johannes? You ought to know me and be aware that I have done with life. Do not suppose that the opinion of the world would awe me, if I felt that I was still young enough to be happy and make others happy. But I was probably never created to devote myself with my whole heart to a single individual, as a true wife ought. Even my unfortunate first love was but a delusion of my imagination. I have every talent for friendship or for being a Sister of Charity, and my most passionate feeling has ever been a fervent sympathy with _pauvre humanite_, as Mademoiselle Suzon said. But you would not wish to be married from compassion.

"No," she continued, as I was about to protest, "it would be a cruel pity. In a few years I should easily pass for your mother, and you would cut a ridiculous figure in attending me through the streets. You are still a young man and a very foolish one, as you have just proved. Your heart must still possess a fountain of youth, though you are no mere lad. Why don't you do me the favor to marry my Agnes, who is nine and twenty, an epitome of every feminine virtue, and, moreover, in love with you?"

This Agnes was her favorite pupil, the daughter of the district physician, and, as I lived opposite to her house, our names had already been associated by the gossips. It was by no means humiliating to be suspected of cherishing a special liking for this exemplary and by no means ugly girl. But, Good Heavens, I!

I could only shake my head and answer: "Why do I not love your Agnes? Because I don't want to marry a bundle of virtues, but one human being, and in fact only that one who in my eyes will always be young, and whom I desire to call mine in order to please no mortal save myself. However, as you have so little love for me that you would willingly serve as a match-maker in my behalf, it was of course folly to ask if you would become Frau Johannes Weissbrod, and I therefore most humbly beg your pardon."

I rose with an uncontrollable sense of grief, and, scarcely bowing to her, stalked away like a thoroughly rude, defiant man.

The next day, it is true, I returned humbly, and remorsefully besought her to forgive my spiteful escapade. She was quite right; I was nothing but a crack-brained young man who grasped at the stars, and in doing so fell on the ground. Frau Luise gazed silently into vacancy, and then said: "The most difficult task and the one we learn latest is to cut our garments according to the cloth, though we feel it will grow with us. Let us say no more about it."

I did not exactly understand what she meant. It became clear to me afterward.

* * * * *

We again lived on as before, and, after she had survived the spring tempest, life seemed to become dear to her once more, though a slight shadow rested on her brow. At Easter she gave her concert for the benefit of the poor, which was a brilliant success. Her birthday came just after Whitsuntide, and, in token of the love and gratitude of the whole community, was to be celebrated with special pomp. I, of course, began the festival with a morning serenade executed under her windows by my pupils, after which she invited the whole choir in and treated them to coffee and cakes. At ten o'clock the burgomaster's wife and her most distinguished friends called, and attended her in a stately procession down to the shore of the lake. There the greatest surprise awaited her. The burgomaster had sent to Berlin several days before for a machinist and some assistants to inspect the little steamer and put her in safe condition to make an excursion over the mirror-like surface of the lake. The boiler and engine were found to be still in tolerable order, and a trial trip was taken at night whose result was perfectly satisfactory.

When we came down to the shore, the little vessel, gayly decked with flags, hung with garlands of fir, and sending upward a light column of smoke from its smokestack, looked extremely pretty and inviting; and Frau Luise's eyes dilated with astonishment when she understood that this smoke was floating from the stack, so long empty, in honor of her. The burgomaster's wife and I led her across the long, swaying plank that extended to the deck; but here she was so startled that she almost made a misstep, for an exultant paean suddenly resounded with such vehement, youthful energy from invisible throats that it was almost too much for her composure. Her pupils had posted themselves behind a canvas awning, which was afterward drawn over the deck as a protection from the sun, and in the excitement of the moment were singing the festal melody I had composed and arranged with more regard to the feelings of their hearts than the rules of art, by which state of affairs neither words nor music were especially enhanced. However, in the open air and amid the general emotion, this modest overture performed its part acceptably. Then the deck suddenly became thronged with joyous, loving faces; and, when the anchor was weighed and the little vessel swept with majestic calmness through the glittering water, first along the shore and then across the lake to the little grove, while the chorus of fresh young voices, now mindful of every nicety of execution they owed to their mistress, began the superb air, "Who has Thee, Forest Fair--" I saw the sweet face of the woman I loved illumined with gentle, divine emotion, and was forced to turn away that my tears might fall into the water unobserved.

But all this was merely the prelude to the festival. The banquet was served in the wood, where, in an open space under tall fir-trees, stood a large table adorned with bouquets and covered with dishes, which had been brought there early in the morning, and received the last dressing over an improvised hearth by some experienced housekeepers. Under the seat that had been arranged for the heroine of the day lay the gift her young friends had prepared, a large rug for her room, the work of many industrious hands, and as gayly adorned with the most beautiful garlands of roses and arabesques of violets as provincial love could accomplish. Still, here amid the green foliage and before the festal board, the strange work of art with its glaring colors and grotesque flourishes looked very bright, and each of the fellow-workers won from the deeply agitated recipient a kiss and clasp of the hand. After this we took our places at the table, and began the feast with the best possible appetite.

Of course, there was no lack of admirable speeches, merry clinking of glasses, and frequent embraces between the feminine members of the party, during which I played the part of envious spectator. I also contributed my shred to the general eloquence by emptying my glass to the health of the six almshouse dames, who were seated in holiday garb at the table below, and imagined themselves in Paradise--never had they dreamed of such honors and delights on earth. Their patroness, the queen, had not even been obliged to stipulate that they were not to remain at home. The givers of the festival knew that without her faithful followers something would be lacking from the pleasures of the day.

Of course, the meal did not pass without singing, and, when we had risen from the table and were enjoying a little rest on the moss-grown soil of the wood, the young ladies walked arm in arm in little groups along the dusky woodland-paths, raising their voices in an alternative melody very sweet to hear. All sorts of games followed, in which, however, the presence of young men was secretly missed. I was malicious enough to remain with the mothers or talk with the six or seven fathers who had joined the party, in order not to go near Agnes, whom my cruel friend, as a punishment for my sins, desired to force upon me as a wife.

I saw that the long-continued festivity was wearying her, though she exerted herself to acknowledge, with unvarying winsomeness, the efforts made by these worthy people. I heard her cough, so I drew the burgomaster's wife aside and persuaded her to give the signal for departure.

After some delay and discussion we all went on board the steamer again, and, making a wide sweep around the lake, returned to our harbor.

Frau Luise stood on deck in the bow of the vessel with several of her favorite pupils near her; no one uttered a word. We were allowing the memories of this delightful day to re-echo in our hearts. Her head was turned toward the west, where the sun was slowly sinking, and her dear face and tall figure were warmly illumined by the crimson glow. With what a youthful light her eyes sparkled! The silvery luster of her hair had vanished in the golden radiance. It seemed impossible to believe that this woman had just celebrated her forty-fourth birthday.

"Sing something!" said Agnes, who stood nearest. "Ah, yes, do sing!" entreated the others.

She did not seem to have heard them. Yet suddenly, as if in a dream, she sang, _mezza voce_, an Italian air, an aria from Paesiello, of which she was especially fond. And, as the steamer swept on into the crimson light, the song rose clearer and stronger till she poured forth the full power of her voice, whose every note must have been distinctly audible on the shore. The whole company had gradually glided closer to us, and I saw by their rapt faces how they were enjoying the foreign beauty of the melody, whose words no one understood. Even the people on the shore, peasants with their carts and solitary pedestrians, stopped as if enchanted, and gazed at the black ship slowly dividing the waves bearing a singing nixie on her deck.

Then the vessel turned, and the sun was behind us. The aria was finished, and the burgomaster had given the signal for applause, in which all joined with great fervor. When silence was restored, and the group waited for the singing to be resumed, she began, without waiting to be asked, Beethoven's "Knows't thou the Land!" which she had transposed to suit the deeper notes of her voice. "Mignon certainly had an alto voice," she once jestingly said to me. Never had I heard her sing it so superbly, never heard the "Thither! thither!" express such strong, sweet, uncontrollable yearning. We reached the landing-place just as the last notes died away. The burgomaster was so deeply moved that he forgot to applaud, went to her, and, with tears in his honest old eyes, bent, seized both hands, and faltered: "I thank you, I thank you a thousand times, madame! This is the fairest day of my life! You have made us all happy."

She smiled and looked at me. "It was my swan song," she said. "I fear I shall be obliged to give up singing. Just hear how hoarse this little exertion has suddenly made me."

I saw her shiver slightly, and hastened to wrap a shawl around her. "Good-night, my dear friends," she said. "I owe you all thanks for a pleasure never to be forgotten. Forgive me for taking my leave so abruptly. But this was a little too much joy for an old woman who has not deserved so much love and kindness. No, I am perfectly well; a little rest will make me quite myself again. My beautiful rug must be put in my room at once. I will feast my eyes on the lovely flowers and think of the dear givers till I fall asleep."

She then shook hands with every one. As I helped her across the plank to the shore, I felt the difficulty she experienced in holding herself erect. "It is nothing, dear friend," she whispered hoarsely. "My heart is as light as a bird's, only my limbs are heavy. My good mother Grabow shall put me to bed. Perhaps I took cold in the wood. But you know I am like a cork figure, my head is always uppermost. Good-night."

* * * * *

I had by no means a good night. When, before school the next morning, I inquired at the almshouse for Frau Luise, she was still asleep, that is, she was lying in a feverish dream, raving incoherently without recognizing any one. I spoke to the doctor, who had been already called in the night. The old man had the thoughtful wrinkle between his bushy eyebrows that always boded trouble.

"But she is so strong and full of vital energy," I said.

"The strongest constitutions fare the worst. But we can still hope, and she could not be more carefully nursed if she were a princess."

It was the same at noon. I spent the whole day with her, had a couch made up for me in the music-room at night, and the following morning sent a message to my friend the head teacher--who meantime had been made superintendent of the school--requesting him to do me the favor to take charge of my classes. I was unable to do my duty while my friend's life was in danger.

This lasted four, five days. The doctor shook his head more and more despairingly. "I can give the disease no special name! It is a sort of nervous fever, but in a very unusual form, and the ordinary remedies do not avail. It is fortunate that she is unconscious. Only the expression of pain on her face shows that she has a dull sense of the life-and-death struggle raging in her frame."

During those days it seemed as though the little almshouse had been transferred to the heart of the city. Instead of being solitary and deserted as usual, it was now constantly surrounded by a crowd of persons of all ages and sexes, treading lightly with a sorrowful look on their faces. They did not venture to ring the bell, and indeed it was not necessary: one of the old dames was constantly cowering outside of the door, and gave to all questions the same sad answer. When prominent people came, I was obliged to go out and reply to the queries myself. Every one thought it was a matter of course that I now belonged to the household.

Scarcely any change occurred in her critical condition, nothing save a slight ebb and flow of the fever, a lower or louder intonation of the voice, as she raved of the visions of her bewildered brain. Sometimes, with wide-open eyes that rested on nothing, she repeated correctly and distinctly a few lines from one of her husband's parts. Sometimes she seemed to be talking with her son, and a happy smile that pierced me to the heart flitted over her colorless lips. Sometimes she sang, but only diatonic scales, and when her voice failed to reach the high notes she shook her head mournfully, whispering: "Too high, too high! Trees must not grow to the sky. Down! down! It is pleasant to dwell below."

At such times I could not restrain my tears.

But, on the fifth day, a crisis seemed imminent. The fever had lessened several degrees; the old doctor's face, for the first time, wore a hopeful look.

He gave several directions, and promised to come in the next morning earlier than usual. I could send home the young girls, who called at a late hour to inquire, with a little hope, which, however, I did not feel myself. Then I returned to my post. It was Mother Schulzen's turn to keep watch that night, but she was so deaf that I could not trust the invalid solely to her, though nothing would have induced her to go to bed. She was sitting in a low chair by the wall, and, after keeping herself awake for a while by knitting and taking snuff, at last fell peacefully asleep.

A lamp, protected by a green shade, was burning in the room; outside, the moon was sailing through a cloudless sky; deep silence surrounded us. Frau Luise had not uttered a word since noon, and for the first time seemed to be quietly asleep.

Suddenly--it was about ten o'clock--while I sat by the bed without turning my eyes from her face, her eyes slowly opened and wandered about the room with a strained gaze till they rested upon me. Then she said, in a perfectly clear voice: "I feel wonderfully well!"

After a pause, during which I scarcely ventured to breathe, as if the slightest sound might drive the approaching convalescence away, she murmured: "Are you here, dear friend? Have I slept long? How delightful that I can see you as soon as I wake!"

She moved her hand as if seeking something. I timidly clasped it, and stooped to press my burning brow upon it. Just at that moment I felt her other hand laid gently on my head, and, while stroking my hair, she continued in the same calm voice:

"My last hour is near, Johannes. But I am glad that I have waked once more before the long night begins. I have something to say to you, my friend. You know the tenor of my last will, and that I wish to be laid in the church-yard outside with my old almshouse friends. If there is a Day of Judgment, I would like to rise with my body-guard; they have spoiled me; I could no longer do without their service. And let my coffin be covered with the rug; afterward it shall belong to you. Do you hear me? Come a little nearer. What I now have to say is to be a secret between us two. I deceived you when I told you, a short time ago, that I was not created to see the universe in a single individual. It cost me no little effort, for my heart belied my lips. I should have been very happy if I could have become your wife. I knew that long, long ago--ever since the day you took our Joachimchen in your arms when he grew weary and carried him home, I said to myself: 'Could I possess this child and this man, no wish would remain ungratified.' But it might not be. I was obliged to bury the child and hide my love for the man in the inmost depths of my heart. But it always lived on there, and now I can thank you, Johannes, for all the love and faith you have lavished upon me. Lift my head a little--there--I want to see you clearly once more, and--it is strange--my eyes are so heavy, though my soul is awake."

I helped her rise higher on her pillows, bowed my face nearer hers, and saw her eyes fixed on me with strange brilliancy.

"I love you, my friend," she said. "There is not one false line in your face nor in your heart, but a great sorrow now fills both. Be happy, dear one, and remember your friend without tears. Shall I not remain with you, wherever I go? True, to see each other again--" She slowly shook her head. "Ah, if I might only see you and my boy--but the other masks--no, no! We have eaten at the table of life here below till we are satisfied--or rather, we are wise and stop just when the food tastes best; now others will sit in our chairs. But we will first cordially wish each other 'a good appetite!' Come! kiss me once, just as a loving husband kisses his beloved wife--then I will stretch myself out and take my afternoon rest."

My quivering lips touched her cool mouth. "Dear Johannes!" she murmured, clasping my hand tightly as she fell back on the pillows. Then she smiled once more, an unearthly smile, and closed her eyes. Her hand trembled a little.

An hour after it lay cold and still in mine.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Bunzlau is famed for its pottery.--Tr.]

[Footnote 2: A round hole in a tailor's table, through which he brushes useless bits of cloth, and--as is generally supposed--some that are valuable.--Tr.]

[Footnote 3: An old coin, worth a little more than the groschen now in general use; for a time both circulated together.--Tr.]

[Footnote 4: The bug-bear of German nurseries.--Tr.]

THE END.

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End of Project Gutenberg's The Romance of the Canoness, by Paul Heyse

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