Landolin

CHAPTER XIX

All was still in the yard. The moonbeams shone upon the house and barns, and glistened on the spring, the splashing of which could still be heard.

Under the broad eaves sat the head-servant and Peter. Tobias, in delight, clapped his hands together, and rubbed his knees. He had not only testified so as to help his master, but what, if possible, pleased him more, he had succeeded in cheating the judge, and making a laughing-stock of him. It was rare fun for him. He whispered to Peter:

"Only be sharp! You're smarter, slyer, than anybody guesses. You mustn't go after Fidelis hammer and tongs; that will only make the matter worse. He's a stiff-backed soldier of the new Prussian pattern. Just keep your head on your shoulders. By degrees, we'll teach him what he saw. If you turn him off now, then-Hold on! I've got it! Now listen to me."

He stopped a moment; put his hands together, as though he had a bird caged in them; chuckled to himself; and not until Peter questioned him did he say:

"Listen! Before taking the oath, they ask, 'Are you in the employ of the accused?' And if one answers 'Yes,' his testimony doesn't amount to much, good or bad. So we must keep Fidelis, do you understand! Hush! Who's knocking?"

Tobias opened the gate and greeted the pastor, whom he told that Landolin had already been taken away, and that his wife was in the house. The pastor went to the living-room, where he found the farmer's wife with an open prayer-book in her hand. He commended her for this, and said that he would have been there earlier, but had returned from the fair only an hour before, and had gone to "Cushion Kate's" first. He strove to comfort her, reminding her that man must bow to the will of Heaven.

The clergyman, a tall, hard-featured man, was the youngest son of a rich farmer. He was brusque in his intercourse with his people, but mingled little with them-election-time excepted-for he knew this conduct pleased the farmers best. In summertime the pastor was all day long by the brook in the valley, fishing. In the winter-time he stayed at home, and no one knew what he did.

"Oh, sir!" said the farmer's wife, mournfully, "people don't know how much they love each other until something like this happens." She blushed like a young girl, and continued: "Children live for themselves; but married people-it seems to me that I have done wrong in not letting my husband see how much-"

Her emotion would not allow her to continue. The pastor consoled her by saying that she had always been an honest woman, and a good wife; that God would ward off this evil from her; and that this misfortune would redound to her lasting welfare. He was astonished that this woman, whom people generally considered shallow, could show such deep affection.

"How does Thoma bear it?" he asked.

"I will call her," she answered.

She went out and soon returned with Thoma, who looked so careworn, that for a moment the pastor could say nothing. He soon, however, endeavored to comfort her.

"Herr Pastor," began Thoma, "what do you think about it? I don't know. I think I must go to Cushion-Kate's."

"Wait till to-morrow morning," interrupted her mother.

"No, I think I must go to-day."

"Yes! do so," said the pastor approvingly, "I have just come from her house. She did not show by word or sign that she heard what I said. She sits motionless on the floor beside her dead boy. Come, you can go a part of the way with me."

Thoma and the pastor walked side by side. The pastor could not speak of Anton, for this was no time for congratulations.

The moon had disappeared, and dark clouds covered the sky.

"It will rain to-morrow, thank God. It is much needed," was all that the pastor said during the walk. At the meadow-path which leads to Cushion-Kate's house, he asked if he should go there with her, but she declined and went alone. She had to pass the house of the "Galloping Cooper," and there, in the shadow of a pile of barrel staves, she heard old Jochen say to the people who sat with him on the bench before the house,

"Oh yes! It's Landolin! They've got him now, and he won't get away. He'll have to pay for it, but not as his father used to pay for his tricks. Here, on my right thumb is still the scar where Landolin bit me in a fight we had. His father paid smart money for it. Yes; in old times the common people only had bones that the farmers' sons might break them. When Landolin stepped into the dancing-room, the floor trembled, and so did the heart of everybody there. Now, he's getting paid back."

"Will his head be cut off?" asked a child's voice.

"He deserves it; but they don't behead people any more."

All this fell on Thoma like a thunderbolt. She stood as though on fire. Her fresh life seemed all burned away and turned to ashes. She pressed her cold hands to her burning face, and fled homeward, unseen.

When she had almost reached the house, she started back in terror, as though a ghost had waylaid her; but it was only the dog who rubbed himself affectionately against her. Thoma was angry with herself for being so easily frightened. "That must not be, and certainly not now." The dog leaped before her, barking. He had evidently been driven home.

When she came in, her mother resting her hand on her open prayer-book, asked how Cushion-Kate was doing.

Thoma acknowledged that she had not been to see her, but did not tell the reason.

Her mother begged Thoma to stay with her during the night. Thoma sat by the bed until she had gone to sleep, and then went to her own room, for she knew that she would disturb her mother's rest.

CHAPTER XX

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.

CHAPTER XXI

The prison at the county-town stands high up on the mountain; the sound of the bells in the village on the plateau reaches it from far away. Landolin knew they were tolling for a funeral. He thought of home, where they were burying Vetturi. He tried to imagine all that was passing, but he could not.

Round Cushion-Kate's little house stood a crowd of people, mostly women, for their husbands did not think it worth while to lose a day's work for an insignificant person like Vetturi.

The district physician left the house, followed by the bailiff and the clerk of the borough, who put on his hat as he came out of doors. Then came the pastor. The sobs and weeping became louder and louder, and almost drowned the tolling of the bells.

The procession was formed. Cushion-Kate followed the bier with her red kerchief tied under her chin, and pulled far down over her forehead, so that her face could scarcely be seen; and reaching from her shoulders to her feet hung the large black woolen cloak which the borough furnished to mourners. Her eyes were fastened on the ground as she walked.

As the procession passed Landolin's house, she shook her bony fist toward it, from under the black cloak.

The house was closed. No window was thrown open.

Anton, who walked in the procession next to the village clerk, could not see that Thoma joined the last persons of the little train, and knelt in the churchyard, hidden by a hedge.

The pastor spoke a few touching words of comfort. He exhorted the poor bereaved mother to bear no malice in her soul-to leave punishment to God. He repeated that he who thinks of revenge and retaliation does more harm to his own soul than to him whom he seeks to punish.

Cushion-Kate's moans changed to rebellious mutterings. But almost as many eyes rested upon Anton as upon Cushion-Kate herself; and overcome by his emotion, he suddenly burst into loud weeping.

The procession broke up, and the people scattered in different directions. Anton started away. He walked slowly, as though undecided what to do; and then turning as with a sudden presentiment, he saw Thoma, who was rising from her knees. She stood still. She seemed to be embarrassed at his seeing her. He turned back, and holding out his hand, said, -

"One must not say good day, in the churchyard; or perhaps you do not share the superstition?"

She neither answered, nor gave him her hand.

"May I walk with you? See, they are looking at us. Be calm!"

She walked by his side without raising her eyes.

"I'm waiting patiently for you to speak," said Anton in a low tone.

She looked into his face with her great eyes, but their glance was changed.

"Is your father here?" she asked at length; her voice too was changed.

"No, he is at home," replied Anton. "Shall he come and see you?"

She shook her head silently, and Anton continued:

"Unfortunately your father quarreled with every one yesterday; with the one-armed man, and with my father. He thought your father had already returned from town, and so he did not come now. Your father must make the first visit."

Thoma cast a bitter, wounded glance at Anton, who said in a soothing tone, almost gaily indeed, that Thoma's father had been so fierce with all the world because he had had to give up his daughter. A sad smile passed over Thoma's face.

"I may go home with you, may I not?" asked Anton.

Thoma stood still. She laid her hand on her heart, and said:

"I am done with this. I have settled it here. Don't say that it is pride, don't say that I did not love you; – or, if it is a comfort, you may think so. Anton, I am walking with you for the last time. I am speaking to you for the last time. Anton, it must, it must, be all over between us. I cannot, I will not-I will not go into a house where I do not bring honor. I will learn to bear my lonely life. Seek for yourself some other happiness. Farewell!"

"Thoma, you thrust from you him on whom you should lean."

"I thrust no one away from me, and I will lean on no one."

They had reached the house. She entered quickly, leaving Anton standing alone outside, but he was not long by himself, for Tobias and Peter came up to him. They welcomed him heartily; for of course he would testify, as they would, that the stone did not hit Vetturi, but that he had fallen down on the sharp-pointed paving stones in terror at Landolin's strong voice. They were very careful not to say that Vetturi had thrown a stone first.

They said how fortunate it was that a man so highly thought of as Anton had seen it all plainly; and Tobias added, smirkingly, that it was well that the engagement was broken off for the present; for, as son-in-law, his testimony would not have full weight. He further begged Anton to instruct his comrade Fidelis. "Go and call Fidelis," Tobias said to Peter, who soon returned with him. The head-servant and the son now urged Fidelis to let Anton convince him that he had been mistaken; but Fidelis remained immovable, and repeated that he had no doubts in the matter. He was sure that Anton's convictions were as honest as his own, even though they differed from them … but for his part, he could not and would not say anything different from what he had seen. In court it would appear who was right.

Anton returned home troubled. He said to himself: "Have I let Landolin tell me what I saw? Shall I lose my heart to the daughter, and my conscience to the father? It would be better if the marriage had not been broken off, for then I could refuse to testify."

CHAPTER XXII

The farmer's wife had often visited her husband in the presence of the examining magistrate. Peter had several times accompanied his mother, but Thoma did not come. Her father was too high-spirited to inquire for her, or ask why she staid away. Perhaps she disapproved of his obstinacy in staying in prison; perhaps she approved of his pride, for Landolin had told the judge, "I will not go out with a halter round my neck, for people to make sport of me; one to pull it tight, so as to choke me a little, and another to graciously loosen it. I will only go as a free man. And didn't you say that I am to appear in court next week?"

So he staid in prison, and was not obliged to see any one but his wife, his son, the examining magistrate, and his attorney. But one pair of eyes he saw, that looked more friendly at him than the eyes of a child or a sister. The district judge's wife had obtained permission to visit the prisoners.

And the hearts must indeed have been hard that were not gladdened when that lady entered the cell, while the guards waited at the open door.

Madame Pfann-for by this simple title did the judge's wife allow herself to be called-Madame Pfann was exceedingly happy in her marriage. Although her husband could not forbear occasionally laughing at her missionary zeal, nevertheless he willingly allowed her her own way in everything. He delighted in the many successes she achieved, but above all other things, in the unwavering faithfulness with which she fulfilled the duty she had taken upon herself.

They had an only son, who in July, 1870, entered the army as a volunteer, was promoted to a lieutenancy on the field of battle, and had remained in the service. Madame Pfann had not waited for some great event before she set herself to work. Years before she had commenced the work of philanthropy, and carried it out with a zeal that was universally acknowledged. She was the daughter of a plain professor in the gymnasium at the capital; and she took pleasure in saying that she owed her capacity for her work to her father's simple and noble character.

She was aware that people called her conduct eccentric and sentimental; but she cared nothing for that.

An old-time saying tells us that on the path of heroic deeds a man has to battle with giants and monsters. Madame Pfann had had to battle with a great and noble intellect. She remembered Goethe's cynical words, that finally the world would be bereft of all beauty, and each one would be only his neighbor's benevolent brother.

Veneration for our great poet was an heir-loom in her girlhood's home. Fierce was the conflict before she overcame the mighty coercion of the master mind, but she gained at last that liberty which shakes off the fetters of an undue veneration. She was convinced that even a Goethe cannot give precepts for all time. Our age has made the unity of human interests its law, and no longer tolerates a mere æsthetically selfish life. Yes, out of a life devoted to the common welfare, springs a new beauty of being.

Madame Pfann often met with rudeness and thoughtlessness where she least expected it, so that her experiences were sometimes painful; but she remained steadfast.

In her visits to the prisons, she refused to interfere in the least degree with the course of the law. She only desired to comfort the prisoners; to make them at peace with themselves; and above all things she wished to help their friends who were left destitute at home. Here, too, she had sorry experiences. Rascals imposed upon her, and amused themselves in sending her on fruitless missions, and would even give her directions whose baseness she could not suspect.

She knew that baseness and uncleanness existed, and yet clung to her faith in greatness, nobility, and purity.

In the course of time she settled upon a regular method of talking with the prisoners. She sought to learn of their early life, but she found that they distrusted her motive, suspecting that she was seeking to discover some crime which they might have committed, and she had to contend with their cunning, which led them to tell her falsehoods.

Often, however, she succeeded in bringing the most hardened to better thoughts and feelings, so that they spoke with tremulous voice of the paradise of youthful innocence.

When Madame Pfann visited Landolin in prison, she found her task easier than usual, for she had long known him and his family. He quickly gave her to understand that he did not value her visit very highly, as she honored the commonest prisoner in the same way.

He listened attentively for her answer, and was not surprised when she replied, with a smile:

"I cannot double myself when I visit you; but I will come oftener if you like."

It now happened, as it often had before with prisoners, that Landolin looked for her visit as a diversion, and that was something gained.

"Has Titus been here, and taken a look at the tower where I shut am up? Or perhaps he has not wanted to see me. I'll say beforehand I won't see him," said Landolin, angrily.

Madame Pfann saw that his thoughts were occupied with his rival, so she said that no one should rejoice in another's misfortune, for every one has his own secret sorrow.

"Has he? Has anything happened to him?" asked Landolin, eagerly.

The lady said: "No!" and then turned the conversation to his childhood. He related his boyish pranks, and laughed heartily over them; but still he censured his father for having yielded to him in everything, except once when he wanted to marry the Galloping Cooper's sister, for whom he had had a fancy. He even complained of his wife for having always yielded to him. He said he was the most grateful of men when any one kept him from his wild pranks, even though at first he rebelled against the restraint. Then he stopped short. He was afraid he had betrayed himself, and protested solemnly that he was innocent of Vetturi's death.

Madame Pfann asked, "Would you like me to have some flowering plants brought here?"

Landolin laughed aloud and said: "I don't want anything with me except my dog."

She promised to see that he should have it. She soon found that it really was a very deep grief and trouble, that Thoma did not come to see him.

Madame Pfann went to Reutershöfen, and listened patiently to his wife's lament that her life was changed since her husband's hat hung no longer on its accustomed nail. When Thoma came in after a long delay, the kind-hearted lady was touched by her appearance, and told her that she could well imagine her grief, in having been plunged in one day from the highest joy to the deepest sorrow.

Thoma trembled. She had never before placed the two events so close together. Madame Pfann felt the awkwardness of her remark, and endeavored to reassure her by saying that she had no doubt that she could adjust the difficulty with Anton, for he had great confidence in her. Thoma soon became more composed, but she was still silent.

Madame Pfann urged her strongly to lighten her father's imprisonment by visiting him.

"You mean it well, I know," replied Thoma, "you are very good, but I cannot; I cannot go down the road, and up the prison stairs, and I should be no comfort to my father, quite the contrary. It is better as it is."

"It is not better, only more comfortable, more easy for you; you will not conquer yourself."

Thoma was silent.

Madame Pfann arranged for Tobias to take the dog to its master.

She then went to see Cushion-Kate, who called out:

"You went to Landolin's first. I'll not let you into my house."

She bolted the door and Madame Pfann went quietly homeward.

CHAPTER XXIII

"The house is changed when the husband's hat no longer hangs on its accustomed nail," the farmer's wife often said. Her thoughts were not many, but those she had she liked to repeat like a pater noster.