Landolin

CHAPTER XXXIV

Cushion-Kate had hurried through the village to the pastor's house near the church. She rang the bell violently. The pastor looked out, and asked, "Who is ringing? Have you come for me to take the sacrament to a dying person?"

"Pastor," shrieked Cushion-Kate, "tell me, is there a God in heaven? Is there justice?"

"Who are you that dare blaspheme so? All good spirits praise the Lord our God. Who are you?"

"The mother, the mother whose son was murdered; and the murderer is acquitted."

"Is it you, Cushion-Kate? Wait; I will open the door." The pastor opened it, but Cushion-Kate was no longer there. He went to the churchyard, to Vetturi's grave. There he found her red kerchief, but she had disappeared.

In mad haste, as though driven by invisible demons, Cushion-Kate ran through fields and forest, down to the river. There she stood, on a projecting rock, under which the water boiled and bubbled as though imprisoned. The whirlpool is called the "Devil's Kettle." Cushion-Kate leaned forward, and was about to throw herself in; but when her hands touched her head, and she became aware that her kerchief was missing, her self-control returned, and sitting down she said as she looked up to the sky:

"Mother, I feel it again. I, under your heart, and you, with a straw wreath round your head, and a straw girdle round your waist, – that was the world's justice to the poor unfortunate. Mother, you are now in the presence of eternal justice. Don't let Him turn you away! And Thou, on Thy throne in Heaven, answer me. Tell me, why is my son dead? Why hast Thou let the man that killed him go free, and live in happiness? Thou hast given me nothing in all the world; and I ask for nothing but that Thou shouldst punish him, and all those who acquitted him. Let no tree grow in their forest, nor corn in their fields. Torment them; or if Thou in Heaven above wilt not help me, then he, the other one, from below, shall! Yes, come from the water, come from the rocks; come, devil, and help me! Make a witch of me. I'll be a witch. Take my poor soul, but help me!"

A night-owl rose silently from out the darkness. Cushion-Kate beckoned to it, as though it were a messenger from him whom she had called. The owl flew past; a train of cars rushed by on the other side of the river. Cushion-Kate shrieked, but her cry was drowned in the clatter of the cars. She sank down-she slept. When the day awoke and shone in her face, she turned over with a groan, and slept on with her face to the ground.

"Wake up! How came you here?" called a man's voice.

Cushion-Kate opened her eyes, and drawing her hands over her forehead, she moaned out, "Vetturi!"

"No; it is I, Anton Armbruster. See, here is some gin. Come, drink!"

Cushion-Kate drank eagerly, then asked:

"Do you know that he is acquitted?"

"Yes; I have just come from the trial."

"Oh, yes," cried Cushion-Kate, and she struck Anton on the breast with her bony fist. "Yes, you too are-. They say you testified that he did not do it."

"Kate, you have a strong hand. You hurt me, but I forgive you. Kate, I did not testify falsely. I said honestly that I saw nothing that happened plainly."

"And why was he acquitted?"

"Because six men said not guilty. Come, raise yourself up. There!"

The old woman rose to her feet. She held her left hand to her head, and her dishevelled grey hair fluttered in the morning wind. She looked around in bewilderment, and seemed unable to collect her thoughts.

"Some one has stolen my kerchief from my head," she said at length. "Stop; it must be lying on his grave. Yes, he is in his grave, and the man who brought him to his death is free-I understand it all. I am not crazed. I know you. You are Anton; and your mother, in heaven, kept your tongue from lying. Thank God, you no longer belong to that family. They must go to ruin-all of them. The haughty Thoma, too. Great God," she cried, clasping her hands, "forgive me! Thou art a patient creditor, but a sure payer. You need not lead me, Anton; I can go alone-alone."

When Anton offered to accompany her, she motioned him back, and went through the woods, over the hill, to the village, gathering dry twigs on her way.

For a long time Anton stood gazing after her. He would so liked to have hastened to Thoma, but he overcame the impulse, and wandered homeward.

CHAPTER XXXV

For weeks Anton lived among the wood-cutters in the forest, high up on the mountain. He was one of the most diligent workers, from early morning until nightfall; and he was rewarded by having in the log cabin such a sound sleep as he could not have had in his father's house in the valley. To be sure, the wood-cutters thought it strange that the miller's only son should devote himself to such hard work and privation; but they asked no questions, and days often passed without Anton's speaking a word. But he thought the oftener: How does Thoma live? She cannot, like me, find a new place for herself. She must stay at home, where everything awakens bitter recollections. Is she asked, as I am, by every one she meets, why our engagement has been broken off? And, like me, is she at a loss to know how to answer? Not the smallest lie escapes her lips, for she is honest and truthful. She demands that her father should confess what he has done, and submit to punishment. But, can her father confess what, perhaps, he has not done?

It was plain and clear to Anton that he could not give a full account of the occurrence. And when he was called before the court, he gave his testimony strictly in accordance with the truth; for that the stone had not hit Vetturi, he had only heard from Landolin, as he stood at the spring.

He wanted to go to Thoma, after the trial, and tell her this; but she had thrust him from her so unmercifully and unlovingly that he could not humble himself again.

Does she not love him? Did she never love him? The perfume of the lily-of-the-valley, which was just beginning to bloom up on the mountain, reminded him of a blissful hour.

Anton had gone down from the mountain to the trial; and after his meeting with Cushion-Kate, troubled thoughts filled his mind as he went on his way home. He said to himself that he would no longer hide in the mountain-forest; it was nothing but a cowardly flight. As he acknowledged this, the medal of honor on his breast trembled. Does Anton Armbruster fly from anything? He looked around with a fearless courage. He was himself again.

"How many years did he get?" asked his father when he reached home. Anton had to tell him that Landolin was fully acquitted.

The calm, thoughtful miller struck his fist on the table and exclaimed: "Well, that is-." He suddenly broke off, went to the window, and looked out. He did not wish to have a second dispute with his son; and Anton's composed manner seemed to him to say that he rejoiced in the verdict, and built new hopes upon it.

"Father, I am going to stay at home now," said Anton.

"That is right," answered his father, without turning round, "and you had better go to the river. We must send off a raft to-day."

"Father, have you nothing to say about the acquittal?"

"What difference does what I say make?"

"Much, father-it makes very much difference."

"Well, then, I will tell you. It would have been better for the cause of justice, and for the hot-tempered Landolin himself, if he had been punished for a few years. But, mark my words, he must now suffer much more for his crime. He needs now to be acquitted by every one he meets. If he had submitted to punishment he would be better off. He would have paid his debt to justice, and everything would go on smoothly and evenly. In two years he would regain his civil rights and his standing in the community. It was only a misstep. But how is it now? And I believe Landolin is not tough enough-how shall I say it-he is not man enough to blot out the sense of his guilt from his own mind, and from other people's. But, Anton, let this be the last time we dispute about him. I don't deny that I have no place in my heart for him; but we two need not, on that account, live in discord. It is time for you to go now."

Anton went up the stream, and set himself busily to work, helping to bind the logs and planks together into a raft. He who saw this well-built man, handling the oar and boat-hook so energetically, and in his quickly changing attitudes presenting such a picture of strong, graceful manhood, would not have dreamed that he carried in his heart a bitter sorrow.

As Thoma was estranged from her father, so Anton was estranged from his. Thoma and the miller were of the same opinion, with only this difference; that in Thoma deep respect for her father had changed into the opposite feeling; whilst with the miller, a deeply hidden hostility, or rather aversion toward the haughty Landolin had only come to the surface.

The acquittal made no change in the miller's feelings, except, possibly, to intensify them; and perhaps it was so also with Thoma. Still Anton hoped that matters would change for the better; and he was continually studying how he could bring it about.

CHAPTER XXXVI

At the capital, the night following the trial was to be spent in revelry and carousal.

When Landolin entered the chamber prepared for him at the Ritter inn, he pulled off his coat, and hurling it across the room, exclaimed:

"There! I'm rid of it! I've felt the whole time as if I had an iron jacket on."

In the great dining-room, where the table was already spread, he walked up and down in his shirt sleeves. The host said smilingly that supper would soon be served.

"Are the twelve men all coming?" asked Landolin.

"They were all invited, but they seem to have slipped into the ground and vanished."

The first to arrive was Landolin's lawyer. He seemed far from being elated with his victory; and in Landolin's manner toward him there was by no means the same dependence and helplessness as before. Then Landolin had treated him as a very sick man does his physician; every word and every glance were welcomed as though fraught with healing. Now Landolin was an ungrateful convalescent, who has come to the conclusion that he has not been sick at all; or, at any rate, that not the physician, but his own good constitution has helped him through.

"You are right," said his counsel, "you should have been a lawyer. Your last words turned the scale. It was a master stroke."

Landolin accepted this praise as his due, and made no reply.

"Call Anton! Where is Anton?" said he, turning to his son.

"When I was sending the dispatch I met him at the depot. He went home on the freight train, which usually takes no passengers; but the conductor is an old comrade of his, and smuggled him on board."

Landolin whistled, and walked hastily around the table, on which they were just placing the wine-bottles.

"Landlord, bring in the supper. Herr Procurator, take this chair beside me. So, this is a different way of sitting down together. I invited all the jurymen, – all. I don't want to know who said guilty, or who said not guilty. I don't want to have an enemy in the world. If they don't come-all right. I've shown how I feel, and that's enough. Landlord, let the witnesses come in, and anybody else that's there. Be sure and call Tobias."

Tobias soon appeared. To be sure he had just eaten in the hostler's room; but he wiped his mouth, as though he would say, "If it's necessary I'll do it again." So he sat down next to Peter, and fell bravely to work.

The so-called common people who had testified now came in. This was, to be sure, no company for Landolin, but he could not do less than give the poor fellows a good bite and a good drink. He asked what the witness fee was, and when he heard how small it was, he said he would like to double it, but he dared not, lest it should be said that he had tried to bribe them. By this speech he sought to ingratiate himself with these people at no expense to himself.

Tobias nudged Peter with his elbow, and laughed and drank. Peter cast a look at him as though he would like to tear him to pieces, then quickly controlled himself and joined in the laugh. His face wore the expression of a young fox who has just caught his first hare, and is feasting upon it.

Among the guests were some who had been Landolin's companions when he was young; and they strove to divert him by reminding him of his wild, youthful pranks. Landolin laughed and drank immoderately. The lawyer did not find it congenial, so he slipped quietly away. Landolin's eyes often fell upon the empty chair at his side, but he looked quickly away. Suddenly he called out, "Take away that empty chair! Who the devil is going to sit there? Take it away! Away with it!" He jumped up and overturned it with such force that all the four legs were broken.

"You oughtn't to do that father. Be quiet!" whispered Peter, sternly, and roughly grasped his father's arm.

"Let go! I'm all right," said Landolin, quieting down. "Come, Tobias, come with me! Indeed I have not drunk too much to-day, but I have gone through so much that its almost upset me. Here, Tobias, let me lean a little on you. Good night to you all. I hope you will get home all right. I shall soon follow you."

He went up to his room with Tobias, and as soon as he got there he caught tight hold of Tobias' arms and cried:

"Be still! I won't hurt you. Not you! You haven't deserved it. Do you know what I long for? Do you know what I wish?"

"How can I know it?"

"I'd like to have one of 'em between my thumb and finger, like this, so-Hutadi! I'd like to snap and crack his arms and legs. I'd like best to get at Titus-or all of the six-they ought to have been unanimous-the cursed-"

"Let me go, master," begged Tobias, for the grip of his hand was far from gentle; "and I advise you to keep quieter. You can say anything you like to me. What we two have got through together, can't be undone."

The situation dawned upon Landolin. He, the farmer, was reproved by his own servant.

"All right, all right," he muttered and soon fell sound asleep.

CHAPTER XXXVII

It was almost noon when Landolin awoke. He prepared for his journey home, and paid his bill. It was very evident that the landlord had cheated him. He was greatly vexed at being taken in by this plausible fellow, but he did not want an open quarrel. The thought that, for some time to come, he must allow himself to be cheated without daring to say anything, worried him more than the loss of his money. He now wished to return home immediately, and enter the village in triumph; but Peter put off going until near evening; for he did not want his father to reach home until after dark; and when Landolin swore at the unnecessary delays, Peter said, coolly and meaningly:

"Father, you will have to give up fussing and spluttering so. I should think you would have learned, by this time, to keep quiet and be patient. Yes, you may well stare at me. I am no longer the simple Peter, over whose head you looked, as though he didn't exist. I am here, and you and I have no secrets from one another. Self-defense is a nice thing, but-well I guess you understand me. Of course I have great respect for you. You drove the cart well, and Tobias and I pushed at the hind-wheels. The cart is out of the rut, and now we'll wash our hands."

Landolin looked at his son as though another man were standing before him. Peter noticed it, and continued:

"Yes, father, I've found out what the mainspring of the world is; and I know that it's all one what a man does. He can do what he likes, if he only keeps other people from knowing it. Am I right, or not?"

Landolin was so astonished that he could not utter a word. Who dare speak to him in such a way? Can it be Peter! But something still worse followed; for Peter began again:

"Now, see here, father; before we go home we'd better have matters settled. You are the farmer; you are the master. And before the world you may appear as you always have; but at home, in house and field, only my word must be obeyed. You may be sure that you shall want for nothing."

"Where is Tobias?" asked Landolin, gnashing his teeth.

"You needn't halloo so; I'm not deaf. I sent Tobias home before us; and I might as well tell you at once, that I shall dismiss him soon. He knows too much, and puts on too many airs. Moreover, I intend to send away all of the servants. I'm going to lay a new foundation."

Landolin kept silent, but smiled. He was incensed at Peter's impertinence, yet he could not repress his delight that his son had become so fearless and resolute.

"I could almost be proud of you, you have changed so," he said, at length. And Peter cried exultingly:

"That's right. You shall see that I'll do everything right; and that I'll do the right thing by you. I find that we've been losing a big pile of money in speculation, but that's past and done with, and I'll say nothing more about it."

Landolin kept his wrath down, and thought: "Just wait till we get home, then I'll talk to you differently."

Father and son spoke not a word after this. A wagon was waiting at the depot in the city; and Landolin asked his wife, who with tears in her eyes came to meet him: "Where is Thoma?" He was told that she would not come.

Landolin thought to himself: "I am acquitted, but my children-. My son wants to depose me, and my daughter will not even come to meet me."

In the meadow near the station was an unfinished platform, and though it was twilight, the men were still hammering busily.

"What are they doing?" asked Landolin; and before an answer could be given, he continued: "I remember, when I was a child, that a scaffold was built there, and a man beheaded on it. Beheading is not the worst thing in the world."

"Oh! husband!" replied his wife. "What strange thoughts! Peter, don't you know what they are doing?"

"Certainly; certainly. Next Sunday the soldiers have their celebration."

As the wagon drove past the garden of the Sword inn, a number of ladies and gentlemen were looking down from the veranda. Landolin raised his hat and bowed, but no one returned the salutation; and, for the first time in his life, he tasted the bitter experience of stretching out his hand in greeting, and of finding no hand ready to take it.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

No one had returned Landolin's greeting from the veranda of the inn. To be sure the judge's wife, who sat near the railing, looked an acknowledgment, but that could not be seen at the distance. More she dared not do, for they were having a full meeting of the members of the "Casino," a society or association of the people of rank in the city, which met the first Wednesday after each full moon. Several members from a distance were there; the Catholic priest; and the only Protestant pastor of the district, with his wife.

The conversation naturally turned upon the monstrous verdict of the previous day. The corporation-attorney said that he was glad he had declined to defend the case. He could well imagine the surprise of Landolin's counsel when his client was acquitted. Of course, in such cases, a lawyer feels bound to make use of all possible dialectic arts and strategies, but still, when successful, he must feel the recoil of the gun.

The school-teacher, whom but few knew to be the editor of the weekly paper, The Forest Messenger, complained in a disheartened tone that this verdict of the overbearing farmers would necessarily intensify the hate existing between the different classes; for the poor man felt that he had no rights. It was high time that the choice of jurymen should no longer depend upon the length of a man's tax-list.

The attorney coincided with him, but went even farther, and asserted that it was an old prejudice of liberalism, that the ordinary mind could render a just verdict.

The judge nodded to him, and he continued, somewhat vehemently: "I now understand the legend of Medusa. The uneducated class is such a head. If a man should look into its face, he would turn into stone before its horrid visage, so wild, so malevolent, so false, so furious. Our much vaunted German nation is not yet ripe, either for universal suffrage, or for the right of sitting on a jury. Indeed, since we have obtained what we have so long and ardently desired, the German wave in the tide of morality is sinking away. Our German people are not so great as we believed and hoped."

The judge earnestly protested against this assertion, and insisted that although there were undoubtedly deplorable indications, still the wave was beginning to rise again.

The physician, who still clung to the old ideal of his student days-an ideal always mingled with a profound hatred of Metternich-came bravely to the judge's assistance, by declaring that the influence of the profligate times of Metternich is still felt; for our people persist in the belief that everything that our rulers propose to do is wrong and tyrannical; and applaud when the law is evaded, or a criminal slips through without punishment.

In conclusion the physician could not refrain from giving the lawyer, who, while he really had a contempt for the people, belonged to the so-called radical wing of the liberty party, to understand that his party was greatly to blame for the disorganization of the popular mind, by its carping depreciation of the great and good things which had actually been accomplished.

The clergyman agreed that the foundation of all the mischief lay in the weakening of religious belief; but the schoolmaster was bold enough to assert that in the boasted days of unshaken faith there was much more wickedness in the world than now.