Joseph in the Snow, and The Clockmaker. In Three Volumes. Vol. III.
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.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
A FRIEND IN NEED
At this very hour Pilgrim intended to have gone to church; but on the way he turned, and went several times past Petrowitsch's house. At last he stopped at the door, and pulled the bell.
Petrowitsch had long since observed him from his window, and when he now rung, Petrowitsch said to himself, "So you are coming to me? You shall not soon forget your reception."
Petrowitsch was in very bad humour, as cross as if he had been suffering from the effects of intoxication, and it was very nearly the same. He had been tempted to revel in old remembrances, and to entrust another with his secret life. He was provoked with himself, for not having been able to withstand the temptation of appearing good, in the eyes of one man. He felt ashamed of ever facing the Doctor again in broad daylight. His usual pride, which made him say he was quite indifferent to what the world thought of him, was all gone. Now Pilgrim was come, and on him should be discharged the whole vials of his wrath. He will neither play the guitar, nor sing, nor whistle today.
Pilgrim came in, and said, "Good morning, Herr Lenz."
"The same to you, Herr Pilgrim."
"Herr Lenz, I come to you instead of going to church."
"I had no idea I was considered so holy."
"Herr Lenz, I come, not because I believe that it will do any good, but still I shall have done my duty."
"It would be well if every one did their duty."
"You know your nephew Lenz – "
"There is no Lenz whom I care about, except the one I see there," said Petrowitsch, looking at his wrinkled face in the glass.
"You know, however, that your brother's son is in distress."
"No, the distress is in him. This comes of giving way to the impulses of a good heart, and having companions who encourage such weakness; and whatever advice may be in opposition to this, is considered the mere whims of a peevish, withered old man."
"You may be right; but wise speeches do no good now. The misery of Lenz is greater than you think."
"I never tried to fathom its depth."
"In one word, I have the greatest fear that he may make away with himself."
"That he did long since. A man who marries so stupidly makes away with his life."
"I don't know what more to say. I thought I was prepared for everything; but not for this. You are worse, and yet different, from what I thought."
"Thanks for the compliment. It is a sad pity that I can't hang it round my neck as an order of merit, like the Choral Society."
The good humoured, merry Pilgrim stood before the old man, looking as foolish as a swordsman whose blade is made to fly out of his hand at each attack.
Petrowitsch feasted on this spectacle, and crammed a large piece of sugar into his mouth. Then he said, smacking his lips, "My brother's son followed his own devices, and it would not be fair on my part, were I to deprive him of the harvest he so richly deserves. He has squandered his life and his money, and I have no power to restore either."
"Indeed you have, Herr Lenz! His life, and that of his family, can yet be saved. All discord in the house will cease when they are once more at ease, and free from care and anxiety. The proverb says, 'Horses quarrel over an empty manger.' Money is not happiness in itself, but it can bring happiness."
"A very remarkable fact how free and easy young people are with other people's money! but they object to earning it themselves! Once for all, however, I am resolved to do nothing for the husband of Annele of the 'Lion,' whose affection is only to be bought with money."
"And if your nephew dies?"
"Then he will, probably, be buried."
"And what is to become of the children?"
"No one can tell what becomes of children."
"Did your nephew ever offend you in any way?"
"I don't know why he should."
"What can you, then, do better with your money than – "
"When I find that I require a guardian, I will apply to Herr Pilgrim."
"Herr Lenz, you are a vast deal too clever for me."
"You do me much honour," said Petrowitsch, kicking off his slippers.
"I have done all I could, at all events," rejoined Pilgrim.
"And at a cheap rate; words cost little – how much a bushel? for I should like to buy some."
"This is the first and last time I ask you anything."
"And this is the first and last time I refuse you anything."
"Good morning, Herr Lenz."
"The same to you, Herr Pilgrim."
Pilgrim turned round once more at the door. His face was red, and his eyes flashed, as he said, "Herr Lenz, do you know what you are doing?"
"I have hitherto always known pretty well what I was doing."
"You are, in fact, turning me out of your house."
"Really!" said Petrowitsch, with a sneer. He, however, cast down his eyes when he saw the expression of Pilgrim's face – half rage, half sorrow.
Pilgrim resumed: "Herr Lenz, I submit to a good deal from you. Of all the men, far and near, who have seen trees and hedges growing, where sticks are to be had, not one can come forward and say that those who offended Pilgrim ever yet did so with impunity. You may do so, and do you know why? Because I allow myself to be maltreated for the sake of my friend. Alas! it is all I can do for him. I don't say one angry word to you – not one. You shall never have it in your power to say, 'Pilgrim behaved so rudely to me, that it prevents my doing anything for his dear friend Lenz.' For my friend's sake I submit to your insults. You may tell every one you turned me out of doors."
"I shall not gain much credit by that."
Pilgrim drew a deep breath, his lips quivered, and he left the room in silence.
Petrowitsch looked after him, with pretty much the same satisfied air that a fox displays when it sucks the blood of a leveret, and then lets it run away, as it best can.
He paced his room in high good humour, playing with the tassels of his dressing-gown. His satisfaction seemed positively to inflate him, for he stroked himself down with his hands, as if to say, "Now you are once more yourself; yesterday evening you were a soft hearted fool, and had no right to abuse this weak, wayward world."
In the mean time Pilgrim went homewards in a dejected mood, and, passing his own door, went far out into the fields, till at last he turned, and went home. There, to his great joy, he found his friend's child. "Thus it is when friends are really attached; my good Lenz was thinking of me, at the very same moment when I was thinking of him. Perhaps he knew, or at least had a presentiment, that I meant to go to Petrowitsch, and sent the child to me to assist my petition. But it would have done no good; to such a man as Petrowitsch, men and angels would speak equally in vain."
Pilgrim was unwearied in the games he thought of to amuse the boy, and in the drawings he did for him; and then, with the aid of a white handkerchief, and his black neckcloth, he could make with his fingers hares, and hounds chasing them. Little Wilhelm shouted with joy, and made Pilgrim tell him the same story at least three times over. Pilgrim had a very pretty knack of story telling, especially about a certain chesnut brown Turk, Kulikali, with a huge nose, who could swallow smoke. Pilgrim dressed himself up in a moment as the Turk Kulikali, seated himself crosslegged on a strip of carpet on the floor, and did all sorts of conjuring tricks. Pilgrim was on this occasion quite as much a child as his young godson. Then they went down stairs, and dined with Don Bastian. In the afternoon, in spite of drizzling rain and snow showers, Pilgrim went to the riverside for an hour with Wilhelm. Was it not a pretty sight! Great blocks of ice were swimming along, and crows perched on them; they wished to see for once how they liked boating, but when one of the masses of ice was shivered, they wisely flew away, and settled on another. It was a giddy sight to look down on from above. It seemed as if the earth were moving, and the ice standing still. The boy clung timidly to Pilgrim. He took him home, and put a mattress for his godson on his old well worn sofa, for both agreed that young Lenz should not go home to-night; and it went to Pilgrim's heart when the child said, "My father speaks so loud, and my mother too; and my mother said my father was a wicked man."
"Oh! my poor Lenz, you must do what you can, to make your boy less sensitive than yourself," thought Pilgrim.
The rain and snow came down in such gusts, that it was scarcely possible to go outside the house, especially as large masses of snow were tumbling off the roofs. Soon it was evening, but Lenz did not come; and Pilgrim was startled by hearing the maid say that she had met Petrowitsch on the road to the Morgenhalde, not far from the house; he asked her "Whose child is that?" and when she said, "Lenz's son, Wilhelm," he patted the boy's head, and gave him a lump of sugar, or at least one half of it, as he broke it in two, and put one piece into his own mouth.
Is it possible? Can Petrowitsch really be softened? Who knows the heart of man?
After Petrowitsch had fully enjoyed his triumph over the Doctor and Pilgrim, he felt quite comfortable. He watched the people going to church in groups, and at last one solitary woman and then a man running to arrive in time.
Petrowitsch usually went regularly to church; indeed it was said that in his will he had bequeathed a large sum for the purpose of building a new place of worship; on this day he stayed at home, having sufficient occupation for his thoughts, but involuntarily it occurred to him —
"That fellow, Lenz, has good friends in his need. Pooh! who knows if they would have been as zealous, if they had been rich! … Pilgrim's earnestness did, however, seem genuine: tears were in his eyes; he controlled his own indignation, and submitted to all my impertinence, for the sake of his friend; but who can tell if this was not all a trick on his part? No, no, there still are true friends in the world."
The organ vibrated from afar, and the singing of the congregation rose in the air, then all was still: the Pastor was, no doubt, preaching his sermon: one solitary human voice cannot be heard at such a distance. Petrowitsch sat in his chair with clasped hands, and it seemed as if some one was preaching to him, for suddenly he started up, and said aloud: – "It is a very good thing to show others that you have a will of your own; but it is also pleasant to be esteemed. After all, it is not worth much; but still, to take men by surprise, and to make them say, 'Well, we never could have believed this.' Yes, yes, that would be pleasant enough."
For many years Petrowitsch had not dressed himself so rapidly as today – usually his dressing, like everything he did, was a work of time, on which he could always spend a good hour – today he was ready in a few minutes. He put on his fur cloak – and he had the finest fur in the country; Petrowitsch had not been so long in Russia for nothing. His old housekeeper, who had seen him so short a time before in his dressing gown, looked at him in amazement, but she never ventured to address him, unless he first spoke to her. Petrowitsch, stepping out stoutly and carrying his goldheaded stick, with its strong sharp point, went through the village, and then proceeded up the hill. No human being was on the pathway, not a single soul looked out of the window – so there was no one to wonder why the old man had left his own house in such dreadful weather, and at so unusual an hour. Büble, however, barked loud enough to supply this deficiency, as if saying, "My master is going to a house – to a house – where no one would believe he was really going. I could not have believed it myself." Büble barked this out to a certain crow, who was perched contemplatively on a hedge, gazing, in deep thought, at the melting snow; Büble soon barked for his own behoof only, and the deeper the snow became, the higher Büble jumped, making various unnecessary scurries on his own account, up the hill and down again, and then he looked at his master, as if to say, "No living creature understands you and me, except ourselves – we know each other pretty well."
"I give up my peace for ever if I do it," said Petrowitsch to himself; "but if I don't do it, I shall have no peace either, and so it is better to earn some gratitude into the bargain; and he certainly is a good, single hearted, honest man, just like his father. Yes, yes!"
These were Petrowitsch's reflections. He arrived in front of Lenz's house. The door was locked; Büble had trotted on before him, and was standing on the door step, when at the same instant – Petrowitsch had actually the latch of the door in his hand – he sank to the ground. He was lying under a mass of snow.
"This is the result of taking charge of other people's affairs," was his first thought as he fell. Soon he no longer had the power to think.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
BURIED ALIVE
"Get a light, Lenz; get a light! Let us at least see our danger, whatever it may be. You sit there in the dark, groaning and lamenting: why are you shedding tears on my hand? What do you mean? Let go my hand that I may rise and strike a light."
"Annele, stay where you are!" Lenz could scarcely speak in his agitation. "Annele, I had resolved to put an end to myself, and came to take a last look at you; but now we are buried alive, and our child with us."
"If any act of energy on your part had been required to cause this misfortune, it never would have happened; it must have come of its own accord."
Still, still, these bitter, irritating words – still the same sharp, cutting tone. Lenz could scarcely draw breath.
"I must rise – I will rise," continued Annele. "I am not like you, letting my arms hang idly by my side. Come good, or come evil, just as it may chance, I am resolved to see what can be done. You would prefer waiting, I suppose, till you are dug out, or the snow at last melted? With me it is very different."
"Stay where you are, I will strike a light," answered Lenz, and went into the next room, but before he could light a candle, Annele was standing beside him. She had her child in her arms. He went to the granary, but quickly returned, saying, with horror, that the roof had given way under the weight of the snow; "And not snow alone," continued he; "large trunks of trees have rolled down on the house, along with the snow. That must have been the cause of the dreadful crashes we heard."
"What care I for that? The point now is to help ourselves, and to find some rescue."
Annele ran from window to window, and from door to door. "It cannot be! such a misfortune is impossible!" Not till she saw that nothing yielded to her frantic efforts, everything being as immovable as mason work, did Annele break out into loud lamentations, and place the child on a table. Lenz took the little girl in his arms, and begged Annele to be patient, she having now sunk down in silence. "The cold hand of death lies on our house," said he, "and it is no use struggling against fate."
"Where is my boy?" said she, suddenly starting up. "Have you hid him anywhere?"
"No; he is not here."
"God be praised! Then we are not all lost; one of us at least is safe."
