"Dearest Friend and Brother: My heart is breaking as I write, but I must talk with you once more. I think of the days and the many summer nights I have spent in happy walk's with you, my one ever-loving friend. It could not have been I; it was some one else. God is my witness, and so is my mother in heaven, that I never wilfully wronged a fellow-being. If I ever wronged or grieved you, dear brother, forgive me. I did it not intentionally, and humbly beg your forgiveness. I am not fit to live.
"Here is my confession; I see no escape but death. I know that to kill myself is a sin, but to live is a greater. Every day I am a murderer. I can bear it no longer. I spend my nights in weeping, and all the time despise myself for it. I might have been a quiet, honest, upright man, had I been allowed to remain in the beaten track; but I was not made for contest. I weep to think of what I have become; I who was once so different! If I live, my life will be a greater shame upon my children than my death. That will be soon forgotten; the next season the grass will be growing on my grave. By your faithful heart, and by all the acts of kindness you have ever done me, I conjure you to be a father to my forsaken children. My poor children,--I dare not think of them. I was foolish enough once to fancy I could make a good father; but I cannot; I can be nothing. If love is not freely given me, I cannot win it; that is my misery, that is my ruin. A wall of glass is about me that I try in vain to surmount. My mother was right in saying we can sow and plant and force a harvest by our industry, but one thing must grow of itself, and that is love. It will not grow for me where I had a right to look for it.
"Take my children out of the village when I am buried. I would not have them see me. Pray the mayor and the minister to have me laid beside my parents and my brethren. They were happier than I. Why was I alone left to live for such an end as this?
"You are my little William's godfather,--take him now for your own child. You always said he had a taste for drawing; take him to your own home and teach him. If it be possible, be reconciled with my uncle Petrovitsch. Perhaps he will do something for my children when I am gone, for I am sure he likes you; I would not tell you now what I did not know to be true. You may still be good friends together. His heart is kinder than he will acknowledge, as my mother always said. My wife--but I will say nothing of her. If my children are happy, let her be forgiven for my sake.
"I have been driven to hearing and saying such words as I had never imagined tongue could utter.
"I am in prison and must escape. I have lived through days and watched through nights that were as years. I can endure no more; I am tired, tired even to death. For months I have not closed my eyes and tried to sleep, without being assailed by visions of horror that pursue me through the day. I can bear this black and haunted sleep no longer; I must have the quiet sleep of death.
"In return for the money I owe you, take the watch which you will find on my body. It will tick on against your faithful heart when my heart shall have ceased to beat. When my effects are sold, buy my father's file and keep it for my son. I have no legacy to bequeath to him. Teach him that his father was not a bad man. He has my unhappy sensitiveness; drive it out of him, make him strong and self-reliant. And the baby-.
"It is hard--hard that I must die; I am still so young; but better now. The doctor must see that my body is not carried to Freiburg for the students to dissect. Give to him and all his household my cordial greeting. He has long known how things were with me; but they were past any doctor's help. Bid our comrades good by for me, especially Faller and the schoolmaster. My dearest, dearest brother, I have still much to say to you, but my head swims. Good night. Farewell.
"In eternity,
"Your loving
"LENZ."
He folded the letter and wrote the address: "To be delivered to my friend and brother Pilgrim."
The day began to dawn. He extinguished the lamp, and, holding the letter in his hand, approached the window to take his last look of the world of nature. The sun was just rising above the mountain; first a pale streak of yellow, soon obscured by a long stretch of dark cloud; above the cloud, the deep blue of the open heavens, and beneath the broad expanse of snow shimmering in the ghostly light. A rosy flush floats on the black bosom of the cloud, and lo! in an instant the mass is rent with golden fissures; the whole heaven is spread with gold, that gradually turns to crimson, till of a sudden all is aglow with purple flame. That is the world of light, of bright existence. Take your last look of it before leaving it forever.
Lenz put the letter in his pocket, and went out to take a turn about the house. At every step he sank to his knees in melting snow. He returned to the sitting-room, and, finding that Annele was not inclined to get up, dressed the children himself and gave them their breakfast. When the village bells began to ring he ordered the maid to take William by the hand and the baby in her arms and go with them to Pilgrim's. He gave the letter into the girl's hand, but finally changed his mind about it, and taking it from her, concealed it in the little girl's pocket. When the child's clothes were taken off at night, the letter would be found. All would be over then.
"Go to Pilgrim's," he repeated to the girl, "and wait there till I come; if I do not come, wait till night."
He kissed the children, and, turning away, laid his head upon the table. Long he lay in the same position. Nothing stirred in the house. He waited till the last sound of the church-bells had died away, then rose and bolted the house door. "God forgive me, it must be done," was his bitter cry. He sank upon his knees; he tried to pray, but could not. "She often said her prayers, and before the last word had fairly passed her lips, her anger and abuse and mockery broke out afresh. She has sinned against everything in heaven and on the earth. She, too, shall--no; let her live. But in her presence I will do the deed; she shall see the work of her hands."
He covered his face with both hands, then clenched his fists and burst into the chamber, meaning to kill himself before his wife's very eyes. He drew back the bed-curtains. "Cuckoo! cuckoo!" cried the little girl from the bed. Lenz sank half fainting to the floor.
Suddenly there was a rushing sound;--the earth seemed opening to swallow them,--there was a rolling as of thunder over the earth and under it,--a mighty crash above their heads,--and it was night, deep, dark night.
"What is the matter? For Heaven's sake, what is it?" screamed Annele. Lenz rose to his feet. "I do not know; I cannot tell what has happened." Annele and the child were beside themselves; they wept and screamed with terror. Lenz tried to open a window; he could not stir it. Tumbling over the chairs, he groped his way into the outer room, where, too, all was in total darkness. "Annele," he cried, "we are buried under the snow!" A silence fell upon them both; only the child sobbed and shrieked, and the poultry in the wood-shed cackled as if a hawk were among them. An instant more and all was still as death.
At that very hour Pilgrim was on his way to church. When nearly there, however, he changed his purpose, took several turns in front of old Petrovitsch's house, and finally mustered courage to pull the bell. Petrovitsch had been watching him from his window, and muttered to himself, as he heard the ring: "You are going to make me a visit, are you? I will give you a reception you won't forget in a hurry."
Petrovitsch was as much out of sorts as if he were suffering from the effects of a night's debauch; and indeed it was pretty much so. He had committed an excess in calling up old associations, and admitting a guest to share them. The idea of having given way to the wretched weakness of desiring to appear well before a fellow-man angered him. How could he meet the doctor again in the full light of day? There was an end to his proud boast of caring nothing for the opinion of the world. Pilgrim was an excellent object on which to wreak his ill-humor; he would put a stop to the fellow's playing and singing for one day at least.
"Good morning, Mr. Lenz!" said Pilgrim, entering.
"The same to you, Mr. Pilgrim."
"Mr. Lenz, I have come to see you instead of going to church."
"I did not know I was considered such a saint."
"I do not come hoping for any great results from my visit, but only that I may feel I have done my duty."
"If every one did his duty it would be a fine world to live in."
"Your Lenz, as you know--"
"I have no Lenz but that one," interrupted Petrovitsch, pointing to the reflection of his carefully shaven face in the glass.
"You know that your brother's son is in great trouble."
"No; the trouble is in him. It all comes from a man's priding himself on his kind heart, and having friends who pet him till he thinks all other views than his are the whimsies of a crabbed old croaker."
"You may be right; but talking won't mend the matter. Your Lenz's difficulties are greater than you think."
"I never measured them."
"He is even in danger of taking his own life."
"He did that long ago, when he married as he did."
"I can say no more. I thought I was prepared for everything, but this I had not expected. You are much more,--you are a different man from what I took you for."
"Thanks for the compliment. I only regret I cannot wear it as a medal about my neck, as you singers wear your badges."
The gay, open-hearted Pilgrim stood before the old man as disconcerted as a fencer who at every sally finds his weapon struck from his hand.
Petrovitsch hugged himself on his success, and putting an unusually large lump of sugar into his mouth, said, as he smacked his lips: "The son of my deceased brother has done according to his own will and pleasure. It would be unjust in me to try to defraud him of the fruits of his own choosing. He has squandered his life and money,--I cannot restore them."
"Good Heavens, Mr. Lenz, you can. His life and that of his whole family may yet be saved. The discord in his house will cease when plenty returns and this wear of anxiety is removed. 'Horses quarrel over the empty crib,' says the proverb. Wealth is not happiness, but it can command happiness."
"Young people nowadays are very generous with others' money, but have no taste for earning their own. I will do nothing for the husband of Annele of the Lion, whose fair words have to be bought with gold."
"What if your nephew should die?"
"He will probably be buried."
"And what will become of the children?"
"We can never tell what will become of children."
"Has your nephew ever offended you in any way?"
"I know not how he could offend me."
"Then what can you do better with your money than now--"
"If I ever need a guardian, I will ask to have you appointed, Mr. Pilgrim."
"I see I am not clever enough for you."
"You do me too much honor," said Petrovitsch, putting one foot over the other and playing with the lappet of his slipper.
"I have done my duty," said Pilgrim again.
"And cheaply, too, at the expense of a couple of fair words. A bushel of them would not cost much. I would buy at that rate."
"This is my first and last request to you."
"And this is my first and last refusal to you."
"Good morning, Mr. Lenz!"
"The same to you, Mr. Pilgrim."
At the door Pilgrim turned, his face crimson and his eyes flashing. "Mr. Lenz, do you know what you are doing?"
"I generally know pretty well what I am doing."
"You are absolutely turning me out of your house."
"Indeed!" said Petrovitsch with an ugly smile; but his eyes fell before the look of mingled pain and defiance in Pilgrim's face. "Mr. Lenz," continued the young man, "from you I bear everything. There lives not a man within sight of a hedge or a tree that can yield a stick, who can boast of having insulted Pilgrim with impunity. You can: and do you know the reason? Because I am willing to bear insults in my friend's cause. Unhappily it is all I can do for him. No angry word shall you hear from me that you can use as a pretext for not helping my friend. For his sake I gladly suffer insults. Tell all the world, if you will, that you have turned me out of your house."
"It would not be much to boast of."
Pilgrim's breath came short and quick; his lips grew white, and without another word he left the room.
Petrovitsch sent after him such a look of triumph as a satisfied fox might send after the wounded and fugitive hare whose blood he had sucked, but whose life the poor creature might save as he could.
With great satisfaction he paced about his room, stroking himself down with his hands. He seemed actually so puffed up with satisfaction that he had to let out the tasseled cord of his dressing-gown. Now Petrovitsch is himself again, his every motion seemed to say; last night you behaved like an old fool and forfeited all right to revile the dish-clouts about you.
Pilgrim silently wended his way homeward, but, being in no mood for entering his room at once, passed his house and took a long walk through the fields. On returning, he was most agreeably surprised by finding his friend's little boy. That is the way, he thought, when friends heartily love one another. At the very moment I was thinking of Lenz, his heart was full of me. Perhaps he had a presentiment of my intended visit to Petrovitsch, and so sent his boy to help my petition. But the child could have done no good. The voices of men and angels would have been alike useless.
There was no end to the games Pilgrim invented, and the pictures he drew, for the child's entertainment. Little William screamed with delight at the hare and hounds made out of a handkerchief and a black necktie, and called for the same stories over and over again. Pilgrim's great story was of a Turk named Kulikali, who had an immense nose and could swallow smoke. He dressed himself up like the Turk Kulikali, and spreading a cloth on the floor, sat in the middle of it with his legs crossed, and played all manner of tricks. He was as much of a child for the time as his little godson. After dinner, which they ate down stairs with Don Bastian, William insisted on being taken, in spite of the sleet and slosh, down to the brook. That was the best fun of all. Great blocks of ice went floating by with ravens perched upon them; and when one of their rafts cracked and broke to pieces, the ravens flew up and perched upon another. It was dizzying to look down on them from the height where the two stood. The earth seemed to be in motion while the ice stood still. The child clung anxiously to Pilgrim. When that entertainment failed, Pilgrim took his godson home and made him up a bed on his well-worn sofa, which they agreed should be little Lenz's own, and he should never go away any more. "At home papa cries," the little fellow said; "and mamma too; and mamma says papa is a wicked man." Poor Pilgrim was cut to the heart at hearing of it. The snow and rain increased so much in violence, and the avalanches from the roofs of the houses and from the upland slopes were so constant, that it soon became impossible to step out of doors. The evening came, but no Lenz. The servant-maid told of her having met Petrovitsch on his way to the Morgenhalde, not far from the house. He had asked whose the child was, and on her replying it was Lenz's William, had given him a little bit of sugar,--not a whole lump, for he broke off half of it first and put it into his own mouth.
"Is it possible? can Petrovitsch really have been softened? Who can read the hearts of men?"
Petrovitsch, after giving full scope to his exultation at this double triumph over the doctor and Pilgrim, felt very tranquil in his mind. He sat at his window watching the groups of church-goers, till at last all were gone by except a single woman and a single man, who came hurrying along to take their seats before the service should begin. Petrovitsch's custom was to go to church himself; in fact, so regular was his attendance that it was reported he meant to leave a handsome sum in his will towards erecting a new building. To day, however, he stayed at home, being busy with his own thoughts. One idea in particular occupied his mind: The fellow has good friends in his time of need. Pooh! would they be quite so good if they were rich? Pilgrim's friendship perhaps is sincere; it almost looked so. He was very near letting his passion break out at one time; but he kept it down and let me say what I would, rather than injure his friend's cause.--It was all a trick likely enough,--and yet there is such a thing as friendship.
He heard the rumbling of the organ from the distant church, the singing of the congregation, and then came a silence which implied that the minister had begun his sermon. A voice seemed to be preaching to Petrovitsch as he sat with folded hands in his chair. Suddenly he rose saying half aloud: "It is very well to show men their master, but it is pleasant too to be thought well off.--No, no; that is not worth while; that is not what I mean; but to make men rub their eyes and cry: 'Thunder and lightning, who would have thought it?' there is some fun in that."
Petrovitsch had not for many years dressed himself so quickly as he did to-day. Generally he took his dressing easily and comfortably, like most things that he did, spending at least an hour over it; but to-day he was soon ready, even to the putting on of his costly fur coat which he had brought from Russia himself. The old housekeeper, who had seen him a few minutes before in dressing-gown and slippers, stared in amazement, but dared not utter a word, as she was not spoken to. With his gold-headed cane, furnished with a hard, sharp ferrule at the bottom, in case of need, Petrovitsch walked through the village and straight up the hill. No human being was in the street; none at the windows to wonder at seeing him leave his house at this unwonted hour and in this ugly weather. Bubby had to represent the whole absent humanity, and proclaimed, as well as his barking could: My master is behaving himself in a way you would not believe; I would not have believed it myself. He barked it at a raven sitting meditatively on a hedge, sagely reflecting upon the melting snow; he barked it for his own gratification as he leaped ever higher and higher through the deepening drifts, on his useless digressions to and fro; and between his barks his look at his master seemed to say: No human soul understands us two; but we know each other.
I sacrifice all my peace of mind by doing it, said Petrovitsch to himself; but if I don't do it I have no peace of mind either. I might as well secure some thanks at least. After all, he is a good, simple, honest fellow, as his father was before him.
Lenz's door was locked when the two reached the house. Bubby was already on the threshold, and Petrovitsch had his hand on the latch when--he sank to the ground, and an avalanche of snow overwhelmed him. So much for troubling yourself about other men, was his first thought and his last, for immediately consciousness failed him.
"Strike a light, Lenz; strike a light! If there is any danger, I must see it. What makes you stand there crying in the dark. I feel your tears on my hand. What is the matter? Let me go; I will get up myself and light a lamp."
"Be quiet, Annele," said Lenz, his teeth chattering so he could hardly speak. "Annele, I had meant to kill myself here before your eyes."
"Better kill me; I should be too glad to die."
"Did you not understand me, Annele? We are blocked up by the snow; buried alive with our child."
"If death had had to wait for you to bring it, it never would have come."
Still that hard, cutting tone; those biting, stinging words! Lenz felt his breath come hard.
"Let me get up, let me get up!" continued Annele; "I am not like you, to let my arms hang down at my side. I don't care what becomes of me; but I choose to see the danger. You would like to wait till some one came to dig you out or till the snow went away of itself; that is not my way. Defend yourself, is our family motto."
"Stay where you are; I will strike a light," answered Lenz; but hardly had he reached the next room before Annele stood beside him with the child in her arms. On attempting to go to the garret a new misfortune disclosed itself; the roof had been broken in. "The snow alone could not have done the damage," he said; "it has brought trunks of trees down with it, and that was what made such a crash."
"I don't care what made it; only let us find some help, some way of escape."
She ran hither and thither trying all the windows and doors. Not till she found that all were firmly walled up and yielded nothing under her fiercest efforts, did she admit the full extent of the catastrophe, and setting the child down upon the table, broke out into screams and tears. Lenz took the child in his arms, and with difficulty persuaded Annele to be quiet. "The hand of death is upon our house," he said; "all struggle is unavailing. Did you keep William too at home? Is he concealed anywhere here?"
"No; he went with the maid. I kept only the baby."
"Thank God! we are not all lost; one of us at least is saved. Poor little child! I sent the boy away, Annele, that he might not see his father kill himself; but now all is changed. God summons us all. Poor child, to have to perish for your parents' sins!"
"I have not sinned; I have nothing to reproach myself with."
"Good; hold to that to the last. Do you not know that you have murdered me, poisoned the very heart in my body, disgraced me in my own eyes, trodden me under foot, taken all strength from me?"
"A man who allows his strength to be taken from him deserves nothing better."
"An hour more and we may be standing before another judgment-seat. Look into your heart, Annele."
"Keep your preaching to yourself; I don't want it."
An instant afterwards her screams summoned Lenz to the kitchen, whither she had gone to light the fire, and where he found her gazing in terror at the rats and mice congregated on the hearth, while a raven flew round and round the kitchen, knocking down plates and pots in his course.
"Kill them! kill them!" shrieked Annele, and fled into the adjoining room.
The rats and mice were soon disposed of, but the raven it would have been impossible to catch without breaking every article of crockery in the kitchen. The lamp made the bird frantic, and without a light it was impossible to find him. "I might shoot the raven with my pistol which I have here, ready loaded," he said, returning to Annele in the sitting-room; "but the jar would hasten the fall of the house. The best thing I can do is to make this room safe."
He drew a heavy press into the middle of the room directly under the main beam, piled a smaller one above it, and filled in the space so tightly with clothes as to prop up the roof against a considerable pressure from without.
"We must bring all the eatables we have in here." That too he did quickly and handily, while Annele sat like one paralyzed, and could only look on in wonder.
Lenz brought his own prayer-book and Annele's, opened them both at the same place,--the preparation for death,--and laying his wife's open before her, began to read aloud. Seeing she did not follow him, he looked up presently and said: "You are right not to read; there is nothing there for us. Never were any two like us, who should have lived together in peace, each doubling the other's life; but who instead of that pulled away from each other, and are now both imprisoned at the gates of death, and must die together, since they could not live together. Hark! Do you not hear cries? I thought there was a growling sound."
"I hear nothing."
"We cannot light a fire," continued Lenz; "for there is no way for the smoke to escape, and we should be stifled. Thank God, there is the spirit-lamp that my mother bought. You help even in death, mother," he said, looking up at the picture. "Light it, Annele; only economize the spirit; we cannot tell how long we shall have to make it last."
Annele watched his movements in blank amazement. She was often tempted to ask whether this were really that Lenz who had been so incapable of helping himself. But no words came from her stiffened lips. She was like a person in a deathly trance who tries to speak and cannot.
Her first swallow of warm milk revived her. "What if the mice should come in here?" was her first question.
"I will kill them here too, and bury them in the snow to get rid of the stench. By the way, I must bury those I killed in the kitchen."
Again Annele looked at him in amazement. Was this man, so bold in the face of death, the old, sensitive, shiftless Lenz? A kind word rose to her lips, but did not get spoken.
"That plaguy raven has bitten me," said Lenz, returning with his hand bleeding. "The fellow is wild with terror at having been swept away by the force of the avalanche; there is no catching him. A whole pillar of snow has fallen down the chimney. Hark! that is ten o'clock. People are coming out of church now. We were buried just as the last bells were ringing. It was our death-knell."
"I will not die yet; I am so young! And my child! I never knew, I never imagined that I was going to my death when I condescended to live in this desert with you clockmakers."
"It is your father's fault," answered Lenz. "My parents were three times snowed up, so that for two and three days they could not go outside the house, on account of the depth of snow that lay there; but they were never buried. Your father disposed of the wood, and had it cut down over my head. This is his work."
"You have no one but yourself to blame. He wanted to give you the wood."
"That is true."
"Oh, if I and my child were but out of this place!" cried Annele, beginning her lamentations afresh.
"And do you care nothing for me?"
Without appearing to hear him she cried again, "O God, why must I die thus? What have I done?"
"What have you done? yet a little while and God himself will tell you. My words are spent in vain."
Both were silent; a secret power seemed forcing Annele to speak, but she could not.
"Good God!" began Lenz; "here we two stand at the gates of death and with what feelings towards each other! If we should be saved, it would be only to renew the old pain and torment. My parents were three times snowed up. My mother always made provision against such an event, and kept on hand a plentiful supply of salt and oil. Of the first two times I know nothing, but the last is distinct in my memory to this day. Dearly as my father and mother loved each other, I never before saw them kiss. When my father said: 'Mary, we are once more alone in the world, out of the world'; then for the first time I saw my mother kiss him. For those three days it was like living in eternity, in paradise. Morning, noon, and night my father and mother sang together out of the hymn-book, and every word they spoke was more sweet and holy than tongue can tell. I remember my mother's saying once: 'Would we might die at such a moment as this; pass out of this earthly rest into the eternal, neither one left behind to grieve for the other!' Then and only then did I hear my father speak of my uncle. 'If I were to die now,' he said, 'I should leave no enemy behind. I owe no man anything. My one grief is that my brother Peter dislikes me.'"
Lenz suddenly paused in his story. There was a scratching at the house-door, a whimpering and howling. "What is there? I must see what it is," said Lenz.
"No, no; for Heaven's sake!" cried Annele, sending a thrill through him by the touch of her hand on his shoulder. "Let it be, Lenz! It is a fox howling, or a wolf. I heard the howl of a wolf once, and it sounded just like that."
Whatever the creature was outside, it seemed to be roused to fresh exertion by the sound of voices within; the scratching and barking grew louder.
"That is no wolf; it is a dog. Hark! it is Hubby's bark. Great Heavens, it is Bubby! and where his dog is my uncle must be too. He must be buried in the snow."
"Let him lie there, if he is; it serves him right."
"Woman! are you mad? must you still spit out your poison?"
"I am full of poison up to my throat. For days and days I had nothing else to drink; it has been my only food."
Lenz went to the kitchen and returned with an axe.
"What do you mean to do?" screamed Annele, holding the child as a shield before her.
"Out of my way!" he cried, and raising the axe brought it down with all his force against the door, which fell outward. It was indeed Bubby, who now sprang in howling, but in an instant was back again scratching in the snow, and uttering short, sharp barks.
Lenz began to shovel away the snow. A piece of fur soon came to view, and laying shovel and pick aside, he set carefully to work, digging with his hands, and bringing the snow into the house in order to clear a space. When he found his uncle, the old man's consciousness was gone. All Lenz's strength was required to drag his seemingly lifeless body out of the snow. He bore him into the chamber, stripped off his clothing, put him to bed, and began rubbing him with all his might, till he at last drew a deep breath.
"Where am I?" groaned Petrovitsch; "where am I?"
"In my house, uncle."
"Who brought me here? who took off my clothes? where are my clothes? where is my fur? where is my waistcoat? it has my keys in it. So you have me at last, have you?"
"Be calm, uncle; I will find everything for you. See, here is your fur, and here is your waistcoat."
"Let me have them. Are the keys in the pocket? yes, there they are. Ha, Bubby, are you here too?"
"Yes, uncle, he saved your life."
"Ah, now I remember. We were buried by the snow. How long ago was it? was it not yesterday?"
"Scarce an hour ago," said Lenz.
"Hear you no help coming?"
"I hear nothing. Keep quiet a few minutes while I go into the other room, and get you something to drink."
"Leave me the light; bring me something warm."
"Serves me right," said Petrovitsch when he was left by himself; "serves me exactly right. What business had I to go out of my accustomed way?"
He seemed revived by the brandy Lenz brought him, and caressing his dog, who had nestled close to his master's side, said: "Let me go to sleep now. What is that noise? Is there not a raven crying?"
"Yes, one was swept down the kitchen chimney by the snow."
"Very well; let me sleep now."
Lenz and Annele sat without in the sitting-room, neither speaking a word. The child laughed and stretched out its little hands now towards the light, and now towards its father's eyes, that were broodingly fixed upon it. "If we must die, thank God our son is saved!" said Lenz. Still Annele was silent. The monotonous ticking of the clocks was suddenly interrupted by one of the musical works beginning to play a hymn. For the first time the eyes of husband and wife met. Annele changed the child's position on her lap, and clasped her hands over its buoyant bosom.
"If you can pray," said Lenz, "you ought to be able to look into your heart and repent."
"I have nothing to repent of in my conduct towards you; whatever other sins I may have committed, I confess only to God. I have meant nothing that was not kind and honest towards you."
"And I?"
"You did right too, as far as you knew how. I am more just to you than you are to me. You would never put me in a position where I could earn anything."
"And your horrible words?"
"Pooh! words break no bones."
Lenz implored her to be kind and peaceable before his uncle. "Your uncle and the raven in the kitchen tell me we must die," she answered as in a dream.
"You are not generally superstitious; I hope, for your sake, you are not going to be so now. It was you who threw the writing and the plant to the wind, and called on the storm to visit us."
Annele made no answer. After another interval of silence Lenz arose, saying he would go on digging at the place where he had found his uncle, for if he could dig through to the mountain, he should be able to crawl out and summon help. Annele had her hand stretched out to detain him, imagining the horror of having him buried in the snow, and she and Petrovitsch too weak to dig him out. She had her hand stretched out to detain him, but passed it over her face instead, and let him go. He soon returned, however, and reported the snow to be so loose that every space filled in again as soon as cleared. There was reason to fear, also, that the snow still continued to fall. The best he could do was to shovel out again what he had been obliged to bring into the house, and push a clothes-press against the entrance, where the battered door no longer served as a protection.
His wet clothes had to be changed for his Sunday suit; it was no wedding garment he put on.
"Five years ago to-day," he murmured, "many sleighs stood before the door of the Lion inn; would that the guests were here now to dig us out!"
Petrovitsch had awaked from a short sleep, but still lay quiet in bed in the sleeping-room. He thought over with calmness all that had happened. Haste and complaints were here equally unavailing. Yesterday he had recalled his whole past life, had lived it over again in a few short moments, and here was the end. He accepted it with indifference. How to conduct himself towards those in the next room was the question that chiefly occupied him. At last he called Lenz and asked for his clothes, as he wished to get up. Lenz advised him to remain where he was, for the sitting-room was cold and his clothes wet, there being no way of lighting a fire. Petrovitsch, however, still desired to get up, and asked if there was no comfortable dressing-gown in the house.
"One of my father's," replied Lenz; "will you have that?"
"If there is no other, give me that," said Petrovitsch, angrily, while in his heart was a sorrow, almost a fear, at the thought of wearing what had been his brother's.
"You look quite like my father in it," cried Lenz; "quite like him, only a little smaller."
"I had a hard youth, or I should have been larger," said the old man, looking at himself in the glass, as he entered the room. The cry of the raven in the kitchen startled him; he imperatively ordered Lenz to kill the bird. Lenz's chief occupation, however, for the time was to keep the peace between Bubby and the cat. The dog betrayed his discomfort by continued barks and whines, till the cat was finally shut up in the kitchen, where she did them good service by silencing the raven. Petrovitsch called for more cherry-brandy, of which Lenz said there were happily three bottles left of his mother's making, at least twelve years ago; with hot water and sugar he mixed himself a nice glass of grog. "How absurd all this is!" he cried, growing talkative under its genial influence; "I have dragged my body over the whole world, only to be squeezed to death in my father's house. It serves me right; why could I not have conquered that foolish homesickness? Homesickness indeed!" he gave a laugh of derision and continued: "there is an insurance on my life, but of what use is that to me now? Do you know who has buried us here? that man of honor, the stout landlord, destroyed the forest over our heads."
"Alas! he buries his child and his child's child with us," added Lenz.
"You are neither of you fit to mention my father's name," cried Annele, passionately. "My father was unfortunate, but he was never dishonest. If you say another word against him, I will set fire to the house."
"You are mad!" cried Petrovitsch; "shall we thank him for throwing this little snow-ball at our heads? Be quiet, Annele; come, sit here by me; give me your hand. I have something to say to you, Annele; I never fancied that you yourself were quite good and true; but now I see you are. I like you for not letting any word of blame fall on your father. Few keep loyal to a ruined man. 'Oh, how I love you!' is only heard as long as we have money in our pocket. I like you for it, Annele." Annele cast a quick glance at her husband, whose eyes were fixed on the ground.
"It is well that we should spend this hour together," continued Petrovitsch; "who knows but it may be our last? Let us come to a full and free understanding with each other. Draw your chair nearer, Lenz. You looked for consolation from your wife in your misfortune. Because you were dissatisfied with yourself and could give yourself no praise, you craved it from others, instead of helping her, the proud Annele of the Lion. You are proud, Annele, you need not shake your head. A good thing pride is; I only wish Lenz had a little more of it. Your turn is coming; don't be impatient."
"Yes," cried Annele; "he deceived me, he said he had given up the security for Faller; it was false."
"I did not tell you so; I only tried to escape from your importunities."
"Your turn is coming. Now tell me one thing, on your honor, Annele," continued Petrovitsch. "Did you know when you married Lenz that your father was a ruined man?"
"Must I tell you honestly?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, I swear before God, that I knew my father was no longer rich, although I thought he had still a considerable property. I liked Lenz while we were rich, but then my mother would not hear of my marrying him. She was very ambitious for her daughters, and especially disliked the idea of one of us living with a mother-in-law."
"For yourself, then, you would have come to my mother had she been living? Pilgrim said you would not."
"If Pilgrim said so, he was right. I said many foolish things as a girl, that I might be thought well of and be praised for my saucy wit."
Lenz looked earnestly at her, and Petrovitsch went on: "Talk no more of that yet, till I ask you some questions. You both deceived each other and yourselves. You both persuaded yourselves you were marrying from pure love, when in reality each thought the other rich; and when that turned out not to be the case, mutual anger and recriminations arose between you. Say, Lenz; did you not think Annele was rich."
"I did think so; but, uncle, that is not the cause of the misery that consumes me,--of my bleeding heart and my burning brain. I thought the landlord was rich, but I did not care for his money."
"And you, Annele?"
"I did not think Lenz was rich. You may tear me in pieces between you if you will; I did not."
"You have not made a full confession yet; one thing, however, you will admit, that you are both sick with the same disease. You, Lenz, prided yourself on your good-nature, and you on your cleverness, did you not, Annele?"
"I did not pride myself on my cleverness, but I am more capable and more experienced than he, and better able to take care of myself. If he had let me have my way, and be at the head of a hotel, we should not now be in misery and waiting for death."
"And what measures did you take to persuade him to do as you liked?"
"I showed him that he was a do-little, a good-for-nothing pin-sticker. I deny nothing. I took all the life out of him; I said whatever came to my lips, and the more it pained him, the better I was pleased."
"Annele, do you believe in hell?"
"I must, for I have it before me. I am in the power of you two men; can any hell be worse? You can torment me as you will; I am a weak woman, unable to defend myself."
"A weak woman?" cried Petrovitsch, with unwonted sharpness. "A weak woman? a pretty way, to drive a man distracted with your obstinacy, to drop poison into his heart till he is on the verge of despair, and then say, 'I am a weak woman!'"
"I might tell a lie," continued Annele, "and make promises for the future; but I will not. Rather will I let myself be torn in pieces than give up one jot of my rights. All I said was true, and that I knew it was poison is also true."
"All true?" cried Lenz, pale as death. "Think of one thing you said: that my good deeds were only a cloak for my laziness, and that I ill-treated my mother. My mother! In one hour perhaps we shall stand before her; how can you meet her face to face?"
Annele was silent. Petrovitsch, too angry to speak, sat pressing his teeth against his lips, till at last he broke out: "Annele, if Lenz had throttled you when you said those words, he would have been hung, but he would have been innocent in the sight of God. You inn-keeper's daughter, used to the wretched rabble that haunts a tavern, you have a quick wit of your own, and hearing from some gallows-bird of a postilion that the way to urge a horse in a race was to put burning tinder in his ears, you laid your words like burning tinder in Lenz's ears, and drove him mad. There is my hand, Lenz; you are a beggar for kind looks and words, which is pitiful; but you have not deserved a punishment like this, to be driven mad by a devil in your house. Give me the child! you are not fit to hold an innocent child in your arms."
The little girl screamed as he snatched her from her mother. Lenz interposed: "Not so, uncle, not so. Listen to me, Annele; I have only kind words to speak. Annele, we are standing beside an open grave--"
Annele shrieked and covered her face with her hands. "You, too, are standing by your open grave," he continued.
Without uttering a word Annele sank lifeless to the ground.