Waldfried: A Novel

It was eleven o'clock (I do not know why I was always looking towards the clock that day) when she said, "Water from my spring."

Richard hurried to bring it.

What must his thoughts have been while on his way there and back!

He soon returned, bringing the water with him, but she seemed to have forgotten that she had asked for it. When Richard lifted her up in bed, and placed the glass to her lips, she motioned him away.

I heard a voice from without the house. A cold shudder came over me; my hair stood on end.

It is the voice of our son Ernst!

If Ernst were to come at this time! Could he have been drawn here by a presentiment of what is happening? And if he were here, what power could dare take him away from us, at this moment-and how will he enter his mother's presence?

I hurried out. It was Julius-his voice is just like Ernst's. He brought a letter that Edward Levi had handed to him. It was from Ernst, and was dated at Algiers.

I could not stop to read the letter. I could not remain away from the bedside-every moment was yet a drop of blood to me, and everything glimmered before my eyes. I hurried back to the sick-room; my wife looked at me with strangely bright eyes.

"There is a letter here from Ernst!" I called out.

I do not know whether she understood me, but she reached for the sheet that was in my hand, and held it with a convulsive grasp.

I lifted her head, and moved it towards the cooler side of the pillow; she opened her eyes, and tried to raise her arms; I bent towards her and she kissed me.

It was just striking the hour of noon, when she breathed her last.

I tottered to her room at last; it seemed to me as if I must still find her alive; and when I was in her chair, I could not realize that I was seated there, and that she lay so near me, while I could do nothing for her.

I do not know how it was, but I felt awed by the very silence of the place.

Martella said, "I have stopped the clock; it, too, shall stand still."

They had withdrawn the letter from her convulsively closed hand, and I read it. It has since disappeared-whither, I know not. I remember only this-that it contained news from Algiers, and that Ernst said in it that if Martella and Richard were fond of one another, he was quite ready to release her from any promise to him.

With the exception of Ernst and Ludwig, all of my children were present. Many friends, too, were there. I recollect that I grasped the hands of many of them; but what avails that? They all have their own life left them-I have none.

All arose to attend to the funeral. They set down the coffin in front of the house, and not far from the spring. They told me that my grandson, the vicar, delivered an impressive address in the name of the family. I heard nothing but the rushing of the water.

How I reached her grave, or who led me, I know not.

This alone do I know. I saw how Martella kissed the handful of earth that she threw into the empty grave, and when I returned homeward, the waters were still roaring in our fountain. It roars and roars.

I felt borne down as if by a load of lead. Tears were not vouchsafed me. I could not realize that my hands could move, my eyes see-in fact that I was still alive.

When I looked out again over the valley and towards the hills, it suddenly seemed as if my eyes had become covered with a film, and then all-the forest, the meadows, and the houses seemed of a blood-red color, as if steeped in the dark glow of evening.

I closed my eyes for a long while, and when I opened them again, I saw that the meadows and the woods were green, and everything had its natural color.

The water flows over the weir and bubbles and rushes and sparkles to-day, just as it did yesterday, and as it will tomorrow. How can it be possible that all continues to live on, and she not here. Do not tell me that nature can comfort us against real grief. Against a loss for aye she availeth nothing.

If, in your closet, you have grieved because of insult and falsehood and meanness, do but go out into the fields or woods. While gazing upon the bright and kindly face of nature, or inhaling the sweet perfume of the trees and flowers, you will soon learn to forget such troubles. How weak is all the world's wickedness, when compared with such undying grandeur? That which is best on earth is still yours, if these things but preserve their sway over you. But, if your wife has been torn away from you, neither tree, nor stream, nor the blue heavens, nor the flowers, nor the singing birds will help you. All nature lives a life of its own, and unto itself, and of what avail is it all, when she no longer shares it with me?

The first thing that recalled me to myself, was hearing the old spinner say to Carl, "Why am I yet here? She was so good and so useful, and I am nothing but a burden to you and to the world. Why must I stay behind? I would so gladly have gone in her stead."

The poor people were gathered all about the house, and one old woman cried out, through her tears, "The bread she gave us was doubly welcome, for it was given cheerfully."

I felt that my energies would never again arouse themselves. I cannot say that the thought alarmed me; I merely felt conscious that my mental powers were either failing or torpid. For days I could not collect my thoughts, and led a dull, listless, inanimate life. My children were about me, but their sympathy did not help me. Ernst's evil letter was the only thing that had any effect on me.

I could not realize that what had once been life, was now nothing more than a thought, a memory.

When I heard some one coming up the steps, I always thought it must be she returning and saying, "I could not stay away; I must return to you, you are so lonely. The children are good and kind, but we two cannot remain apart." And then I would start with affright, when I noticed how my thoughts had been wandering.

When I walked in the street, I felt as if I were but half of myself. As long as she was with me I had always felt myself rich, for my home contained her who was best of all.

No one can know what a wealth of soul had been mine; through her, and with her, I had felt myself moving in a higher spiritual sphere. But now I felt so broken, so bereft, as if my entire intellectual possessions had gone to naught. The children are yet here; but they are for themselves. My wife alone was here for me-was indeed my other self.

Before that, when I awakened of a morning it was always a pleasure to feel conscious of life itself; but now with every morrow I had to begin anew and try to learn how to reconcile myself to my loss. But that is a lesson I shall never learn. My sun had gone down; I did not care to live any longer, because all that I experienced seemed to come in between her and me, and I did not wish to live but in thoughts of her.

I looked at her lamp, her table, her work-basket-all these had survived her, are still here, and will remain. The one clock was never wound up afterward. From that day, there was but one clock heard in our room.

I can now understand why the ancients buried the working implements with their dead.

I looked out of the window. The neighbors' children were in the street; their noise grated on my ears. I could not but think how she once said to me, "Why should it annoy us? Is it anything more than the singing of the birds? The children are like so many innocent birds."

All things remind me of her. I could sit by the window for hours and look at the chickens running back and forth, picking up crumbs, and watching the strutting cock.

I must have been like a little child that, for the first time, begins to take notice of the objects that surround it.

I seemed as if awaking from darkness, as if dreaming with my eyes open. Everything seemed new and strangely mysterious to me, although I had nearly attained my seventieth year.

When, after many weeks, I again saw my face in the mirror, I was surprised at the saddened, sunken features of the old man. Could that be I!

I had gone to the neighboring village to order a gravestone. On my way home, night overtook me. Suddenly a storm burst upon the valley. Like a child, I counted the interval between the lightning and the thunder. At first I could count up to thirty-two, afterwards only to seven; and then I stopped counting. I saw the houses by the roadside, and knew who lived in them here and there, I might have found shelter, but what should I do in a strange house, wet to the skin as I was? I kept in the middle of the road, on the broken stone. When I came to where the little bridge was, I had to wade through the water.

I noticed that I was in the midst of the storm-cloud. How glorious it would have been to die at that moment-to be struck dead by lightning!

"But my children, my children!" I uttered the words in a loud voice, but the thunder drowned my cries.

The flashes of lightning succeeded each other so rapidly that they blinded me; I could see nothing more. I closed my eyes and held fast to a rock by the wayside. I had never heard such fearful roaring of the thunder, or seen such uninterrupted flashes of lightning. I stood still and concluded to wait there, while I thought of the many other beings who were also exposed to this storm; and at last, I could weep. I had not wept since her death, and now it did me good. The hail beat into my face, already wet with tears.

Suddenly Rothfuss appears and exclaims: "Martella sends me. Oh, God be praised! there is a good bed waiting for you at home."

Guided by Rothfuss, I reached the house. Although my family were greatly concerned as to the effect it might have, the shock that I had undergone had really benefited me. I slept until noon, and when I arose I felt as if breathing a new life.

I must stop here. I cannot go on. I was obliged to learn how to begin life anew. When one has buried his dearest love in the earth, the earth itself becomes a changed world, and one's step upon it a different one. I trust that I shall not be obliged hereafter to repeat my lamentations for my own life. The first tranquillizing influence I found was in the statue gallery, with its figures from another world, so silent, so unchanging. We can offer them nothing, and yet they give us so much: they are without life or color, but they represent life in its imperishable beauty.

Rothfuss offered me a strange solace. He said, "Master, there must be another woman somewhere in this world just as she was."

"Why?"

"I always thought that God only suffered the sun to shine because she was here, but I see that the sun still shines, and so there must be others like her."

Martella, however, could not realize that she was dead.

"It cannot be: it is not true: she is not dead. She is surely coming up the steps now. How is it possible that a being can remain away from those who love her so? I have one request to make. I wish you would give the pretty dresses to Madame Johanna and Fraulein Christiane; a few of the work-day clothes you can give to me, and the good woollen dress you can give to Carl's mother. Let no one else have any of her clothes. It would grieve me to the heart to know that a strange person was wearing anything that she had worn. Whoever wears a dress of hers can neither think an evil thought nor do an evil deed."

My son Ludwig wrote a letter, in which he lamented my wife's death with all the feeling of which a son is capable, and yet spoke of death as a wise man should. My daughter Johanna lost the letter. I think she must have destroyed it on account of the heresies it contained.

My consolation is that I have been found worthy of the perfect love of so pure a being; that, of itself, is worth all the troubles of life. Let what may come hereafter, what I have experienced cannot be taken from me.

I have had a tomb-stone placed at her grave. It has two tablets on one are the words:

"HERE LIESIPHIGENIA GUSTAVA WALDFRIED,Born December 15th, 1807,Died July 23d, 1867."

On the other, my name shall one day be placed.

BOOK THIRD

CHAPTER I

Life is indeed a sacred trust. I now began to feel that great and noble duties yet claimed me.

I had become dull and listless. I had taken life as it came, resigning my will to outer influences, just as one without appetite sits down to a meal, merely to gain nourishment.

I had become morbidly sensitive; every effort that was made to alleviate my sufferings and restore my accustomed spirits only served to pain me anew.

I was now experiencing the worst effect of grief-indifference to the world.

My path seemed to lie through dismal darkness; but at last I stepped out into the bright light of day and into the busy haunts of men.

The village street leads into the highway; the forest-brooks flow on until they reach the river that empties itself into the ocean.

Thus too has it been with my life.

Yielding to Joseph's earnest wishes, I had made a collection of specimens illustrating every stage in the cultivation and growth of the white pine. When the collection was complete, I sent it to the great Paris Exposition.

I received a medal of honor. I did not really deserve it; it should in justice have gone to Ernst, who had acquainted me with the results of his careful study of the subject.

I have the diploma, and the medal bearing the effigy of Napoleon. I looked at them but once, and then enclosed them under seal. They will be found in the little casket that contains my discharge from the fortress and other strange mementoes of the past.

Joseph asked me to accompany him to Paris, and would listen to no refusal. He wanted to acquaint himself with the new methods of kyanizing railroad ties, and insisted that he could not get along without my aid.

I had not yet escaped from that condition in which it is well to resign one's self to the guidance of others.

I saw Paris for the second time. My first visit was in 1832 or 1833, and was undertaken with the object of making the acquaintance of La Fayette. In those days we fondly believed that Paris was to save the world.

Compared with what I now saw, all that had been done in the Parliament that was held in the High street of our little capital seemed petty and trifling.

Though storms were gathering, Jupiter Napoleon sat enthroned over all Europe, and ruled the thunder and the lightning.

I saw him surrounded by all the European monarchs, and often asked myself whether the world's life is, after all, anything but mummery.

One day, while I was sitting on a bench in the Champs Elysées, and gazing at the lively, bustling throng that passed before me, I was approached by a Turco, who said to me:

"Are you not Herr Waldfried?"

My heart trembled with emotion.

Was it not Ernst's voice? Before I could collect my thoughts, the stranger had vanished in the great crowd that followed in the wake of the Emperor, who was just passing by.

I caught another glimpse of the man with the red fez and called out to him; but he had vanished.

Had I been awake or dreaming?

It could not have been Ernst. He would not have left me after thus addressing me. And if it were he after all! I felt sure that he would return; so I waited in the hope of again seeing the stranger. The people who passed me seemed like so many shadows, and I felt as if withdrawn from the world.

Night approached, and I was obliged to go to my lodgings. I told Joseph of all that had happened. He stoutly maintained that I must have been dreaming; but nevertheless went with me the next day to the Champs Elysées where, seated on a bench, we waited for hours without seeing any sign of the stranger.

On my journey homeward, I spent a whole week with my sister who lives in the forest of Hagenau. She can cheer me up better than any of my children can. Her excellent memory enabled her to remind me of many little incidents connected with our childhood and our parental home. In her house, I was, for the first time since my affliction, able to indulge in a hearty laugh.

In the eyes of my brother-in-law, the medal awarded me at the Exposition invested me with new importance; he never omitted to allude to this mark of distinction, when introducing me to his acquaintances. On the 15th of August, Napoleon's fête day, he actually wanted me to wear the medal on my coat. He could not understand why I would not carry it about with me constantly, so as to make a show of my medal of honor, notwithstanding the fact that the French consider their whole nation as the world's legion of honor. Every individual among them seems anxious to thrust himself forward at the expense of the rest.

My sister privately informed me that the young sergeant whom I met at her house was a suitor for the hand of her eldest daughter, and was only awaiting the satisfactory settlement of the proper dowry on his future wife. He was a young man of limited information, but was very polite and respectful towards me. He hoped to win his epaulets in an early war with Prussia, which had been so bold as to gain Sadowa and conclude a peace without paying France the tribute of a portion of her territory.

The young man evidently thought himself vastly my superior, and spoke of the future of the South German States in a patronizing and pitying tone. As I did not think it worth while to contradict him, he fondly thought that he was instructing me.

As a German, I found the Hagenau Forest of especial interest, from the fact that a part of it had been presented to the town of Hagenau by the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa.

I gave my brother-in-law many councils in regard to arboriculture; but, as the new ideas entailed work, he declined making use of them. He was very proud of his epaulets which were displayed in a little frame that hung on the wall; but he was devoid of all love for the forest, and indifferent to anything that helped the State without at the same time contributing to his personal advancement.

I passed a delightful day with my brother-in-law the pastor.

I accompanied him to church, and was greatly moved to once again hear German preaching and German hymns. The organist was one of the most respected men of the neighborhood, and was the owner of a large forge.

I was introduced to him after the service. In the presence of others, he was quite reserved towards me; but during the afternoon, he visited the pastor, and, while we were seated in the arbor under the walnut-tree, we conversed freely in regard to the dangers that, in Alsace, menaced the last remnant of German institutions and the Evangelical Church.

"France was happiest under Louis Philippe," said the pastor; and when the manufacturer ventured to inveigh against the Emperor, he replied that Napoleon was not so bad a man after all, but that the Empress was spoiling everything; that she was a friend of the Pope, and was endeavoring, at one and the same time, to destroy Protestantism and increase luxury.

I returned home. Johanna superintended my household affairs, and also the farm, with great judgment.

During the whole winter I was in delicate health, and in the following year I was obliged to visit the springs of Tarasp. Richard accompanied me.

I was indeed unwell, for when I rode through the Prattigau and the wild waters of the Land-quart roared at the side of the road, it seemed to me as if the stream were a living monster that was climbing up and seeking to devour me.

When on Fluella, I plucked the first Alpine rose. I wept. There was no one left to whom I could carry the flower that bloomed by the wayside.

Richard regarded me for a long while in silence, and at last said, "Father, I know what it is that moves your soul. Let it content you that you did so much to make her life a lovely one."

On those heights, where no plant can live, where no bird sings, where nothing can be heard but the rushing of the snow currents, where the fragments of rocks lay bare and bleak, and eternal snows fill the ravines, I felt as if I were floating in eternity-released from all that belonged to earth-and I called out her name-"Gustava!"

Ah, if one could wait until death should overtake him in this cold, bleak region, where naught that has life can endure.

I went on, and met people who had pitched their dwellings in lofty spots, in order to shelter and entertain tourists. My heart seemed congealed; but I can yet remember where I was when it again thawed into life. Neither the lofty mountains nor the mighty landscape helped me. I sat by the roadside and saw a little bush growing from among the rubble-stones and bearing the blue flowers called snakeweed. And it was there that I became myself again.

But look! A bee comes flying towards the bush. She bends down into the open blossoms; she overlooks none of them, from the top to the bottom of the bush, but seems to find nothing, and flies off to another flower. On the next branch she sucks for a long while from every flower-cup.

A second bee, apparently a younger one, approaches. She, too, tries flower after flower, and does not know that some one has been there before her. At last, however, she seems to become aware of the fact, and skips two or three of the blossoms until she at last finds one that contains nourishment for her.

Here by the wayside, just as up above where human footsteps do not reach, there grows a flower that blooms for itself, and yet bears within it nourishment for another.

I do not know how long I may have been seated there, but when I arose I felt that life had returned to me, and that I was in full sympathy with all that was firmly rooted in the earth or freely moving upon its surface.

My soul had been closed to the world, but was now again open to the air and the sunshine of existence. From that moment, I felt the spell of the lofty peaks and lovely scenery, and, yielding to it, at last became absorbed in self-communion.

I was again living in unconstrained and cheerful intercourse with human beings; and indeed I could not, at times, refrain from showing some of the well-informed Swiss that I met how carelessly and sinfully their countrymen were treating the forests. They complained that the independence of the cantons and the unrestrained liberty of individuals rendered it useless to make any attempt to protect the forests.

I made the acquaintance of many worthy men, and that, after all, is always the greatest acquisition.

We met the widow of our cousin who had fallen at Königgratz. She was exceedingly gay, was surrounded by a train of admirers, and flaunted in elegant attire. She nodded to us formally and seemed to take no pride in her citizen relatives.

I must report another occurrence.

On the very last morning, Richard had succeeded in plucking a large bunch of edelweiss. He was coming down the mountain where the wagon was waiting for us. Just then another wagon arrived, and in it was Annette with her maid.

Richard offered the flowers to Annette.

"Were you thinking of me when you plucked them?" she asked.

"To be truthful, I was not."

"Thanks for the flowers-and for your honesty."

"I did not know, when plucking them, for whom they were; but I am glad to know that now they are yours."

"Thanks; you are always candid."

We continued our journey. On the way, Richard said, "Our cousin, the Baroness, is quite a new character; she ought to be called 'the watering-place widow.' She travels from one watering-place to another, wears mourning or half-mourning, is quite interesting, and always has a crowd buzzing around her. It were a great pity if Annette were to turn out in the same way."

I replied, "If she were to marry, which indeed, were greatly to be desired, she would no longer be 'the watering-place widow.'"

He made no answer, but bit off the end of a cigar which he had been holding in his hand for some time.

On our way home, we rested in the shadow of a rock on a high Alpine peak, and there I found a symbol of what was passing between Annette and Richard-a forget-me-not growing among nettles.

CHAPTER II

I reached home refreshed and invigorated. The china-asters that she had planted were blooming. Martella had decorated her grave with the loveliest flowers, and maintained that the wild bees affected that spot more than any other. Her memory gradually began to present itself to me as overgrown with flowers.

I went to attend the winter session of the Parliament, and Martella accompanied me. We lived with Annette-she would take no refusal, and we were both at ease in her beautiful house.