The Romance of the Canoness Part 25

I did not exactly understand what she meant. It became clear to me afterward.

We again lived on as before, and, after she had survived the spring tempest, life seemed to become dear to her once more, though a slight shadow rested on her brow. At Easter she gave her concert for the benefit of the poor, which was a brilliant success. Her birthday came just after Whitsuntide, and, in token of the love and grat.i.tude of the whole community, was to be celebrated with special pomp. I, of course, began the festival with a morning serenade executed under her windows by my pupils, after which she invited the whole choir in and treated them to coffee and cakes. At ten o'clock the burgomaster's wife and her most distinguished friends called, and attended her in a stately procession down to the sh.o.r.e of the lake. There the greatest surprise awaited her. The burgomaster had sent to Berlin several days before for a machinist and some a.s.sistants to inspect the little steamer and put her in safe condition to make an excursion over the mirror-like surface of the lake. The boiler and engine were found to be still in tolerable order, and a trial trip was taken at night whose result was perfectly satisfactory.

When we came down to the sh.o.r.e, the little vessel, gayly decked with flags, hung with garlands of fir, and sending upward a light column of smoke from its smokestack, looked extremely pretty and inviting; and Frau Luise's eyes dilated with astonishment when she understood that this smoke was floating from the stack, so long empty, in honor of her.

The burgomaster's wife and I led her across the long, swaying plank that extended to the deck; but here she was so startled that she almost made a misstep, for an exultant paean suddenly resounded with such vehement, youthful energy from invisible throats that it was almost too much for her composure. Her pupils had posted themselves behind a canvas awning, which was afterward drawn over the deck as a protection from the sun, and in the excitement of the moment were singing the festal melody I had composed and arranged with more regard to the feelings of their hearts than the rules of art, by which state of affairs neither words nor music were especially enhanced. However, in the open air and amid the general emotion, this modest overture performed its part acceptably. Then the deck suddenly became thronged with joyous, loving faces; and, when the anchor was weighed and the little vessel swept with majestic calmness through the glittering water, first along the sh.o.r.e and then across the lake to the little grove, while the chorus of fresh young voices, now mindful of every nicety of execution they owed to their mistress, began the superb air, "Who has Thee, Forest Fair--" I saw the sweet face of the woman I loved illumined with gentle, divine emotion, and was forced to turn away that my tears might fall into the water un.o.bserved.

But all this was merely the prelude to the festival. The banquet was served in the wood, where, in an open s.p.a.ce under tall fir-trees, stood a large table adorned with bouquets and covered with dishes, which had been brought there early in the morning, and received the last dressing over an improvised hearth by some experienced housekeepers. Under the seat that had been arranged for the heroine of the day lay the gift her young friends had prepared, a large rug for her room, the work of many industrious hands, and as gayly adorned with the most beautiful garlands of roses and arabesques of violets as provincial love could accomplish. Still, here amid the green foliage and before the festal board, the strange work of art with its glaring colors and grotesque flourishes looked very bright, and each of the fellow-workers won from the deeply agitated recipient a kiss and clasp of the hand. After this we took our places at the table, and began the feast with the best possible appet.i.te.

Of course, there was no lack of admirable speeches, merry clinking of gla.s.ses, and frequent embraces between the feminine members of the party, during which I played the part of envious spectator. I also contributed my shred to the general eloquence by emptying my gla.s.s to the health of the six almshouse dames, who were seated in holiday garb at the table below, and imagined themselves in Paradise--never had they dreamed of such honors and delights on earth. Their patroness, the queen, had not even been obliged to stipulate that they were not to remain at home. The givers of the festival knew that without her faithful followers something would be lacking from the pleasures of the day.

Of course, the meal did not pa.s.s without singing, and, when we had risen from the table and were enjoying a little rest on the moss-grown soil of the wood, the young ladies walked arm in arm in little groups along the dusky woodland-paths, raising their voices in an alternative melody very sweet to hear. All sorts of games followed, in which, however, the presence of young men was secretly missed. I was malicious enough to remain with the mothers or talk with the six or seven fathers who had joined the party, in order not to go near Agnes, whom my cruel friend, as a punishment for my sins, desired to force upon me as a wife.

I saw that the long-continued festivity was wearying her, though she exerted herself to acknowledge, with unvarying winsomeness, the efforts made by these worthy people. I heard her cough, so I drew the burgomaster's wife aside and persuaded her to give the signal for departure.

After some delay and discussion we all went on board the steamer again, and, making a wide sweep around the lake, returned to our harbor.

Frau Luise stood on deck in the bow of the vessel with several of her favorite pupils near her; no one uttered a word. We were allowing the memories of this delightful day to re-echo in our hearts. Her head was turned toward the west, where the sun was slowly sinking, and her dear face and tall figure were warmly illumined by the crimson glow. With what a youthful light her eyes sparkled! The silvery l.u.s.ter of her hair had vanished in the golden radiance. It seemed impossible to believe that this woman had just celebrated her forty-fourth birthday.

"Sing something!" said Agnes, who stood nearest. "Ah, yes, do sing!"

entreated the others.

She did not seem to have heard them. Yet suddenly, as if in a dream, she sang, _mezza voce_, an Italian air, an aria from Paesiello, of which she was especially fond. And, as the steamer swept on into the crimson light, the song rose clearer and stronger till she poured forth the full power of her voice, whose every note must have been distinctly audible on the sh.o.r.e. The whole company had gradually glided closer to us, and I saw by their rapt faces how they were enjoying the foreign beauty of the melody, whose words no one understood. Even the people on the sh.o.r.e, peasants with their carts and solitary pedestrians, stopped as if enchanted, and gazed at the black ship slowly dividing the waves bearing a singing nixie on her deck.

Then the vessel turned, and the sun was behind us. The aria was finished, and the burgomaster had given the signal for applause, in which all joined with great fervor. When silence was restored, and the group waited for the singing to be resumed, she began, without waiting to be asked, Beethoven's "Knows't thou the Land!" which she had transposed to suit the deeper notes of her voice. "Mignon certainly had an alto voice," she once jestingly said to me. Never had I heard her sing it so superbly, never heard the "Thither! thither!" express such strong, sweet, uncontrollable yearning. We reached the landing-place just as the last notes died away. The burgomaster was so deeply moved that he forgot to applaud, went to her, and, with tears in his honest old eyes, bent, seized both hands, and faltered: "I thank you, I thank you a thousand times, madame! This is the fairest day of my life! You have made us all happy."

She smiled and looked at me. "It was my swan song," she said. "I fear I shall be obliged to give up singing. Just hear how hoa.r.s.e this little exertion has suddenly made me."

I saw her shiver slightly, and hastened to wrap a shawl around her.

"Good-night, my dear friends," she said. "I owe you all thanks for a pleasure never to be forgotten. Forgive me for taking my leave so abruptly. But this was a little too much joy for an old woman who has not deserved so much love and kindness. No, I am perfectly well; a little rest will make me quite myself again. My beautiful rug must be put in my room at once. I will feast my eyes on the lovely flowers and think of the dear givers till I fall asleep."

She then shook hands with every one. As I helped her across the plank to the sh.o.r.e, I felt the difficulty she experienced in holding herself erect. "It is nothing, dear friend," she whispered hoa.r.s.ely. "My heart is as light as a bird's, only my limbs are heavy. My good mother Grabow shall put me to bed. Perhaps I took cold in the wood. But you know I am like a cork figure, my head is always uppermost. Good-night."

I had by no means a good night. When, before school the next morning, I inquired at the almshouse for Frau Luise, she was still asleep, that is, she was lying in a feverish dream, raving incoherently without recognizing any one. I spoke to the doctor, who had been already called in the night. The old man had the thoughtful wrinkle between his bushy eyebrows that always boded trouble.

"But she is so strong and full of vital energy," I said.

"The strongest const.i.tutions fare the worst. But we can still hope, and she could not be more carefully nursed if she were a princess."

It was the same at noon. I spent the whole day with her, had a couch made up for me in the music-room at night, and the following morning sent a message to my friend the head teacher--who meantime had been made superintendent of the school--requesting him to do me the favor to take charge of my cla.s.ses. I was unable to do my duty while my friend's life was in danger.

This lasted four, five days. The doctor shook his head more and more despairingly. "I can give the disease no special name! It is a sort of nervous fever, but in a very unusual form, and the ordinary remedies do not avail. It is fortunate that she is unconscious. Only the expression of pain on her face shows that she has a dull sense of the life-and-death struggle raging in her frame."

During those days it seemed as though the little almshouse had been transferred to the heart of the city. Instead of being solitary and deserted as usual, it was now constantly surrounded by a crowd of persons of all ages and s.e.xes, treading lightly with a sorrowful look on their faces. They did not venture to ring the bell, and indeed it was not necessary: one of the old dames was constantly cowering outside of the door, and gave to all questions the same sad answer. When prominent people came, I was obliged to go out and reply to the queries myself. Every one thought it was a matter of course that I now belonged to the household.

Scarcely any change occurred in her critical condition, nothing save a slight ebb and flow of the fever, a lower or louder intonation of the voice, as she raved of the visions of her bewildered brain. Sometimes, with wide-open eyes that rested on nothing, she repeated correctly and distinctly a few lines from one of her husband's parts. Sometimes she seemed to be talking with her son, and a happy smile that pierced me to the heart flitted over her colorless lips. Sometimes she sang, but only diatonic scales, and when her voice failed to reach the high notes she shook her head mournfully, whispering: "Too high, too high! Trees must not grow to the sky. Down! down! It is pleasant to dwell below."

At such times I could not restrain my tears.

But, on the fifth day, a crisis seemed imminent. The fever had lessened several degrees; the old doctor's face, for the first time, wore a hopeful look.

He gave several directions, and promised to come in the next morning earlier than usual. I could send home the young girls, who called at a late hour to inquire, with a little hope, which, however, I did not feel myself. Then I returned to my post. It was Mother Schulzen's turn to keep watch that night, but she was so deaf that I could not trust the invalid solely to her, though nothing would have induced her to go to bed. She was sitting in a low chair by the wall, and, after keeping herself awake for a while by knitting and taking snuff, at last fell peacefully asleep.

A lamp, protected by a green shade, was burning in the room; outside, the moon was sailing through a cloudless sky; deep silence surrounded us. Frau Luise had not uttered a word since noon, and for the first time seemed to be quietly asleep.

Suddenly--it was about ten o'clock--while I sat by the bed without turning my eyes from her face, her eyes slowly opened and wandered about the room with a strained gaze till they rested upon me. Then she said, in a perfectly clear voice: "I feel wonderfully well!"

After a pause, during which I scarcely ventured to breathe, as if the slightest sound might drive the approaching convalescence away, she murmured: "Are you here, dear friend? Have I slept long? How delightful that I can see you as soon as I wake!"

She moved her hand as if seeking something. I timidly clasped it, and stooped to press my burning brow upon it. Just at that moment I felt her other hand laid gently on my head, and, while stroking my hair, she continued in the same calm voice:

"My last hour is near, Johannes. But I am glad that I have waked once more before the long night begins. I have something to say to you, my friend. You know the tenor of my last will, and that I wish to be laid in the church-yard outside with my old almshouse friends. If there is a Day of Judgment, I would like to rise with my body-guard; they have spoiled me; I could no longer do without their service. And let my coffin be covered with the rug; afterward it shall belong to you. Do you hear me? Come a little nearer. What I now have to say is to be a secret between us two. I deceived you when I told you, a short time ago, that I was not created to see the universe in a single individual.

It cost me no little effort, for my heart belied my lips. I should have been very happy if I could have become your wife. I knew that long, long ago--ever since the day you took our Joachimchen in your arms when he grew weary and carried him home, I said to myself: 'Could I possess this child and this man, no wish would remain ungratified.' But it might not be. I was obliged to bury the child and hide my love for the man in the inmost depths of my heart. But it always lived on there, and now I can thank you, Johannes, for all the love and faith you have lavished upon me. Lift my head a little--there--I want to see you clearly once more, and--it is strange--my eyes are so heavy, though my soul is awake."

I helped her rise higher on her pillows, bowed my face nearer hers, and saw her eyes fixed on me with strange brilliancy.

"I love you, my friend," she said. "There is not one false line in your face nor in your heart, but a great sorrow now fills both. Be happy, dear one, and remember your friend without tears. Shall I not remain with you, wherever I go? True, to see each other again--" She slowly shook her head. "Ah, if I might only see you and my boy--but the other masks--no, no! We have eaten at the table of life here below till we are satisfied--or rather, we are wise and stop just when the food tastes best; now others will sit in our chairs. But we will first cordially wish each other 'a good appet.i.te!' Come! kiss me once, just as a loving husband kisses his beloved wife--then I will stretch myself out and take my afternoon rest."

My quivering lips touched her cool mouth. "Dear Johannes!" she murmured, clasping my hand tightly as she fell back on the pillows.

Then she smiled once more, an unearthly smile, and closed her eyes. Her hand trembled a little.

An hour after it lay cold and still in mine.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Bunzlau is famed for its pottery.--Tr.]

[Footnote 2: A round hole in a tailor's table, through which he brushes useless bits of cloth, and--as is generally supposed--some that are valuable.--Tr.]

[Footnote 3: An old coin, worth a little more than the groschen now in general use; for a time both circulated together.--Tr.]

[Footnote 4: The bug-bear of German nurseries.--Tr.]

THE END.