What the Swallow Sang Part 39

Neither did he ever turn his steps in the direction of the beach-house, and once when he had wandered through the forest by Cecilia's side, and they unexpectedly emerged from the trees upon the cliffs, he seemed almost terrified, and then shook his venerable head and muttered: "That has cost me many years, many, many years!" So saying, he made a gesture as if to imply that those years were effaced from the tablet of his memory.

Perhaps they were; he never said a word about the weary time he had lived in the beach-house, but often began to relate stories of his young days--ancient tales, which no living person knew except himself, and over which he could laugh merrily, while at other times the tears ran down his pale, withered cheeks.

Ancient tales, of which he knew every detail, every name, and Christian name, the day and hour, and even whether the weather was pleasant or rainy; but he remembered nothing of what had lately happened, or made the strangest mistakes. Thus he repeatedly called Cecilia by the name of his early love, Ulrica, and it had been a bitter grief to his great-granddaughter, that he sometimes spoke of her husband, Gretchen's father, as a man he loved and eagerly longed to see again, although he had been there very recently, until she understood that he meant Gotthold.

It had moved her strangely at first, and then when the old man recurred to it again as quietly as if it never had been and never could be otherwise, and brought her name into such close connection with that of her lover, she had accepted it like a dream, which comes between waking and sleeping, until she started in terror at the danger that lay in the vision. It must not, could not be. Why trifle with a reality which was impossible, a future that could never come to pa.s.s!

She said it with pa.s.sionate vehemence, and a flood of tears, more to herself than the old man, when he again spoke of Gotthold, who stayed away too long, who left her who longed to see him, and the child who was so fond of playing with him, too much and too long alone. She told him that she dared not think of such a thing; too much, too much had happened, which separated them forever, and that though she would give her blood for him drop by drop, if it did not belong to her child and her father, she could never, never be his wife.

They were in the garden on one of the beautiful summer-like evenings of this month of October, and as she spoke the old man gazed earnestly towards the saffron-hued eastern sky, that gleamed through the brilliant foliage of the trees, which was unstirred even by the faintest breath of wind. "Yes, yes," he said, "you have suffered keenly, keenly: but"--he added after a short pause--"that is so long, so very long ago. Time heals much, much!"

He seemed to be absorbed in dreams of the days, which to him alone were no nonent.i.ty, which to him alone emerged from the river Lethe; but as his glance fell upon the tear-stained face at his side, he pa.s.sed his hand over his brow and eyes, and said hastily, as if he feared he might forget it again:

"Not everything, or slowly, very slowly; sixty, seventy, I know not how many years pa.s.sed by; and it is never quite right till we take courage and tell some human being; I told him the evening I saved him from the sea, and so many good things followed it, so many good things; my heart has been so light ever since. You must tell some one, too, but not me; I forget so much, and might forget that too. You must tell him."

And when the next evening they again walked up and down the same garden-path, and the dim light again shimmered through the trees, he suddenly stopped and asked: "Have you told him?" and on the third and fourth day he repeated the question, always shaking his white head anxiously, when she answered with burning cheeks: "No, father, I have not told him yet," and mentally added: "And shall not tell him if he comes to-morrow, shall never tell him."

Gotthold came, but not alone. Prince Prora, at whose castle he had again spent several days to show him the sketches for the armory, and decide upon the order of the Italian landscapes for the dining-hall, wished to accompany him on his way back to Prora, and when he heard that Gotthold must stop at Dollan to take leave of the family before setting out on his journey to Italy, begged permission to accompany him there also.

"For we are neighbors, madame," said the young man, "whether I live at Prora or the castle, and I ought to have waited upon you long ago; but I will confess that a special interest brings me here to-day. Our friend has told me about the giant's grave you have in your forest, and that it is perhaps in the best preservation of any on the whole island. Now we need a landscape with one of these mounds for my armory, and when I reminded him of the one at Dollan, the obstinate fellow declares it won't do. I naturally insist it is the very one, since Dollan--before it came into the possession of your--I mean the Wenhof family--which, to be sure, if we include the Swedish branch, as is only just, was two hundred years ago--belonged to Prora, like all the rest of the island; nay, in Pagan times, a Castle Prora, surrounded with a lofty wall and deep moat, stood on the cliffs overlooking the sea. Its ruins are still mentioned in old histories, so it is very possible and even probable that the grave covers the bones of my ancestors. And am I to lose such a reminiscence for the sake of an artist's obstinacy?

Never! We have an hour to spare, and I hear I can walk there and back in half an hour--pray don't trouble yourself, my dear friend! You are the very last person I will take with me, to spoil my temper by your objections."

"I will accompany you with pleasure," said old Boslaf. "I have often been up there deer-hunting with your Highness' great-grandfather. I have not walked that way for a long, long time, and should like to go once more."

The Prince looked at the old man in astonishment; he had greeted him with marked respect, in consequence of the many things Gotthold had told him about him; but it seemed like a fairy tale that any one now in existence could have gone hunting with Malte von Prora, who had lived in the times of Frederick the Great, and been sent to Berlin on a diplomatic mission by the Swedish government before the Seven Years'

War.

"It is impossible for me to give you so much trouble," said he, "quite impossible."

But the old man did not seem to notice the polite refusal; he had already taken his staff, and with long regular strides led the way out of the garden, where this conversation had taken place. The Prince, with a smile, hurried after him.

"At least your Highness will allow us to follow you," said Gotthold.

"I beg you to do so," replied the Prince, "for the sake of the old man, who might not be satisfied with my company for any length of time," and then drawing Gotthold a few steps aside, he continued: "We have an hour, don't let it be pa.s.sed unused. Since I have seen this lady, I understand all you have not told me, you most silent of men. May G.o.d take these mute lovers under His gracious protection!"

Gotthold walked slowly back to the spot where he had left Cecilia, and saw her still sitting in the same thoughtful att.i.tude. Would she speak to-day, or would she keep silence as she had done hitherto--let him go in silence?

He went up and took the hand that hung by her side. "Cecilia?"

She slowly raised her dark lashes, and looked at him with an expression of touching entreaty.

"I am not to bid you speak, I am to leave you in silence, Cecilia! And yet it must be uttered; so let me say it for you. You could tell the secret only to a woman, and to a woman you would not need to do so; she would understand you without words. Was it not so? Should love be less clear-sighted than the eyes of a sympathizing friend? I do not know, I can only tell you what I read in your heart. And it is this, Cecilia: you love me, but dare not yield to your feelings; nay, you shrink from the thought of becoming my wife, as if it were a sin--against whom? It sounds cruel, Cecilia, and yet I must say it: against your pride. That is what you fear--yourself, not me. You know as well as that the sun is setting yonder to rise again to-morrow, that no day, no hour will come when I shall reproach you by word or look for having been--so unhappy, so unspeakably wretched; you know that I--as I think--have nothing to forgive you. But you, Cecilia, think you can never forgive yourself; you think, because when you were an inexperienced girl of sixteen you made a mistake, repentance and shame must follow you all your future life; repentance and shame would frighten you from my arms if you ever obeyed the impulse of your heart and threw yourself into them."

"And should I not do right to think, to feel so?" cried Cecilia, while the tears streamed down her burning cheeks; "could I ever forgive myself for having become the wife of this man? An inexperienced girl of sixteen, do you say? I was not so very inexperienced; I was worldly--wise enough to understand that life in the beautiful castle and shady park of Dahlitz would be more brilliant than in a gloomy country parsonage. And so I trod the poor student's heart under foot, although a voice which, since that hour, has never been silenced, whispered, he is the better man. Should I forgive myself for that, and for letting him go away with an almost broken heart, without a word of sympathy, of consolation, glad that his honest eyes no longer rested upon me, no longer read my vain soul? And now, when my arrogant dream has produced its natural result, now that I am as utterly wretched as I deserve to be, and he returns and stands before me, a pure, n.o.ble man, who can look with just pride upon his honest, industrious past, and with joyful composure towards his future, which must develop still more gloriously--is he now to stay his victorious step to raise one so deeply fallen;--nay, what am I saying? Is she to chain him to herself for all the future, bind the strong industrious hands, constrain the proud mind, which ought always to be occupied with the highest things, to perpetual consideration, daily, hourly sympathy for a wretched, self-marred fate? Did you say pride prevented my doing that? Be it so!

But it was pride for you, in you! Ah! Gotthold, I do not feel this pride to-day for the first time. I was proud of you when, with sparkling eyes, you could talk so brilliantly of G.o.ds and heroes, and say the heroic man might boldly compare himself with the G.o.ds themselves; and when I heard, years after, you had forced your way through obstacles, by which others would have been crushed a thousand times, and, with a speed that seemed wonderful to those who did not know your strength and talent, raised yourself to the highest rank in your art, and the name of the young painter was mentioned only among the best artists--yes, Gotthold, I was proud then, so proud and thankful--for I thought, now I can bear everything easier, since my crime was not visited on you, since I alone had to atone for the sin I alone had committed."

They had left the fields, over which scattered threads of gossamer floated in the red light of the setting sun, and entered the dark, silent forest. No sound was heard except the rustling of the withered leaves at their feet, and, as Cecilia paused, the mournful song of a solitary bird.

But Gotthold heard no interruption; it seemed to him as if the piteous notes of the bird only prolonged the wail of the human voice.

"Alone, alone," he said, "always alone, and so you wish to remain, poor love! Can a human being be alone? And are you quite alone? Granted that I am--which I am not--the strong hero who can by constant labor struggle along his solitary path to the golden table of the father, is there not your child, from whom you must shut out the bright, sunny world? You, who turn away from life with veiled head in mute despair!

what virtues will you teach it when you are yourself so wholly dest.i.tute of the cheerfulness, in which alone the virtues thrive; nay, when you no longer believe in that which is the best and highest of all, which makes us what we are, makes us human beings--love? Who pities yonder little bird, which, concealed amid the autumnal foliage, perhaps wounded and maimed, is left behind to perish miserably? None of its brothers and sisters, its husband or its children; they have all flown away, unheeding, and left it behind--alone, alone! They obey the immutable law that governs their coming and going, their life and death, and so they do not, cannot sin; but we can and do, if we do not obey the law that governs us, if we do not obey love. It is the all-powerful tie that has bound and will bind together all races of men, from the beginning to the end; the all-powerful sun beneath whose pure light spring must return to the darkest, saddest hearts: and so with my love I will hold you, dearest, however you may struggle; will open your heart, however you may try to close it against me: for I am more powerful than you, can lend you my strength, and yet have enough for myself, and you, and your child--our child, Cecilia!"

She had paused, trembling in every limb; pale as death, and with her dark eyes dim with tears, she extended her hands imploringly.

"Have mercy, Gotthold, have mercy! I can bear no more; I can bear no more."

A hasty step came down the narrow path that led to the giant's grave.

"Thank G.o.d! I was coming to meet you, dear madam--I think--I know you are not like other ladies--"

"He is dead!" cried Cecilia.

"I fear we shall not find him alive, though he had strength enough to send me back. I did not like to leave him, but he was so very, very anxious to see you, to see you both."

They ran up the path through the underbrush, over the hill, to the giant's grave, whose huge ma.s.s stood forth in dark relief against the bright western sky.

The old man was sitting on a moss-covered stone, with his back resting against one of the larger blocks, his hands lying in his lap, and an expression of the most profound peace on his pale, venerable face, gazing silently towards the west, from whence brilliant sunset hues streamed over fields, forest, moorland, and sea. Cecilia sank upon the broom at his feet, pressing her lips to his cold hand.

At the touch, a slight shiver ran through the limbs of the dying man.

His glance turned slowly away from the distant sky, and rested upon the beautiful, pale, tear-wet face before him. A happy smile gleamed over his features. "Ulrica," he whispered. The name fell from the white lips softly, almost inaudibly, and then lips and eyelids closed.

Cecilia's head sank upon Gotthold's breast; the Prince, who during the whole scene had discreetly remained at a distance, turned away, and gazed steadily at the golden sunset.

And the golden hues of sunset glowed upon fields and woods, and the churchyard of Rammin, in which the old man had just been laid to rest with his children and children's children. Only a small, very small company had stood around the grave when the coffin was lowered, and they had needed no priest to consecrate the place which would henceforth be sacred to them. Then Frau Wollnow embraced Cecilia, and whispered: "Don't allow yourself to be disconcerted by any narrow-minded creature you may meet," and Cecilia answered: "Have no fear, I know what I am doing." Then Ottilie kissed Gretchen; the Prince and Herr Wollnow took leave of Cecilia with a few cordial words, and the Prince's light carriage rolled towards his castle, and the Wollnow's heavy equipage along the road to Prora.

At the other end of the village, where the road leads to Neuenfahr and Sundin, stood a travelling carriage, and they now walked silently through the little hamlet, arm-in-arm; while the child ran before them, and s.n.a.t.c.hed at the swallows when they came too near.

Otherwise the swallows had a free course. Up and down they darted in their arrowy flight, now grazing the earth, now rising in graceful curves, anon flying in a straight line and then zigzag, chirping, twittering, and fluttering their long wings unweariedly.

For them, too, it was probably the last evening, and to-morrow they would fly towards the South, and not return till spring.

Gotthold thought of this, and then of the evening when he had walked through the deserted village-street, and the swallows' song brought tears of sorrow to his eyes, and how empty his home and the whole beautiful world had been to him, and how the whole beautiful world now seemed to him like home; and as he gazed into the dark eyes of his beloved wife, and pressed the little warm hand of the child, now his, he knew "what the swallow sang."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Dumpling.]

[Footnote 2: The second person singular is used throughout this conversation, but I have thought it better to adopt the English mode of address.--Tr.]

THE END.