ON CHRISTMAS EVE
It was the day before Christmas. In a woman’s compartment of a railroad train which sped on from the capital out into the country and to the mountains, sat a pale young lady. The dark fur cloak closely drawn about her, the veil tied over her face, she seemed to shrink from the tumult which at every station greeted the train, and floated into the single cars, which unceasingly emptied and filled.
Half-grown boys and girls, the joy at being released from boarding school and sent home for the holidays, on their freshly reddened faces; teachers and artists, students and professors, tradesmen, merchants, office-holders, who were freed for the Christmas vacation from their callings; here a father who pants under the heavy burden of his purchases, there a grandmother, whose happy smile indicates that all the pockets of her wide, old-fashioned cloak were stuffed to the overflowing with presents for the grandchildren; here a young officer rejoicing on account of his furlough, gained with difficulty; there a little cadet, beaming in happy anticipation of being able to show himself today for the first time to his relatives, in the glory of his uniform; here a portly mother of a family, from whose ample basket came forth the most inviting Christmas odors; there a workman, the little purse with the wages saved for the holidays, in his horny hand—so they bustled and thronged and shoved, one against another, moved by the common desire to be at home as soon as possible, and to be able to spend Christmas Eve with their families.
As often as the car in which the pale young lady sat, opened to admit new travelers, she drew back farther into her corner, as if in discomfort.
She breathed a sigh of relief when at last the station was reached at which she should alight, to take from that point the branch road which, turning aside from the main line, led off diagonally straight to the mountains.
Here it was quieter. Only few stepped in, and of these few, no one into the car in which she sat. Pleased to be alone and freed from unpleasant observation, she had leaned back in the corner and had closed her eyes, when suddenly she was startled from the half slumber which had begun to take possession of her. A clear, happy child’s voice had fallen shrilly on her ear. She leaned toward the window.
On the platform of a little stopping place stood a blooming young woman, in winter clothing, who held by the hand a fair-haired boy of perhaps four years, who impatiently awaiting the coming train, continually cried out, “Today is Christmas Eve! Today Papa is coming!’’
The train stopped; a strong young man sprang out of the car. The next moment he had taken in his arms the boy, who, with a cry of joy, “Papa, Papa!” had freed himself from the hand of his mother. He lifted him up, he pressed him to him, he covered his face, his hair, his hands with kisses, then without letting the boy out of his arms, he turned to the young woman, who, smiling through her tears, had waited till her turn came, and pressed her also to his breast.
With a low groan the lonely woman in the car sank back in her seat. Had there not been a time when she, too, holding by the hand a fair-haired boy, had awaited, full of happy impatience, on Christmas Eve, the homecoming husband? And now!—Where was her boy, where was her husband now?
With burning, dry eyes, she looked out on the winter fields, over which the sharp wind swept, driving before it single snowflakes in wild sport.
Yes, as these flakes, so had her happiness flown away and vanished. She had once thought that she had it so securely; how had it happened that it had broken to fragments in her hand?
Before her mind the pictures of the past arose and passed slowly before her.
She saw herself growing up in the house of her father, the old, rich merchant, surrounded by luxury, accustomed to flattery, and yet a poor girl, because protected by no mother.
She saw herself, hardly come to maturity, surrounded by a crowd of suitors who wished to marry the rich heiress, cold and unmoved by any attention until there stepped into her circle the one who captivated without resistance her young heart by the first glance from his sunny, happy eyes. But as high as public opinion placed the young painter, as completely as his talent freed him from the ordinary cares of life, he was not a husband whom her father would have chosen for her.
He placed no opposition to the vehement, passionate will of his daughter, but, as she followed the beloved man to his house as wife, she could not escape the conviction that when she had won a husband, she had lost a father. It grieved her, but what sacrifice would she not have made to her love! She would have given up more for his sake, that he might love her the more dearly. If she had no one but him, then he must be all to her. Wholly and completely she had given him her young heart, wholly and completely she required his in return. That the heart of a man, especially of an artist, cannot be filled singly and entirely by a woman, even if the dearest, that he knows, and must know other interests, other aims, unless he will give up his other self, that she did not know, and when the knowledge slowly dawned upon her, then she would not know it.
Her husband was accustomed to seek his recreation in a circle of congenial, joyous companions; he was pleased to think that, now that he was married, he could invite his friends to his house as a pleasant meeting place. But the free and easy manners of the young artists appealed little to the young wife; still less was she pleased by the gaiety with which her husband gave himself up to the companionship of his friends, unconcerned whether she held herself at a distance or not. She forced herself to be courteous to the guests of her husband, but they felt the restraint, and kept away. But if they did not come anymore to the house, then her husband sought them outside.
“Am I not more to you than your friends?” She begged, “give them up, for my sake.” He laughed, “If I were to stay at home always with you, there would soon be an end to my art.”
Yes, his art! How beautiful she had thought it, to be his muse, always by her mere presence to inspire him to splendid new creatures. But when once with restless, longing eyes, she had seated herself near him in his atelier, she was obliged to hear his friendly but decided declaration that he could work only when he was alone.
Her husband was a landscape painter, and she was spared the torment of seeing him work from models. But he possessed the beauty loving eye of an artist. He had the habit, when he went with her through the streets, of freeing himself from her arm, to walk after some beautiful girl, some comely matron, and then, returning, to praise with enthusiastic words, her beauty. His frankness should have told her how harmlessly this was meant, but she had lost, long ago, the power of unbiased judgment. She had begun to be jealous of everything that threatened to draw him away from her, of all, his friends, his art, his happy enjoyment of life, finally, also, of her child.
In a proud feeling of joy, she had been well aware of the fact that the boy whom she had given him, and whom he in overflowing paternal pride with tears of joy had pressed to his heart, gave her a double claim to his love; but this happiness remained untroubled only a short time. The child was the image of its father. As it inherited from him the color of its eyes and hair, the tone of the voice and the kind of smile, so also the child never seemed happier than in the presence of the father. Already struggling with its little arms and legs, it reached out unceasingly from the arms of the mother to the father. When it could scarcely walk, it followed its father’s very footsteps or sat patiently on the stairs to await his homecoming. “Which do you love better, Papa or Mama?” she asked with trembling heart when she was alone with the child. “Both alike, and then Papa,” said the child, looking at her brightly out of its large, candid eyes.
In vain she sought to gain the child’s entire affection; the sunny, even kindness of the father possessed a greater attraction for the child than the passionate, unquiet tenderness of the mother.
“They care only for each other, they do not need me!” This was the tormenting thought from which she could not free herself. Her health began to suffer. “You are ill. The winter was too long and hard for you,” said her husband, looking anxiously at her pale cheeks. “We will go to the mountains. There you will grow well again.” She accepted the proposition gladly. Yes, away to the mountains; perhaps it would be better there.
Deeply imbedded in a narrow valley, accessible only from one side, the mountain village that they sought out offered both a romantic and a peaceful resort, but here, too, her ardent heart found no rest.
The village was one in which her husband, before he had married, had spent many summers as a happy young artist. All knew him here, and all liked him. When he went through the village, the men stretched out their hands to him, the women brought their children to show him, the young girls from behind hedges flung roses at him, and when he decried them, fled tittering away. The pale, serious lady by his side was scarcely noticed.
With the remembrance of the old time, the old love of wandering came also powerfully over him. As before, he wandered for whole days in the mountain, filling his sketchbook as occasion presented itself, stopping where chance led him. She knew what a welcome guest he was in the most distant hut, and her heart burned when he was not with her.
He saw that she suffered, and sought to limit his excursions as much as possible. Single objects of study, as he sought them, beautiful old trees, cleft masses of rock, foaming brooks, he found in the near neighborhood of the village.
She had accompanied him a few times on these trips, but to sit for hours, while he, absorbed in his work, had not even a look for her, that her restless nature could not endure. She remained at home; so the child went with him. Leading it carefully by the hand, or, in rough places, if the little legs were tired, carrying it in his arms, so he took it with him to the spot with which he was then occupied. Playing with stones and flowers, the child waited, patient and content, however long it might be until the father had again time to turn to it.
They were too happy in these common excursions that it should not cause her anguish.
“Leave the child here,” she said when he wished to take it with him the next time.
“But why?”
“You cannot take care of him while you paint. He might come to harm in the mountain.”
“Nonsense!” he laughed happily. “He never stirs from my side.”
“No matter, I do not wish it. The child remains here.” She saw his wondering look, and added bitterly, “It is my child as well as yours! Or do you wish to deprive me of the love of my child also?”
He shrugged his shoulders, and turned aside, but after this he did not take the child with him.
And then the end came! With what terrible vividness each detail of that awful day was impressed on her mind! It was a Sunday. She had dressed herself with unusual care, in the uncertain hope that today he would stay with her. “I am going to church, will you not come with me?” she asked timidly.
“Not today, I am going to finish a sketch of the Rothe Wand, and I must have the morning light on it.”
She turned away, disappointed.
“Shall you take the child with you?” he asked. “No, it stays at home with the maid.”
“If you think the child is sufficiently well attended to under the care of a young thing, who is only a child herself,—” “Why not? She has nothing to do, and can pay proper attention to the child.”
He made no further objections, and she went. The church was at the farther end of the village. Before she came back, more than two hours had passed. “Where is the child?” she asked the maid, who, timid and confused, stood before her.
“It’s gone with the master,” she stammered. “I just stepped across the street, and when I came back, the master and the child had gone away.”
What? In spite of all! She pressed her lips together. Against her expressed wish, to slight and defy her, he had taken the child with him. Had it come to such a pass? In feverish impatience she waited. Noon came, and they were still away. Formerly, when he had the child with him, he had returned punctually. She let the meal be put on the table, but she could taste nothing. Inquietude drove her, restless, here and there; at last she could endure it no longer.
She took her hat and went to meet them. They could come only by this road, yes, and there they were! A little procession of boys and men, and, in front, her husband! But was that her husband? Without his hat, his clothes hanging in tatters, the blood from a wound in his forehead falling in great drops on the child in his arms!—And the child? Why did it lie so motionless! Why did it let its head hang so loosely over his arm?
She could not take a step forward. As in a fever, her teeth shut, while a cramp shook her limbs, and the cold perspiration stood out on her forehead.
Now her husband stood before her. “The child, the child!” It forced itself, gasping, from her breast. He wished to speak, but he could not. With quivering lips he bent over the child, who, stiff and white, lay in his arms. It glimmered and glittered before her eyes. Only indistinctly, as from a far distance, the murmur of the bystanders fell on her ear: “It fell over the Rothe Wand!” Then, with a shrill scream, she fell down in the dust of the road.
When she was brought to the house, they succeeded in restoring her from unconsciousness, but not from the deep apathy that had taken possession of her.
Indifferent, she looked on as they undressed the dead child and put on the little white shroud, as they laid it in the little coffin and covered it with flowers. No tear came to her eye. Silent and absorbed in herself, she sat there, only when her husband wished to approach her she turned away, shuddering.
When the hour for burial came, she roused herself. Without taking the supporting arm of her husband she followed, silent and gloomy, behind the little coffin. She saw it sunk in the earth and the mound of earth heaped above it.
Now the sexton was ready, the people, whom curiosity or sympathy had brought there, had scattered, she stood alone with her husband by the grave.
Full of ardent sympathy, he reached out his hand to her. “Why will you bear your sorrow alone, Anna?” he asked, while his voice trembled with emotion. “Am I not suffering as well as you? Is it not the child of both of us that we have buried here!”
She pushed back his hand. “You have no longer a share in the child,” she said, dully.
“Anna!” he cried, amazed.
“You are guilty of his death,” she pursued, with unnatural calm. “To make me ill, to grieve me, you took the child with you so that it met its death. Over this grave there is no reconciliation.”
“You say I am guilty of the death of the child! I am not. Listen to me—”
She interrupted him with passionate vehemence. “And if you were not!
What does it matter, since the love between us has been dead a long time!”
“Anna, Anna! You do not know what you are saying!”
“Only too well I know. You have long ceased to love me, if, indeed, I ever possessed your love, and—I love you no more. Our paths separate.”
“You are beside yourself. When you have become quieter you will think differently.”
“Never!” she cried, trembling with excitement. “Have I not told you that I no longer love you? That I ceased long ago to love you? Will you compel me to live by your side with a heart that hates you? If it is on account of my property—”
He arose and walked off without once looking around.
The same evening he returned to the capital. When she followed him a few days later she did not find him. He had left a letter for her which contained the necessary arrangements to put her again in sole possession of her property, and at the same time told her of a lawyer whom he had empowered to arrange all necessary as soon as she should desire the dissolution of her marriage. He himself had gone on a journey.
Since that time nearly three years had passed, and she had not seen him again. From time to time she had read in the papers a notice of a new picture that he had painted, or, herself, had seen such a one at an exhibition, that was all.
She, too, had not remained at home. Her health was seriously affected. She had passed the first winter at Nice, the second at Meran, the intervening summer months in different parts of Baden. She had not sought a divorce. If he did not, she did not need freedom. Of what use would it be to her?
It was the first winter that she again spent in Germany. As long as she was in foreign parts, now here, now there, it had been comparatively easy to put away the thoughts she did not wish to think; now, at home, and in the old surroundings, everything powerfully recalled her to the past. To escape herself, she sought to occupy her time with works of charity; the poor and needy had always appealed to her sympathy. Sometimes she succeeded in forgetting herself in the care of others, but, in the midst of the preparations for Christmas, her strength failed her. The recollection of her vanished happiness came back with a power from which there was no escape.
How happily had she once celebrated the Christmas festival with her husband, with her child! Into the circle of light of the sparkling tree, the shadows that darkened her life never ventured. Yuletide had always been the green oasis in which her troubled heart found rest, the sacred grove unapproached by the evil spirits of jealousy, ill humor, and self-reproach, which, it is true, afterward assailed her with redoubled fury.
Every thought of the past was troubled and embittered, only the recollection of Christmas beamed bright and radiant from the gloom.
And suddenly the desire had overcome her. She would go to her child! On Christmas Day she wished to kneel by its grave; perhaps there consolation might come to her weary, despairing heart.
So she had left rich gifts for her protégés among the poor, and, on the morning of the day before Christmas, she had started, quite alone, for the mountains and the quiet village where she had to attend her child.
The train on the branch road had now reached the last station. She stepped out. From here she had still to go for half an hour over a lonely heath, overgrown with isolated pines, to the village. She took a little refreshment and started, paying no attention to the well-meant advice of the stationmaster to take an escort with her on account of the loneliness of the way. Why should she fear? Whoever is really unhappy, as unhappy as she was, does not fear. The wind blew sharply against her; she did not notice it. The physical exertion necessary to the struggle with it, on the contrary, did her good. With her cloak closely wrapped about her, she walked briskly on. She was not obliged to go quite to the village. The churchyard lay before it, a little to one side on the mountain. She was glad that it was so. It had seemed unbearable to her to have the people in the village where most of them knew her, staring at her, questioning her, perhaps even accompanying her to the churchyard. No; alone, quite alone, she wished to be with her child.
Ever more rapidly she had gone. Now she stood, struggling for breath, before the gate of the churchyard. She turned the knob; the gate was locked. As easily as she might have anticipated that the lonely churchyard, especially in winter, would not stand open, the possibility of this had never occurred to her. She looked about her. Must she then go to the village and expose herself to the curiosity of the inhabitants?
Then her glance fell on a little house that stood against the mountain a few hundred feet distant. She remembered she had heard that a woodcutter lived there with his family. The man, whose hard work often detained him for weeks in the mountains, scarcely knew her. And if he did?
She went to the house. The door was unfastened. Through a little, dark entry, she felt her way to the door. The noise, which penetrated through to her, rendered any attempt to knock a useless endeavor. She quietly opened the door and looked into the room. By a large wooden table in the center of the room sat an old, gray-haired man, whose large moustache and an empty sleeve pointed out as an old soldier, zealously busied in feeding a baby held carefully between his knees, from a bowl of food standing near him. With the rapid movement which is peculiar to a man when doing woman’s work, he put the spoon in the food, lifted it out, and carried it first, to test it, to his own mouth, to which operation his moustache proved an obstacle, and then to the greedily opened mouth of the child. Then he spoke aloud to the child, and talked soothingly to it whenever he put a spoonful into the mouth of one of the two chubby children, who, with hands behind their backs and mouths open for every chance, stood nearby, while a group of older children ran and played about the room, and only a little girl, of perhaps eleven years, sat by the window attentively knitting.
“Aren’t you ashamed, you little cormorant,” scolded the old man, “don’t you wish to give any to the rest? The sweet bread tastes good to you, too, doesn’t it, Molly?” when his glance suddenly fell on the strange lady who stood, pausing, on the threshold. Astonished, he let the spoon sink into the food and attempted to stand with the child. The stranger quickly motioned to him to remain sitting.
“I wished to go to the churchyard, but it is locked. Have you no one whom you could send to the village to get the key for me?”
“The lady wants the key to the churchyard? Well, well! Tony can get it. Go, Tony,” he turned to a half-grown boy who, with the other children, had gathered in curiosity around him, “run to the village for the key. Say that there is a stranger here who wants to go to the churchyard; you will bring back the key again. But don’t be too long about it, hear?” The boy seized his cap and started.
“Won’t the lady sit down? Lena, bring a chair!”
The old man fished carefully for the spoon which had sunk in the food, as the child on his lap would not patiently endure the interruption of its nursing.
“This screamer can’t be quiet for a minute,” he, confused, said apologetically, when he had recovered the spoon. “My daughter has gone to the village for bread for the holiday, and my son hasn’t come home yet from his work, so the grandfather must act as nurse, whether he likes it or not.”
“Are all of these your grandchildren?” asked the young lady, looking around the room with interest.
“Well, well! Seven of them. All healthy and of good appetite. Isn’t it so, Molly?”
“And can the father provide bread for all?”
“Truly, it is hard work; very hard. My daughter helps as much as possible. In the summer she goes out by the day to work, if there are none too small here, but the main part falls on him.”
“And is he strong?”
“He is strong, very strong, that one must admit, and good to the children beyond belief. He denies himself that he may give pleasure to them. He would have been home long ago,” he pursued, winking mysteriously at the children, “but today is Christmas Eve, and probably he has something to say to the Christ Child. Now, Frank, where are you going? To meet your father? What don’t you think of! Stay here, or the Christ Child won’t bring you anything! They cling to their father like burs. They want to be with him all the time. In summer I can’t prevent them from secretly running after him when he goes to work. It pleases him, that they know, but I can’t endure it. Since I saw lying dead before me the foreign child that met its death by falling, when it had run after its father, without his knowledge, since that time I have no rest when I know that the children are not with me.”
1883