IT WAS EARLY summer. The nightingales had only just begun to sing, but on this cool night they were silent. The breath of distant storms was in the air. The night-watchman called out the eleventh hour. Homeward bound I saw before the door of a large building a group, just out of the taverns, gathered about someone, who was sitting on the doorsteps. The bystanders seemed to show such lively concern, that I augured a mishap and joined the group.
On the steps sat an old peasant woman. Despite the animated concern the onlookers displayed, she turned a deaf ear to the inquisitive questions and good-natured proposals, that came from all quarters. There was something quite uncanny, yes, even a touch of majesty about the way the good old woman knew just what she wanted; while she was making herself comfortable for a night under the open sky, as little abashed by her audience, as though she were at home in her own little bedroom. She threw her apron about her as a protection, drew her large, black, lacker hat over her eyes, placed the bundle containing her belongings under her head, and was silent at all questions.
“What ails the old woman?” I asked one of the onlookers. Hereupon replies came from every hand: “She has walked in eighteen miles from the country; she is exhausted; she doesn’t know her way about in the city; she has acquaintances at the other end of town, but can’t get there alone.”—“I was going to take her,” said one, “it’s a long way though, and I’ve left my housekey at home. Besides she wouldn’t know the house she’s looking for.”—“Still, the woman can’t stay here over night,” remarked a newcomer. “But she insists,” replied the first; “I told her more than once, that I’d take her home, but she talks only nonsense, she must be drunk.”—“I think she’s weak-minded. At any rate, she can’t stay here,” repeated the former, “the night is cool and long.”
During all this chatter the old woman, just as if she were deaf and blind, had gone on unconcerned with her preparations for the night. When the last speaker again stressed the point: “At all events she can’t stay here,” she replied in a strangely deep and earnest tone:
“Why am I not to stay here? is this not a ducal house? I am eighty-eight years old, and the duke certainly won’t drive me from his threshold. Three of my sons have died in his service, and my only grandson has taken his leave.—God, I’m sure will forgive him, and I want to live until he is honorably buried.”
“Eighty-eight years old and has walked in eighteen miles!” exclaimed the bystanders. “She is tired and childish; at that advanced age one weakens.”
“But, mother, you might catch cold and take sick here; then too, how lonesome you’ll be,” said one of the group as he bent down to her.
Then the old woman spoke again in her deep voice, half entreating, half commanding:
“Oh leave me in peace and be sensible! I’m in no need of a cold, nor need I be lonely; it is already late, I am eighty-eight years old, morning will dawn soon, then I’ll pick up and go to my friends. If one is pious, has his own cross to bear, and can pray, he can surely live through these few short hours too.”
Gradually the crowd had dispersed. The last who had remained now hastened away also, because the nightwatchman was approaching and they wanted him to unlock their doors for them. I alone remained. The street-noises died away. Under the trees of the square lying opposite I paced back and forth thoughtfully. The manner of the peasant woman, her certain, earnest way of expressing herself, her self-reliance, despite her eighty-eight years; all this made it appear as though she considered this long span of life but as the vestibule to the sanctuary. I was greatly moved. “What are all the pangs, all the desires of the heart? Unmindful the stars continue in their course. To what purpose do I seek meat and drink, and from whom do I seek to secure them and for whom? Whatever I may strive for here, and love, and gain, will it ever teach me so to live that I can with as much composure as this good pious soul, spend the night on a doorstep? There to await the morrow? And will I then find my friend, as she is certain to find hers? Ah, I’ll not have the strength to get as far as the city; footsore and exhausted I’ll collapse in the sands before the gates, or perchance fall into the hands of robbers.” Thus I spoke to myself. A bit later, when I was walking under the linden trees in the direction of the old woman, I heard her praying half aloud to herself with head bowed. I was strangely affected, stepped to her side and said: “Good mother, include me in your prayers, just an entreaty for me!” With these words I slipped a silver coin into her apron.
Perfectly composed, the old woman exclaimed: “A thousand thanks, my dear Master, that you have answered my prayer.”
I thought that she was speaking to me and said: “Mother, did you ask me for something? if so, I wasn’t aware of it.”
Surprised the old woman raised herself and spoke: “Good sir, do go home, say your prayers and lie down to sleep. Why are you roaming the streets at this hour? That’s not good for young fellows, for the enemy goeth about and looketh, where he may seize upon you. Many a one has come to grief through being abroad at such hours of the night. Whom are you seeking? The Lord? He is in the hearts of men, if they be righteous, and not on the streets. But if you seek the enemy, be assured, you have him already. Go home now and pray that you may be rid of him. Good night.”
At these words she turned quietly on her other side and put the coin in her bundle. Whatever the old woman did made a peculiar, serious impression on me. Again I addressed myself to her: “Good mother, what you say is perfectly true, but it is you yourself that keep me here. I overheard you praying, so I made bold to beg you to include me in your prayers.”
“That’s already done,” said she. “When I noticed you walking back and forth under the linden trees, I prayed to God, that He grant you clean thoughts. Now you have them, go home and sleep well.”
Instead I sat down upon the steps beside her, seized her wrinkled hand and spoke: “Let me sit here beside you through the night, while you tell me all about your home, and what brought you so far to the city. Here you have no one to stand by you, at your age one is nearer God than men. The world has greatly changed since you were young.”—
“I’m aware of it,” replied the old woman, “my life long I have found it pretty much the same. You are still young; at your age everything seems new and strange. I have lived and relived so much, that I look upon life now only with pleasure, because God is so faithful in all things. But one should never turn goodwill away, even though one doesn’t stand in need of it, lest the good friend fail to appear another time when he would be most welcome. Sit where you are, perhaps you can be of some help. I’ll tell you what has urged me over these long miles into the city. I never thought I should see this place again. Seventy years ago I served as a maid in this very house, on the doorstep of which I now sit. Since then I have never again been in the city. How time flies, like the turn of a hand. How often did I sit here of an evening seventy years ago waiting for my sweetheart, who was then serving as a soldier. Here we became engaged. If he—but shh—, the guard is making the rounds.”
Then she began in a subdued voice to sing, as young maids and servants are wont on bright moonlight nights before the doors, and I heard with great delight this old sweet song from her lips:
“When the last Great Day shall be,
The stars shall fall on land and sea.
Ye dead, ye dead shall then arise,
And stand before the Last Assize;
There, far in front your feet shall go
Where blesséd angels sit in row;
God, newly come, shall wait you there,
A beauteous rainbow round His chair.
There those false Jews shall trembling stand,
Who gave the Christ to Pilate’s hand.
Tall trees shall shed a glory near,
Hard stones shall crush their hearts with fear.
Who then can pray this simple prayer
Will surely pray it then and there,
The soul before its God is tried,
When Heaven’s doors shall open wide.”
When the guard came nearer, the good old woman exclaimed with a show of emotion: “Ah, to-day is the sixteenth of May; there’s but little difference, it’s just as in the past, only they wear different caps now, and the cues are gone. What matters that, if the heart is pure!” The officer of the guard stopped at the doorstep. Just as he was on the point of asking what was our business here at that late hour, I recognized in him an acquaintance, corporal, Count Grossinger. I explained the situation to him briefly; whereupon he replied, signally stirred: “Take this coin for the old woman and a rose too”—he held it in his hand—“old peasants of her type are fond of flowers. To-morrow ask the old woman to repeat the song so that you may write it down and bring it to me. I have searched far and near for that song, but never have I been able to come upon the complete version.” Then we parted, for from the headquarters toward which I had accompanied him over the square, the nearby guard shouted: “Who’s there!” As Grossinger turned, he told me that he was in command of the guard at the castle, I should look him up there. I returned to the old woman, and gave her the rose and the coin.
She seized the rose with a touching impetuousness and fastened it in her hat, while in a low voice almost weeping she repeated:
“Roses as flowers on the cap I wear,
Had I but gold I’d have no care,
Roses and my dear one.”
I said to her: “Come, mother, you have grown quite merry,” and she recited:
“Merry, merry, Reckless, very, Much did dare he,
High did fare he,
Then miscarry.
Wherefore stare ye?”
“See, dear sir, is it not well that I remained here? It’s all the same, you may well believe. It is seventy years ago to-day, I was sitting here on the doorstep. I was an hard-working maid and was fond of singing all the old songs. I was just in the midst of the Judgment Day song that I sang to-night, when the guard went by. A grenadier in passing threw a rose into my lap—I have it now between the pages of my Bible—. That was the beginning of my acquaintance with my husband long since dead. Next morning I wore the rose to church; he saw me there, and soon we were on good terms. How great is my pleasure, that again I hold a rose on this anniversary day. It is a sign, I’m to come to him! How happy it makes me to be invited this way! Four sons and a daughter have gone on before me; day-before-yesterday my grandson took his leave—may God help him and have mercy on him!—To-morrow another good soul will leave me; but why do I say to-morrow, is it not already past midnight?”
“The clock has indeed struck twelve,” I replied, astonished at her words.
“God grant her comfort and peace these four short hours to come!” said the old woman, and waxed silent, folding her hands as in prayer. I too was speechless; her words and her behavior had gripped me so. Since, however, the silence became prolonged and the coin of the officer still lay in her lap, I addressed her again: “Mother, put the coin away, lest you lose it.”
“I’ll not put this one away, I’m going to give it to my friend in her last great suffering,” she replied. “The first coin, I’ll take home with me tomorrow, my grandson shall have it, it’s his to enjoy. You see, he was always a splendid boy; he had a deal of pride in his person and in his soul—Oh, God, in his soul!—The whole long way to the city I prayed for him; the dear Lord certainly will have mercy on him. Of the lads at school he was always the cleanest and most hard-working, but the astonishing thing was his sense of honor. His lieutenant often remarked: ‘If my company has a high sense of honor, then Casper Finkel’s responsible.’ He was a lancer. The first time he returned from France he had a great deal to tell, but rarely did he venture a story that did not savor of honor. His father and step-brother served with the militia. There was many a quarrel about honor, for where he had an excess of it, they had not enough. God forgive me my great sin, I don’t mean to speak evil of them. Everyone has his burden to bear; but my dead daughter, his mother, worked herself to death for that sluggard. Try as she might, she couldn’t pay off his debts. The lancer said his bit about the Frenchmen, and when his father and step-brother had not a good word to utter for them, the lancer said with emphasis: ‘Father, you don’t understand, they do have a high sense of honor.’ Angrily the step-brother retorted: ‘Why babble so much about honor to your father? Wasn’t he a petty-officer of company N? He ought to know more about it than you, you private!’—‘Yes,’ old Finkel chimed in, ‘to be sure I was a petty-officer, and many an insolent fellow got his twenty-five stripes; if I’d had Frenchmen in the company, they’d have felt them even more, with their sense of honor!’ These remarks irritated the lancer, and he said: ‘I’ll tell you an incident of a French petty-officer, that’s more to my taste. During the reign of the former king there was much talk of introducing corporal punishment into the French army. An order of the war minister was proclaimed at Strassburg on the occasion of a large parade, and the troops in rank and file listened grimly to the proclamation. Now at the close of the parade a private did something against military rules, so his petty-officer was ordered to advance and administer twelve blows to him. Sternly he was commanded to perform his duty, so there was no getting around it. But scarcely had he finished when he grasped the musket of the private, whom he had just finished beating, placed the butt of it on the ground before him, and discharged it with his foot, so that the bullet raced through his head and he fell dead to the pavement. The incident reached the ears of the king, who immediately ordered that corporal punishment be discontinued. Mind, father, that chap had a real sense of honor!’—‘He was a fool,’ exclaimed the brother.—‘Eat your honor, if you’re hungry,’ grumbled the father. Then my grandson took his sabre, left the house and came straight to tell me the incident, tears of anger rolling down his cheeks. I couldn’t cheer him up, although I didn’t entirely discredit his story; still I always came back to the same conclusion: ‘to God alone be honor!’ I gave him my blessing, for his furlough expired on the day following, and it was his wish to ride away a mile to the place where a god-child of mine was in service on an estate. He thought a good deal of this girl and wanted to see her once more:—they’ll soon be united, if God hears my prayers. He has already taken his leave, my god-child will get hers to-day. Her dower I have brought with me. No one shall be present at her marriage but me.” Here the old woman lapsed into silence and seemed to be praying. My mind was confused through sheer meditation on honor. Would a Christian consider the death of the petty-officer noble and proper? How I wished some one would tell me a sufficient solution to this problem!
When the watchman sang out one o’clock, the old woman remarked: “Two hours more! Ah, you’re still here, why don’t you go home to bed? To-morrow you’ll not be fit to work and you’ll not get on well with your employer. What’s your trade, friend?”
The thought of explaining to her that I was an author put me to some embarrassment. I couldn’t very well tell her that I was a scholar without lying. It is remarkable that a German always feels a bit ashamed to call himself an author (Schriftsteller); especially wary is he in using this term when speaking with the lower classes, because it so readily conjures up in their minds the scribes and the Pharisees of the Bible. The word Schriftsteller has not been so generally accepted among the Germans, as the homme de lettres among the French. In France there exists a sort of author’s guild, and in their works one traces a good deal of professional tradition. Not infrequently the question is asked: Où avez vous fait votre Philosophie?—where have you “made” your philosophy?—which leads us to venture the pun, that there is a good deal of the “made” man about the Frenchman. But it isn’t this un-German custom alone, that makes it so embarrassing to pronounce this word when at the city-gate you are asked your occupation. A certain inner humiliation makes us reticent, a feeling that comes over all those who barter in free spiritual capital, the immediate heavenly gifts. Scholars are less embarrassed than poets, for as a rule they have paid their tuition, are for the most part state officials, and perform such tasks as produce more or less tangible results. But the so-called poet is verily in a bad way, because as a rule he has played truant from school to climb Parnassus. Thus suspicion enshrouds the poet by vocation; perhaps he who writes as an avocation is a shade the better. It is an easy matter to say reproachfully to the former: “Sir, every mother’s son has a bit of poetry in his make-up as he has brains, a heart, a stomach, a spleen, a liver and the like; but he who feels it to excess, pampers or fattens one of these members, and develops it at the expense of the others, or even goes to the length of making it a means of livelihood; he has cause to be ashamed of himself in the presence of his fellow men. One who lives by poetry, has lost his balance; and an enlarged goose’s liver, no matter how delicate to the taste, does posit a sick goose. Every one who does not earn his bread by the sweat of his brow must feel a measure of humiliation. That humiliation is especially felt by one who has not yet been dubbed a knight of the quill, when he is forced to speak of himself as a Schriftsteller.” Such thoughts passed through my mind, as I bethought myself what my reply to the old woman should be. She was surprised at my hesitancy, looked me in the face, and said:
“What’s your trade? I ask. Why don’t you tell me? If your trade be not honest, then apprentice yourself properly; an honest trade has its own reward. I trust you’re not a hangman or a spy, who is on my trail. For my part you may be what you may be; speak, who are you! If you were lounging about this way by day, I’d think you a sluggard or a do-nothing, who props himself against the houses, not to fall over from sheer laziness.”
At that a word came to me, that might perhaps bridge the gap between us: “Good mother,” said I, “I am a clerk.”—“Well,” she replied, “you might have told me that sooner; you’re a man of the quill then. You must have a good hand, nimble fingers and a good heart, otherwise you wouldn’t get far. So you’re a clerk? Fine! In that case you can write a petition to the duke for me, but such a petition as will surely come to his notice and find favor with him. Most such writings are bandied about in the antechambers.”
“Indeed, I’ll write a petition for you, good mother,” said I, “and I’ll take great pains, to make it as forceful as possible.”
“That’s good of you,” she replied, “God reward you for it. May you arrive at a riper old age than I, and in your old age may He grant you a like composure, as happy a night with roses and coins, as I; and in addition a friend, who will write a petition for you, if there be need of it. But do go home now, good sir, and get some paper so that you may write the petition. I’ll wait here for you one hour longer before I go to my god-child. You can go with me to witness her pleasure in the petition. Her heart is pure, but God’s judgments are incomprehensible.”
After these words the old woman said no more; she bowed her head and appeared to be praying. When she began to weep, I enquired: “Mother, what has come over you? What brings the tears to your eyes?”
“Why shouldn’t I weep? The coin, the petition, everything has moved me to tears. But to what purpose? The world is still much, much better than we deserve, and tears as bitter as gall are still much too sweet. Just look at that golden camel over there on the apothecary’s sign! How strange and glorious God has created everything, only man is not mindful of it, and a camel like that can sooner pass through the eye of a needle than man enter the kingdom of heaven.—But you’re still sitting here, why don’t you go get the paper and fetch me the petition?”
“Good mother,” I rejoined, “how can I frame this petition for you, if you don’t tell me what I’m to put in it?”
“I’m to tell you that?” she replied; “then petition-writing isn’t an art, and I’m no longer surprised that you were ashamed to call yourself a clerk, if I have to tell you all that. Well, I’ll do my best. Put into the petition, that two lovers are to be laid to rest side by side; that the one of them is not to be dissected but left so that his limbs shall be assembled at the cry: ‘Ye dead, ye dead, shall arise, ye shall come to judgment!’” Then she began weeping bitterly again.
I augured that a great sorrow was crushing her, but despite the burden of her years she broke down only for brief intervals. Her weeping was devoid of complaint, her utterance was at all times calm and dispassionate. Once more I begged her to tell me the full purpose of her mission to the city, and she spoke:
“My grandson, the lancer, of whom I made mention before, loved my god-child, as you will recall. He was constantly speaking to the fair Annie—so people called her because of her beauty—about honor, and he repeatedly told her that she must cherish her honor, and his too. As a result, the girl took on a something quite distinctive in feature and in her dress. She was more genteel and better mannered than all the other girls of her class. She grew more sensitive, and if a lad clasped her too tightly at the dance, or swung her higher than the bridge of the bass-viol, then she came to me in tears repeating over and over, that such things were contrary to her honor. Ah, Annie was always a peculiar girl. Sometimes when no one was aware of it, she seized upon her apron with both hands and tore it off, as though it were ablaze, and then burst into violent tears. But there’s a reason for that; teeth tore at it; the fiend won’t rest. Would that the child had not been so possessed of honor and had put a stronger trust in the dear Lord; would that she had clung to Him in all tribulation, had suffered disgrace and contempt for His sake, instead of laying such store by worldly honor. The Lord would have had mercy, and will still show mercy. Ah, I know they’ll meet; God’s will be done!
The lancer had returned to France. Never a line did he write, so we quite believed him dead and shed many a hot tear for him. In a hospital he lay, sick of a dangerous wound, but when he returned to his comrades and was advanced to a petty-officer, he remembered how his step-brother had insulted him two years before, calling him nothing but a private and his father a corporal. Then he reflected on the story of the French petty-officer, and his many, many urgings to Annie about honor, when he was on the point of saying good-bye. Then his peace was gone; home-sickness seized upon him. He said to his commanding officer, who had noticed the change that had come over him: ‘Ah sir, I feel as though I were being drawn home by the teeth!’ He was granted leave to ride home on his horse, for all his officers trusted him. Three months was his furlough; he was to return when the cavalry got its fresh quota of horses. Now he hastened as fast as was possible, without harm to his mount, of which he was more chary than ever, because it had been entrusted to him. One day he felt a special urge to hasten homeward; it was the day before the anniversary of his mother’s death, and he seemed to see her running alone before his horse crying: ‘Casper, do me the honor!’ Ah, on that very day I sat on her grave all alone and thought, if Casper were only here too. I had woven forget-me-nots into a wreath and had hung it on the sunken cross. Then I measured the space round about and thought to myself: ‘I’d like to rest here, and there let Casper be buried, if God grant him a grave at home. Then we could all be together when it shall be said: ‘Ye dead, ye dead, shall arise, ye shall come to judgment!’ But Casper didn’t come. I couldn’t know that he was so near at hand and might have arrived. He felt an unusually urgent desire for haste, for while in France he had often thought of the day. He had brought along a little wreath of everlasting, to decorate the grave of his mother, and also a wreath for Annie, which she was to keep against her day of honor.”
Here the old woman ceased and shook her head; but when I repeated her last words: “which she was to keep against her day of honor,”—she continued: “Who knows, perhaps they will let me have it still. Ah, if I might but wake the duke!”—“To what purpose?” I queried, “what is your request, mother?” Then she continued seriously: “Oh, what were there to life, if one’s days were not numbered; what were there to life, if it were not eternal!” She went on:
“Casper could well have been in our village at noon, but that morning the hostler had pointed out to him that he had ridden his horse sore, and added: ‘My friend, that runs contrary to the honor of horse-manship.’ Casper felt the force of the reproof, loosened the girth and did everything to heal the wound. Afoot, leading the horse by the bridle, he continued his journey. So he came late at night to a mill, three miles from our village. Since he knew the miller as an old friend of his father, he put up there for the night, and was received as a welcome guest just come from distant parts. Casper led his horse into the stable, placed the saddle and his valise in a corner and entered the living-room of the miller. Then he asked after his relatives and was told that I, his old grandmother, was still alive, that his father and step-brother were well and were prospering. Yesterday they had brought grain to the mill. The father had turned a hand to trading in horses and oxen and was doing well at the business. As a result he had some regard for his honor and had laid aside his torn and patched clothing. Casper was delighted to hear this. When he asked about fair Annie, the miller replied he didn’t know her, but if his guest had reference to the girl who had been in service at Roseacres, he had heard that she had taken a place in the capital, because she could get much more experience there, and more honor went with such service. This he had learned a year ago from a hand at Roseacres. That too was pleasant news for Casper. He grieved at the postponement of seeing her, but he hoped to find her in the capital very soon, pretty and neat, so that it would prove a real honor for him, an officer, to go walking with her of a Sunday. Then he told the miller this and that about France, they ate and drank together, and he helped his host pour in some grain. Finally the miller took him upstairs to bed, while he himself lay down to rest on some sacks on the floor below. The clatter of the mill and his great desire to be home kept Casper awake, even though he was very tired. He was restless, thinking much of his dead mother and of fair Annie, and about the honor, that he anticipated, when he came back as an officer. At last he fell off into a light slumber, but started up often out of disturbing dreams. Time and again he saw his dead mother approach him and, wringing her hands, implore him for aid. Then he dreamed that he had died and was about to be buried, but as a corpse he himself walked along to his burial, fair Annie beside him. He wept bitter tears that his comrades did not escort him, and when he had arrived at the church-yard, he saw that his grave was beside his mother’s. Annie’s grave was there too, and he gave Annie the wreath he had brought for her, and he hung his mother’s on the cross over her grave. Then he looked about him and saw no one there but me. Then he saw Annie dragged into her grave by the apron, and after that he too climbed down into his grave exclaiming: ‘Isn’t there anyone here, who’ll do me the last honors, and shoot into my grave as becomes a brave soldier?’ Then he drew his pistol and himself shot into his grave.
At the ring of the shot he awoke in great fear, for it seemed to him that the windows rattled. He peered about the room, then he heard another shot, then a tumult in the mill and cries through the mill’s clatter. With a bound he was out of bed and seized his sabre; his door opened, and in the full moon-shine he saw two men with blackened faces, armed with cudgels, rush on him, but he defended himself and struck one of them a blow on the arm. Then both fled, bolting the door, that opened outwards, behind them. Casper tried in vain to pursue them. Finally he succeeded in kicking out one of the door-panels. Hastily he crept through the hole and ran down the stairs, where he heard the miller whimpering, gagged and lying among the grain sacks. Casper loosed him and hurried off into the stable in search of his horse and valise. Both were gone. In great anguish he hastened back to the miller and lamented to him his misfortune, that all his belongings were gone, and the horse entrusted to him had been stolen. That the horse had been taken drove him to distraction. Then the miller appeared with a great bag of money; he had fetched it from a closet in the room above and now said to the lancer: ‘Dear Casper, be content, to you I owe it that my entire fortune was not carried away. The robbers had laid their plans to make off with this bag, which was up in your room. The bold defence you put up has saved me all; I have lost nothing. The thieves who took your horse and valise from the stable must have been a part of the look-out, for they gave warning by their shots that danger was near, because in all probability they saw by your saddle that a cavalryman was lodging with me. On my account then you shall not come to grief. I shall take every pains and spare no money to get back your horse, and if I do not find this one, I’ll buy you another, cost what it may.’ Casper replied: ‘I’ll take no presents, that runs counter to my honor, but if in these hard strâits you will advance me seventy thalers, I’ll give you my note, to return you the sum within two years.’ This was agreed; and the lancer took his leave so that he could hasten to his village and report the matter to a magistrate who represented the nobility of the surrounding region. The miller staid at home awaiting his wife and son, who had gone to a wedding in one of the neighboring places. As soon as they had returned, he would follow the lancer with his statement for the magistrate too.
You can well imagine, my dear Mr. Clerk, with what a heavy heart poor Casper hastened on his way to our village, on foot and poor, where it had been his ambition to make his appearance proudly riding a-horseback. He had been robbed of fifty-one thalers, which he had saved, his letter-patent as petty-officer, his furlough and the wreaths for his mother’s grave and for fair Annie. He was desperate. In this state of mind he arrived at one in the morning in his home village. No time did he waste, but immediately knocked at the door of the justice, whose house is the first as you enter the town. The minute he was let in, he reported the robbery and carefully listed everything that had been taken from him. The justice advised him to go at once to his father, who was the only peasant in the place that kept horses. With him and his brother he might patrol the region, to see whether some trace of the robbers could not be found. Meanwhile the justice himself would send others out on foot, and interview the miller for any further evidence. Casper now turned his back on the justice’s house and proceeded toward his father’s farm. His way led past my hut where through the window he heard me singing a religious song. I had not been able to close an eye for thoughts of his dear, dead mother, so he tapped on the window and said: ‘Praise be to Jesus Christ, dear grandmother, Casper is here.’ Ah, how those words struck into the marrow of my bones. I hastened to the window, opened it, and kissed and embraced him with unending tears. Briefly he told me of his misfortune, then of the commission he had to his father from the justice. This errand would brook no delay, the sooner they got on the trail of the thieves the better, for he would forfeit his honor, if he did not recover his horse.
Strange, but that word honor shook me from head to foot, for I knew the trials he had to face. ‘Do your duty, and to God alone be the honor,’ I said, as he left me to hurry away to Finkel’s farm at the other end of the village. When he had gone, I sank on my knees to pray God, He might protect my Casper. Ah, I prayed with a fear as never before, and repeated over and over: ‘Lord, Thy will be done on earth even as it is in heaven.’
Casper, mad with fear, ran toward his father’s place. He climbed in over the garden wall; he heard the creaking of the pump, and a neighing in the stall, that chilled his blood. He stopped stone-still. By the light of the moon he saw two men washing themselves. Casper thought his heart would break. One of them exclaimed: ‘This confounded stuff won’t come off!’ Then the other said: ‘Let’s go into the stall first to bob the nag’s tail and trim its mane. Did you bury the valise deep enough in the dung-heap?’—‘Yes,’ replied the first. Then both went into the stable; and Casper, mad for sheer misery, rushed up, locked the stable-door behind them and shouted: ‘In the name of the duke, surrender! If you resist, I’ll shoot you dead!’ Ah, so he had caught his father and his step-brother as the robbers of his horse. ‘My honor! my honor! it’s gone!’ he cried, ‘I am the son of a dishonorable horse-thief!’ When the two within heard those words they were greatly frightened. ‘Casper, dear Casper,’ they shouted, ‘for God’s sake don’t bring ruin upon us! Casper, we’ll give up everything on the spot; for your dear mother’s sake, whose death-day’s to-day, have mercy on your father and brother!’ But Casper was desperate. He kept on exclaiming: ‘My honor, my duty!’ Then as they tried to force the door and had kicked a hole in the dirt wall in order to escape, Casper shot his pistol into the air as he cried out: ‘Help, help, thieves, help!’ The peasants awakened by the justice were approaching in order to make their plans as how best to pursue the thieves. At the sound of the shot and the cries they rushed to the scene. Old Finkel was still pleading with his son to open, but he persisted: ‘I am a soldier, and must act as the law commands.’ Here the justice, surrounded by peasants, came up. Casper cried: ‘God’s mercy, justice, my own father, my own brother are the thieves. Oh, that I had never been born! I have locked them here in the barn, my valise lies buried in the dung-heap.’ Then the peasants made their way into the stall, bound old Finkel and his son and dragged them into the house. But Casper dug up his valise, took from it the two wreaths, and did not go into the house; he went to the church-yard to the grave of his mother. Dawn was in the east; I had been out upon the meadow and had woven for me and for Casper two wreaths of forget-me-nots. I thought to myself, ‘we two shall decorate his mother’s grave when he returns from his search.’ Strange noises came from the village; and since every hub-bub is unpleasant to me, and I prefer to be alone, I skirted the village and went toward the church-yard. I heard a shot, the smoke rose up before me. I hurried toward it. Oh, Lord of Heaven! have mercy on him! Casper lay dead on his mother’s grave. He had sent a bullet through his heart over which he had fastened to a button the wreath he had brought for fair Annie,—through this wreath he had sent the bullet into his heart. The wreath for his mother hung on the cross. I felt as though the earth yawned under my feet at sight of this. On to his dead body I threw myself and cried out: ‘Casper, poor boy, what have you done? Ah, who acquainted you with your misery; oh, why did I let you go before I told you all! Oh God! what will your poor father, your brother say, when they find you so?’ I didn’t know that he had taken this step on account of them; I was thinking of quite another matter. But worse was in store. The justice and the peasants brought old Finkel and his son bound with ropes. Misery made me dumb, I couldn’t utter a sound. The justice asked me whether I had seen my nephew. I pointed to the spot where he lay. The justice drew nearer, for he thought that Casper was weeping on his mother’s grave. He shook the prostrate form, then he saw the blood gush forth. ‘Jesus, Mary!’ he exclaimed, ‘Casper has done away with himself.’ At these words the two captives looked at one another in horror. Casper’s corpse was now lifted and carried along beside his father and brother to the house of the justice. The village resounded with cries of lament; good peasant women helped me to follow. Ah, that was the most woeful journey of my life!”
Here the old woman ceased, and I said to her: “Good mother, your sorrow is great, but God loves you; whom he tries sorely, they are His dearest children. Tell me now, good mother, what has induced you to make the long journey hither, and what is the purpose of your petition to the duke?”
“Ay, you must have an inkling of that by now,” she continued calmly, “to get an honorable burial for Casper and fair Annie. This wreath, I have brought along, she shall have; it was meant for her day of honor; it is drenched with Casper’s blood. Just look at it, sir!”
Here she drew a little wreath of gold tinsel out of her bundle and held it before me. By the faint light of the dawn I could see that it was blackened with powder and spattered with blood. My heart ached at the great trials of this dear old woman, and the dignity and steadfastness with which she bore up under them filled me with awe. “Ah, dear mother,” said I, “how will you acquaint poor Annie with her sorrow lest she fall down dead of fright, and what manner of day of honor is it for which you are bringing Annie this woeful wreath?”
“Good sir,” spoke she, “come with me, you may take me there. I can’t walk very fast, and so we shall find her just in time. On the way I’ll tell you about her.”
Then she rose, said her morning prayer very calmly, and arranged her clothing. But her bundle she hung over my arm. It was two o’clock in the morning, the day was dawning as we walked along through the quiet streets together.
“You see,” the old woman continued her story, “when Finkel and his son were locked up, the justice summoned me into court. Casper’s body was laid upon a table and, covered with his lancer’s coat, carried into the court-room. Then I had to tell the justice all I knew about my nephew, also what he had said to me through the window that morning. Every word of mine went down on the paper that lay before the official. When he had finished with me, he examined the memorandum book that had been found among Casper’s effects. There were records of his expenses in it, several stories about honor, among them that one about the French petty-officer—and just after it something written in pencil.” Here the old woman gave me the booklet, and I read these last words of poor Casper: “I too cannot outlive my disgrace; my father and my brother are thieves, they have robbed me, their nearest of kin. My heart was sore, yet what could I do but seize them and bind them over to justice, for I am a soldier of my duke, and my sense of honor will allow of no leniency. I have given my father and my brother over to vengeance for honor’s sake. Ah, may many lips intercede for me that I be granted an honorable burial, here beside my mother, where I have fallen. I ask my grandmother to send fair Annie the wreath through which I shot myself, and my greetings too. Ah, her sad lot chills me to the bone, but she shall not become the wife of a horse-thief’s son, for honor has always been most dear to her. Dear, fair Annie, I hope you will not take my death too hard; it has to be, and if ever you liked me, then don’t speak evil of me now. My disgrace is not of my doing! I tried so hard my life long to keep myself honorable. I had already been advanced to a petty-officer and was well thought of by every one. Surely I would have become an officer sometime, and Annie, truly I would not have given you up to court a grand lady—but the son of a horse-thief, who for honor’s sake must have his own father seized and convicted, cannot outlive his disgrace. Annie, dear Annie, do accept the little wreath; I have always kept the faith with you, as surely as God will have mercy on me! I give you your freedom again, but do me the honor never to marry anyone who might be considered inferior to me. And if it is in your power, then intercede for me, that I may be granted honorable burial beside my mother, and should you die here in our village, ask that your grave be beside ours. My dear grandmother will rest here too, then we’ll all be together. I have fifty thalers in my valise, they shall be let out at interest for your first baby. The pastor shall have my silver watch, if I receive honorable burial. My horse, the uniform and the arms belong to the duke, this my brief-case is for you. Farewell, dearly beloved; farewell, dear grandmother, pray for me and to all farewell— God have mercy on me—ah, my despair is great!”
The last words of an assuredly noble, afflicted human being I could not read without shedding bitter tears.—“Casper must have been a very good person, dear mother,” I said to the old woman. At these words she stopped still, pressed my hand, and replied in a deeply moved voice: “Yes, he was the best person on earth. But he shouldn’t have written those last few words about despair; they’ll rob him of his honorable burial; they’ll put him on the dissecting table. Ah, dear Clerk, if you could only be of help on this point!”
“How, of help, dear mother?” I asked, “of what weight can these last few words be?”—“Yes, yes,” she replied, “the justice told me quite plainly. An order has gone out to all courts that only suicides out of melancholy shall have honorable burial, but all such as lay hands on themselves from despair shall be used for dissection. And the justice told me that he should have to send Casper to the laboratory as one who had admitted his despair in so many words.”
“That is certainly a strange law,” I said, “for in the case of every suicide a suit could easily be brought, as to whether death resulted from melancholy or despair, and the suit might be of such long duration that the judge and the advocates would be brought to melancholy and despair, and themselves be sent to the laboratory. But be of good cheer, dear mother, our duke is a kind and just ruler; if the whole matter is brought to his attention he will most certainly grant Casper a resting place beside his mother.”
“God grant that!” replied the old woman. “You see, dear sir, when the justice had written down all the evidence, he gave me the brief-case and the wreath for fair Annie, and with these I came the long way here yesterday, so that on her day of honor I might give her this comfort for her journey.—Casper died just in time; had he known all, he would have grown mad with grief.”
“Do tell me what has happened to fair Annie?” I asked the old woman. “Now you say that she has but a few hours more, now you mention her day of honor, and that she will have comfort from your sad message. Do tell me plainly, is she about to marry another, is she dead, or incurably sick? All this I must know if I am to write out the petition.”
To this the old woman replied: “Ah, dear Clerk, these are the facts; God’s will be done! You see, when Casper returned I was not as happy as might be. When Casper took his life I wasn’t as sad as I should have been. I should never have survived if God had not had mercy on me and sent me even a greater sorrow. Yes, hear me, a stone had been placed before my heart like an icebreaker, and all the pangs which like floating ice rushed upon me and would most certainly have torn my heart away, they broke against the stone and drifted by almost without notice. I’ll tell you now a sad story.
When my god-child, the fair Annie, lost her mother, a cousin of mine, who lived some twenty-one miles from our place, I was taking care of the sick woman. She was the widow of a poor peasant. In her youth she had fallen in love with a huntsman, but had rejected him because of his wild ways. Finally the huntsman had come to such a pass that he was jailed because of a murder and sentenced to die. This news came to my cousin upon her sick bed, and she grieved so deeply at this that from day to day she grew worse. Just before she passed away she intrusted dear, fair Annie to me as my god-child, and then in her last moments with parting breath she said to me: ‘Dear Anna Margaret, when you pass through the city where the huntsman is held captive, send a message to him through the jailor, that on my death-bed I entreat him to turn to God, and that with my last breath I have prayed for him fervently, and that I send him my greetings.’—Not long after these words my good cousin died. When she had been buried I lifted little Annie— she was only three then—on to my arm and started on my homeward journey.
At the edge of the city, through which our way led, I came to the house of the headsman. He had some skill in doctoring cattle, so our burgomaster had asked me to bring back a medicine that the headsman prepared. When I entered his house and told him what I wanted he said that I should go up to the attic with him, where he kept his store of herbs, and help him select. I left little Annie below in the living-room and followed him up. On our return little Annie was standing before a small cabinet that was fastened to the wall, and kept saying: ‘Grandmother, there’s a mouse in there, listen, how it rattles; there’s a mouse in there!’
These words of the child made the headsman look very serious. He opened the cabinet and said: ‘God have mercy on us!’ for he saw his headsman’s sword, which hung quite alone in the cabinet on a nail, sway back and forth. He took down the sword. I was all atremble. ‘Good woman,’ he continued, ‘if you love the dear little Annie, then do not start if I slit the skin a bit all around her neck with my sword. The sword, you see, set itself in motion in her presence. It thirsts for her blood, and if I don’t slit her neck with it, the child will face grave misery in her life.’ Then he took hold of the child, who began to cry unmercifully. I too cried out and clasped Annie to me. Here the burgo-master of the city came in; he was just returning from the hunt and had brought a sick dog to be cured. He asked the cause of the outcry. Annie screamed in reply: ‘He’s going to kill me!’ I was beside myself with fear.
The headsman told the burgomaster what had happened. The latter reproved him for his superstition, as he called it, and added some threats. The headsman, however, did not lose his composure and said: ‘So was the custom of my fathers, I shall not depart from it.’ To this the burgo-master made reply: ‘Headsman Franz, if you had believed that your sword moved because I here and now give you notice, that to-morrow morning at six the huntsman Jürge shall be beheaded by you, then I would see some reason in it; but when you set out to draw conclusions as regards this child, that is quite unreasonable and the part of madness. An experience such as this might drive one to despair should he recall later in life that it had occurred in his youth. You should lead no one into temptation.’—‘The like is true of a headsman’s sword,’ murmured Franz, and hung the sword back in the cabinet. Then the burgomaster kissed little Annie and gave her a roll out of his hunting-pouch. Next he turned to me and asked who I was, where I had come from, and whither I was going. When I had informed him of my cousin’s death and her message to the huntsman Jürge, he said to me: ‘You shall deliver your greeting in person. I myself will take you to him. His heart is hard, it may be, the memory of this good woman dying will touch his heart in his last moments.’ The good gentleman then took us into his cart that was before the door and drove us into the city.
He bade me go to his cook, where we got a good meal, and toward evening he accompanied me to the poor sinner. When I had brought the condemned man my cousin’s last message, bitter tears began to flow from his eyes as he cried: ‘Ah, God, if she had become my wife I should never have ended so.’ Then he begged that the pastor be sent for after all, he wished to pray with him. The burgomaster promised to do his bidding, praised him for his change of heart, and asked him whether he had one last wish that might be granted. To this the huntsman Jürge exclaimed: ‘Ah, do beg this good old mother to be present to-morrow at my execution. That will give me strength in my dying hour.’ Then the burgomaster put this last wish to me, and gruesome as it was, I could not refuse the poor miserable man. He begged my hand in pledge, and as I solemnly promised he sank back weeping on the straw. From there the burgomaster took me to his friend, the pastor. Before this good man could be prevailed upon to visit the jail, I had to tell him all that had happened.
That night I spent with the child in the mayor’s house, and on the next morning I went the hard road to the execution of the huntsman Jürge. I stood beside the burgomaster in the circle and saw how he broke the little staff. Now the huntsman Jürge said a few parting words, all the people wept; and, deeply touched, the condemned man looked at me and little Annie, who was standing just in front of me. Then he kissed the headsman Franz, the pastor prayed with him, his eyes were blinded, and he knelt down. In a flash the headsman gave him the deathblow. ‘Jesus, Mary, Joseph!’ I cried; for Jürge’s head bounded along right toward little Annie and set its teeth in the little girl’s apron. She shrieked with fear. I tore off my apron and threw it over the gruesome head. As I did this Franz rushed up, tore the head loose and said: ‘Mother, mother, what did I tell you this morning? I know my sword, it has life.’—I was unnerved with fear; little Annie never stopped crying. The burgomaster was completely bewildered and had me and the child driven to the house, where his wife gave each of us a change of clothing. After dinner the burgomaster made us a present of some money, and many people of the city, who were curious to see the girl, did likewise, so that I came away with twenty thaler and many clothes for her. In the evening the pastor visited the house and solemnly charged me to bring little Annie up in the fear of the Lord, and as a comfort bade me pay no attention to all these ominous signs. They were clearly the snares of Satan which must be scorned. At parting he gave me a fine Bible for little Annie, which she has kept to this day. On the following morning the burgomaster saw us on our way some nine miles in the direction of home in his own horse and cart.—Ah, Thou my God, and now all has come just as predicted!” the old woman concluded and was silent.
A fearful premonition was upon me; the old woman’s narration made my heart bleed. “In the name of God, mother,” I cried, “what has become of poor Annie; is there no help for her?”
“She was drawn to her fate with teeth,” said the old woman, “to-day she must die; but it was an act of despair. Honor, honor, was back of it all! A passion for worldly honor brought her disgrace. She was seduced by one in high standing; he left her; she strangled her child in the very apron that I had thrown over the head of Jürge, the huntsman. Secretly she had taken it from me. Ah, fate dragged her to it with teeth! She was not in her right mind when she did it. The seducer had promised to marry her. He had won her by saying that Casper lay buried in France. Gradually despair clutched her poor soul, and she smothered the babe. She gave herself up to the law. At four she will be executed. She wrote me to come to her. That’s what I’m about now. The wreath and poor Casper’s last greetings I am taking to her—and the rose, that I got tonight; these will be of some comfort. Ah, dear Clerk, if only you can bring it about through your petition, that her body and Casper’s too may find their last resting place in our church-yard.”
“Everything, everything in my power, I’ll do,” I cried. “Without a moment’s delay I’ll hasten to the castle. My friend, who gave you the rose, is in charge of the guard there to-night; I’ll beg him to waken the duke. I’ll sink on my knees beside the royal bed and beg a pardon for Annie.”
“Pardon?” said the old woman coldly. “You don’t understand; fate dragged her to it with teeth. Listen, good sir, justice is better than pardon. Of what profit is pardon on earth? We must all appear before the final Judgment:
Ye dead, ye dead shall then arise,
And stand before the Last Assize.
You see, she doesn’t seek a pardon; she was offered that if she would name the father, but Annie replied: ‘I have murdered his child and I want to die, but he must not suffer. I’ll bear the penalty, to be with my babe, but all will go wrong, if I name its father.’ Then she was convicted to die by the sword. But make haste to the duke and beg him for Casper and Annie, that they may rest in an honorable grave. Go! Go now! See there, the pastor’s just entering the jail. I’ll ask him to take me in with him to the fair Annie. If you are spry, maybe you can meet us out at the place of execution with the comforting news that honorable burial has been granted to the just Casper and fair Annie.”
Now we had come up with the pastor. As soon as the old woman told him her relationship to the condemned, he readily allowed her to accompany him into the jail. But I ran as never before to the castle. On the way I got an inkling of comfort; it seemed like a hopeful sign, as I dashed by the house of Count Grossinger, to hear out of an open window of the garden-house a sweet voice singing to the accompaniment of a lute:
Though Mercy went a-wooing,
Yet Honor watches well,
Respectful love renewing,
She breathes to-night farewell.
If Love gives roses to her
The veil let Mercy take,
Then Honor greets the wooer,
With love for Mercy’s sake.
Ah, and there were further good omens! A hundred paces on I found a white veil in the street; I picked it up, it was filled with fragrant roses. I clasped it tightly in my hand and hurried on, thrilled with the thought: “Ah God, this is Mercy.” As I turned the corner, I saw a man who drew his coat up around him as I hastened past and swiftly turned his back on me in order not to be seen! These were unnecessary precautions, for I saw nothing and heard nothing. My heart alone cried out: “Mercy! mercy!” I rushed in through the iron gate into the courtyard. God be praised, corporal Count Grossinger, who was pacing up and down under the blooming chestnut trees before the guard-house, came forward to meet me.
“Dear Count,” I cried impetuously, “you must lead me to the duke immediately, on the spot, or it will be too late. All will be lost!”
He seemed embarrassed at this request and said: “Are you in your right mind? See the duke at this unaccustomed hour! It can’t be. Return when the duke reviews the guard, then I’ll present you.”
The ground burned like coals under my feet. “Now,” I shouted, “or never! You must! A life hangs in the balance!”
“It’s impossible now,” replied Grossinger sharply in a tone of finality. “My honor is at stake. I have strict orders to-night to let nobody up.”
The word honor brought me close to desperation. I thought of Casper’s honor and fair Annie’s honor and exclaimed: “Damn this honor! I must to the duke as a last resort in a case where just such honor has failed. You must announce me or I’ll cry out for the duke.”
“If you so much as stir,” said Grossinger sternly, “I’ll have you thrown into the guard-house. You are a dreamer. You have no sense of conditions.”
“Oh, I know conditions, frightful conditions! I must speak to the duke. Every moment is precious!” I retorted. “If you’ll not announce me now, I’ll find my way to him alone.”
This said, I was on the point of making for the steps that led up to the duke’s apartments when I espied the same muffled figure which I had just encountered hastening toward them. Grossinger forced me about so that I might not see the person. “What are you up to, rash-ling?” he whispered into my ear. “Be still, quiet, I say, or you will bring me to grief.”
“Why didn’t you halt that man, who just went up to the duke?” I asked. “He can have no request more urgent than mine. Ah, it is so urgent. I must, I must see the duke! The fate of a poor, deceived, unhappy creature is at stake.”
Grossinger replied: “You saw that man ascend those steps; if you ever breathe a word about it you will face the blade of this sword. Just because he went up you cannot; the duke has business with him.”
A light shot forth from the duke’s windows. “God, there’s a light, he’s up!” I cried. “I must speak with him. In the name of heaven let me go, or I’ll cry for help.”
Grossinger seized me by the arm and said: “You’re drunk, come into the guard-house. I’m your friend, come, sleep it off. Give me the song that the old woman sang to-night at the doorstep as I marched by with the guard. I’m burning to hear it.”
“It’s of the old woman and her kin, that I must speak to the duke!” I said.
“Of the old woman?” asked Grossinger. “Tell me about her. Those higher up take no interest in such matters. Come, come to the guardhouse!”
He was on the point of pulling me along when the castle-clock pealed down three-thirty. The sound pierced my soul like a cry of anguish, and I shouted with all my strength up to the duke’s windows: “Help! in God’s name help! for a miserable, deceived creature!” Grossinger flew into a rage, he tried to clasp his hand over my lips, but I freed myself. He thumped me in the back of the neck. He cursed. I felt and heard none of it. He called the guard. A corporal rushed up with several soldiers to seize me. The duke’s window was thrown open, and a voice called out:
“Corporal Count Grossinger, what’s all the noise? Bring the person up, without delay!”
I did not wait for the corporal. Up the steps I rushed and prostrated myself at the feet of the duke. Embarrassed and out of sorts he bade me arise. He had on his boots and his spurs, although he was still in a bathrobe, which he carefully drew together at the breast.
As briefly as possible I related to the duke all that the old woman had told me of the suicide of the lancer and of fair Annie’s history. I entreated him to delay the execution a few short hours and begged for an honorable burial for the two unfortunates, in case a pardon could not be had.—“Ah, mercy, mercy!” I cried as I drew forth from my bosom the white veil filled with roses. “This veil, that I found on the way, seemed to give promise of mercy.”
Impetuously and shaken with emotion, the duke seized upon the veil, he clasped it between his palms. I pressed my advantage. When in terse phrases I added that the poor girl was the victim of a false sense of honor; that a person in high standing had deceived her and promised to wed her; that her nobleness was such that she preferred death to exposing the father—then with tears in his eyes the duke interrupted and cried: “Cease, in the name of Heaven, cease!”—Abruptly he turned to the corporal, who stood at the door, with quick sharp commands: “Go! both of you ride. Don’t spare the horses! Away to the place of execution! Fasten the veil to your sword, wave it and shout, Mercy! mercy! I follow.”
Grossinger took the veil. An utter change had come over him. Like a ghost he looked for fear and haste. We ran into the stall, mounted, and off we were in a gallop. He charged out of the gate like one possessed. As he fastened the veil to the point of his sword he exclaimed: “Lord Jesus, my sister!” These words were dark to me. He rose in his stirrups, waved the veil and kept shouting: “Mercy! mercy!” On the hill-top we saw the crowd assembled for the execution. My horse shied at the streaming veil. I am a poor horseman. I couldn’t catch up with Grossinger. He sped along his wild course. I bent every effort. Evil Chance! The artillery was holding morning practice near by. The thunder of cannon drowned our cries so that they could not be heard from a distance. Grossinger was thrown. Before me I could see the crowd draw back. The circle opened to my vision. I saw a gleam of steel glitter in the rising sun—ah God, it was the gleam of the headsman’s sword!—I charged up only to hear the moans of the bystanders. “Pardon, pardon!” shouted Grossinger like a madman as he lunged with the waving veil into the circle, but the headsman held out toward him the bleeding head of fair Annie, that smiled at him dolefully. Then he cried out: “God have mercy on me!” and fell over the corpse. “Kill me! Kill me, you people. I have betrayed her. I am the murderer!”
An avenging fury seized the crowd. The women and maidens surged up, tore him from the corpse and spurned him with their feet, but he did nothing to defend himself. The guard could not hold the angry crowd in check. A shout was raised: “The duke, the duke!” He came up in an open carriage, a youth with hat deep over his face, wrapped in a cloak, sat beside him. The crowd dragged Grossinger to where the duke was. “Jesus, my brother!” the youthful officer exclaimed from the carriage in the most feminine tones. The duke, embarrassed, bade him be still and sprang from the carriage. The youth was about to follow when the duke pushed him back not too gently. But the disguise was lifted; it was the sister of Count Grossinger clothed as an officer. The duke commanded that the maltreated, bleeding, fainting Grossinger be placed in his carriage. The sister threw all caution to the winds, she cast her cloak over him. There she stood in woman’s apparel. The duke was clearly taken aback; but he soon collected himself and ordered the carriage immediately to turn back, taking the countess and her brother to her dwelling. This had somewhat quelled the rage of the crowd. Then the duke said to the officer in command in a loud voice: “The Countess Grossinger saw her brother gallop past her house to bring the pardon. She wished to be present at this glad event. As I drove by, bent on the same mission, she stood at her window and begged me to take her into my carriage. I could not refuse the dear child. In order to prevent any stir, she quickly donned a hat and a cloak of her brother; now, surprised by an unfortunate accident, she has put on the whole matter the appearance of a romantic scandal. But, lieutenant, were you not able to protect the unfortunate Count Grossinger from the crowd? It is indeed a misfortune that he was thrown, and came too late, but that is scarcely his fault. See to it that the count’s assailants are taken and properly punished.”
Barely had the duke finished when a general outcry arose: “He is a villain; he is the seducer, the murderer of fair Annie. He confessed to it himself, the wretch, the low-down fellow!”
When the accusations came pouring in from all sides and were confirmed by the pastor, the officer, and the officials, the duke was so thoroughly aroused that he kept repeating: “Revolting, revolting, oh, the miserable fellow!”
Now the duke, pale as a ghost, stepped into the circle to look at the corpse of fair Annie. Upon the green turf she lay, clad in a white dress trimmed with black ribbon. The old woman, who was completely oblivious of all that was going on around her, had laid the head to the body and had covered the terrible cleavage with her apron. She was now engaged in folding fair Annie’s hands over the Bible which the pastor of the little city had given her. The golden wreath she bound upon the severed head, and pinned to the lifeless bosom the rose that Grossinger had presented to her in the night, little knowing for whom it might be.
When the duke saw what the old woman had done he spoke: “Ill-fated Annie! Disgraceful seducer, you arrived too late!—Poor old mother, you alone have remained faithful to her ’till death.” Now as his eyes fell upon me he remarked: “You told me of a last will of Corporal Casper. Have you it here?” I turned then to the old woman: “Poor mother, let me have Casper’s brief-case, the duke wants to read his last will.”
The old woman, whose attention up to this point had been riveted upon what she was doing, said sullenly: “You’re here too? You might just as well have staid home. Have you the petition? It’s too late now. No, I wasn’t able to give the poor child the last comfort, that she and Casper should rest in an honorable grave. Ah, I lied to her when I said it had been granted. No, she wouldn’t believe me.”
Here the duke interrupted: “You did not lie to her, good mother. My messenger did all in his power. The fall of the horse must here bear the blame. She shall have honorable burial beside her mother and Casper, who was a brave fellow. The pastor shall preach a funeral-sermon for them both on the text: ‘To God alone be honor!’ Casper shall be buried as a corporal, his company shall shoot three times into his grave, and the sword of the corrupter Grossinger shall be laid on his coffin.”
After these words he took Grossinger’s sword, that with the veil was still lying on the ground, removed the veil, covered Annie with it and said: “This ill-fated veil, that should have brought her pardon, from my heart shall restore her honor. She had died in honor and pardoned; as token of this it shall be buried with her.”
Then he handed the sword to the officer with the remark: “To-day at review I shall give you my further orders in regard to the burial of the lancer and this poor girl.”
Now he read aloud Casper’s last words in a voice choked with emotion. The old grandmother clasped his feet, her eyes filled with tears of joy as though she had been immeasurably blessed. The Duke spoke: “Contain yourself, mother! You shall have a pension until the end of your days. A monument shall be raised to the memory of your grandson and Annie.” Then he ordered the pastor to take the old woman and the coffin, in which the body was laid, to his dwelling, and later escort her home, where she should have full charge of the burial. As his adjutant arrived in the meantime with horses, he said to me in parting: “Give your name to my officer, later I’ll send for you. You have shown a splendid charitable zeal.” The adjutant took down my name and bowed graciously. As the duke galloped off toward the city, he took with him the blessings of the crowd. The body of fair Annie and the good old grandmother were brought to the house of the pastor, and in the following night he took her back home. The next evening the officer with Grossinger’s sword and a squadron of lancers arrived. Then the just Casper, with Grossinger’s sword on his bier and the corporal’s patent, was buried with fair Annie beside the grave of his mother. I too was there to escort the old mother, who seemed childish for joy, but said little. As the lancers fired the third salute into the grave she fell back dead in my arms. Beside her kin she lies buried. God grant them all a blessed resurrection!
There, far in front, their feet shall go,
Where blesséd angels sit in row,
Where, newly come, God waits them there,
A beauteous rainbow round His chair.
There souls by God shall now be tried,
When Heaven’s doors shall open wide.
When I returned to the capital, I learned that Count Grossinger was dead. He had poisoned himself. On my desk I found a letter from him which read:
“I owe you much. You revealed my disgrace, which long had been eating out my heart. Well did I know that song of the old woman. Annie had told it to me many and many a time. She was an exceptionally noble being. I was a base criminal—I had given her a written promise of marriage—she burned it. She was in service in the home of an old aunt of mine. Melancholy often seized her. Through certain medicinal preparations of a magic content, I ensnared her soul.—God have mercy on me!—You have saved my sister’s honor too.—The duke loves her.—I stood high in his favor.—This tragedy has stirred him to the depths.— God help me.—I have taken poison.
JOSEPH, COUNT GROSSINGER.”
Fair Annie’s apron, to which the head of Jürge, the huntsman, clung at the beheading, has been preserved in the ducal museum. It is rumored that the duke will elevate the sister of Count Grossinger to a princess with the name, Voile de Grace, in English, Veil of Mercy, and make her his wife. At the coming review in the neighborhood of D—— the monument over the graves of the two ill-fated victims to honor is to be unveiled and dedicated in the church-yard of the village. The duke and the princess will be there in person. He is exceptionally pleased with the design of this monument. The duke and the princess together, it is said, worked out the theme. It sets forth the true and the false honor. Both figures are deeply bowed, one on either side of a cross, Justice with high-swung sword on the one hand and Mercy on the other casting a veil. Some find in the head of Justice a similarity to the duke, in the head of Mercy a likeness to the princess.