The Romance of the Canoness.

by Paul Heyse.

NOTE.

The t.i.tle of this book, in the German, is "Der Roman der Stiftsdame,"

_stiftsdame_ being rendered in this version _canoness_. It is desirable to explain that _stiftsdame_ is the name given to a female member of certain religious communities or orders, originally Roman Catholic, the members of which lived in common but without taking monastic vows.

After the Reformation, Protestant houses of a similar kind were organized. The privileges of these communities are often secured by n.o.blemen for their daughters, who may at any subsequent period enter the stift or chapter of the order, but who forfeit this right in case of marriage.

THE ROMANCE OF THE CANONESS.

In June, 1864, a visit I had promised to pay one of the friends of my youth led me into the heart of the province of Brandenburg. I could travel by the railway as far as the little city of St. ----, but from this place was compelled to hire a carriage for two or three miles, as the estate, which my friend had owned several years, did not even possess the advantage of a daily stage. So, on reaching St. ----, I applied to the landlord of the "Crown-Prince"--who was also postmaster--for a carriage, and, as it was past three o'clock in the afternoon, and the drive over shadeless roads in the early heat of summer would not be particularly agreeable, I begged him not to hurry, but give me time to have a glimpse of the little city and its environs.

The landlord replied that the poor little place had no sights worth looking at. As a native of a great capital who had removed to the province, he displayed a compa.s.sionate contempt for his present residence. The situation was not bad, and the "lake" the most abundantly stocked with fish in the whole Mark. If I kept straight on in that direction--he pointed across the square marketplace on which his hostelry stood--I should get a view of the water just beyond the city-wall.

To a traveler who is less thoroughly familiar with the local history of the Mart than my friend, Theodor Fontane, and who suddenly finds himself transferred from the capital to the province, one of these little cities looks very much like another. The first feeling amid the neat little houses--most of them only a story high, while walking over the rough pavement kept as clean as the floor of an old maid's room, or pa.s.sing through the quiet squares planted with acacias or ancient lindens, where nothing is stirring save flocks of noisy sparrows--is a secret doubt whether real people actually dwell here, people who take an active interest in the life of the present day, or whether we have not strayed into a pretty, gigantic toy village, which has merely been set up here for a time and will soon be taken down and packed into boxes like Nuremberg carvings.

This impression of fairy illusion and enchantment, which would speedily vanish, was enhanced by the sultry calm, portending an approaching thunder-storm, that brooded over the streets and squares and kept the inhabitants indoors. Here and there I saw behind the glittering window-panes the face of an old woman or a fair-haired young girl, not peering out between the pots of geranium and cactus to look after the stranger with provincial curiosity, but gazing into vacancy with a strange expression of gentle melancholy. The few persons I met in the street also wore this pensive look, as if some great universal calamity had happened, which quenched the cheerfulness of even the most indifferent.

I therefore pursued my walk somewhat cheerlessly, and not until I had reached the wall, which rose to a moderate height on both sides of the ancient city-gate, did the oppression of this sultry afternoon calm abandon me. Not less than four rows of the most magnificent old trees, among which several huge maples and chestnuts stretched their gigantic branches skyward, cast a broad belt of shade over the dreary little place, and were not only animated by the notes of birds, but by the shouts and laughter of countless children, who had seen the light of the world in the silent houses. Their nurses sat knitting and gossiping on the numerous benches; yet even on their faces I fancied I perceived the sorrowful expression I had noticed in the other inhabitants of the city.

It would have been pleasant to linger here in the shade among the little ones. But I remembered that I must do my duty as a tourist and see the lake, which even the postmaster had mentioned approvingly. At the end of a long avenue of poplars, leading from the gate over the level plain, I saw the white-capped waves sparkling in the sunlight, and quickened my pace in order to return the sooner to the cool shade of the dense foliage.

Yet the scene that opened below, before my gaze, was indeed wonderfully charming. A bright, semicircular basin, as clear as a mirror, whose circuit it would probably have required a full hour to make, lay amid the most luxuriant green meadows and a few tilled fields, in which the lighter hue of the young grain stood forth in strong relief. The sh.o.r.e was encircled by a dense border of sedges, whose brown tops, whenever a faint breeze blew, waved gently to and fro as though stirred by their own weight. The opposite bank, which rose in a gradual ascent, was clothed with a dark grove of firs, whose reddish trunks were reflected in the water, and around whose tops hovered flocks of crows and jays, whose harsh screams ever and anon interrupted the oppressive silence.

The avenue of poplars led directly to the harbor, which was marked by half a dozen gayly painted boats. These had been drawn up on the sand, but their owners had not thought it worth while to fasten them to a stake, as if it would be quite impossible for them to voluntarily drift away from the sh.o.r.e. Near these skiffs I was surprised by the sight of a steamer, similar in size and form to the coasters so much used in the German Ocean. The light green garlands of fir, with which it was profusely adorned, formed a strange contrast to its slanting smokestack and the damaged condition of the deck-rail. But I looked about me in vain for some person who might have told me how this craft, which must have once seen better days, had reached the quiet inland lake and been decked in its gay festal array, like a shame-faced old man holding a jubilee.

Still keeping my eyes fixed on the opposite grove, I strolled slowly along the broad path by the sh.o.r.e of the lake, unheeding the sun, as a refreshing coolness rose from the water. But ere I had advanced a hundred paces I discovered, half hidden behind some tall lindens, several lonely buildings, a long, narrow, gable-roofed house, without any architectural ornamentation, which looked more like a store-house than a dwelling, yet showed by the little white curtains at the window-frames, and the flowering plants inclosed by trellis-work fences, that human beings lived there. A few low huts or sheds adjoined it in the rear, the long front faced the lake; but the view was here partly cut off by a little church or chapel, also of the plainest structure, and so low that a man on horseback might have easily glanced into the swallows' nests under its weather-beaten roof. Yet the poor little church, with its four blind arched windows and tiny steeple, looked cheerful and picturesque, for an ancient ivy had climbed the narrow rear wall, and, while the trunk clung naked and bare to the masonry, the luxuriant branches, twining over cornice and roof, had flung a thick mantle over the shoulders of the shabby building.

Here, too, all was desolate and silent. But a peasant lad, who had been fishing in the lake and was now running home, answered my queries so far as to enable me to learn that the long building was the almshouse, and the chapel belonged to it, but there were no religious services held there now; and no one, except the paupers, were buried in the little grave-yard, whose sunken, slanting black crosses gleamed from under the shadow of the lindens. When I asked if I could go into the chapel, the child stared at me in astonishment, shook his flaxen head, and sped away on his little bare feet as swiftly as though the earth was beginning to scorch them.

I now walked slowly around the chapel, and approached the house.

Standing on a little bench in the flower-garden, before an open window, was a tall figure clad in black, gazing motionless into the dwelling.

He was apparently a man of middle age, with smooth, brown hair, which fell slightly over a high forehead. The profile, whose n.o.ble lines denoted marked character, was strongly relieved against the whitewashed wall; the sun shone fiercely on his head and back, but, without heeding it, he held his hat before him in both hands, and did not even turn when I pa.s.sed. The sound of my steps apparently did not reach his ear.

His coat was old-fashioned in cut, but his appearance was by no means provincial. I would gladly have accosted him, had it not seemed as if he were listening to something, inaudible to me, that was being said inside the room.

So I quietly pa.s.sed him and went to the gable side of the house. On the steps in front of the open door sat an aged dame, stooping so far forward that her big black crepe cap shaded the tiny old book she held in her lap. A pair of large horn spectacles rested on the open pages, and her sharp red nose nodded strangely like the beak of a bird that is trying to peck at something. She was not asleep, for she sometimes sighed so heavily that the capstrings under her withered chin trembled.

Then her yellow shriveled hand grasped a small lead box lying on the stone step beside her, and she took a pinch of snuff.

"Can you still read, mother?" I asked, stopping before her.

She looked up at me without the slightest sign of surprise. The stern, withered old face wore the anxious expression of a deaf person.

I repeated my question.

"Not so very well, sir," she replied in her Mark dialect. "When one has seventy-seven years on one's back the old eyes are of little use. But I can still manage tolerably with the hymn-book. I need only see the numbers and the big letters at the beginning to remember the whole at once; and if I can't get one verse exactly right, I think of the next one. Whoever has had experiences, and fears and loves the Lord, can make a verse for many a hymn in the book."

"You have a beautiful spot for your old age, mother, and are well taken care of, it seems to me."

The aged dame wore a new dark calico dress, and over her thin shoulders lay a black shawl, which, spite of the heat, she had pinned close.

"It's very comfortable, my dear sir, it's very comfortable," she replied, taking a pinch of snuff with her trembling hand. "The Canoness said so, too; that's why she didn't wish to go away again, not even when they wanted to take her to the castle. But she planted the flowers, and we have only kept our gardens so neat since she has been here. Well, everything will soon be at sixes and sevens again. You see, when I first came, thirteen years ago, just after my husband and my eldest daughter died, and there wasn't a soul to care for Mother Schulzen, I thought I should lead a wretched life in the almshouse. A silver groschen every day, free lodging, peat, and light, six groschen every quarter for beer money, and a bit of land where everybody can plant potatoes--that was hardly enough for a living. Dear me! A person who hasn't much is soon satisfied, and there is apt to be something put by for a rainy day. When the Canoness first came, though she had nothing herself, yet she always found something to give away. See, she gave me this woolen petticoat"--she pulled her dress up to her knees to show it--"on her last birthday, and the shawl at Christmas. That's why I wear it in her honor to-day, though it's certainly warm; but I want to look respectable when I follow the body, for a woman like her won't come again, and, as the hymn says:

'Alas, my Saviour, must Thou die, That we the heirs of life may be?

Let not Thy woes, grief, agony, On us be lost, but win to Thee.'"

She muttered to herself for a while, with her chin buried in her shawl, and seemed to have entirely forgotten my presence.

"Mother," I began after a time, "you are always talking about a Canoness. Is there a chapter-house in this neighborhood?"

The old dame slowly raised her head and scanned me with a half-suspicious, half-pitying look.

"Why, what a question!" she said at last. "I suppose you don't belong here, my dear sir; but you must live very far away, for everybody in the neighborhood knows who the Canoness was, and that she died three days ago and will be buried to-day. Have you never heard of Spiegelberg, her husband, who is now standing before the throne of G.o.d?

She belonged to a n.o.ble family, and her cousin, the baron, when he visited her, took me aside and said: 'I hope, Mother Schulzen, that you don't let my cousin want for anything here.' Good Heavens! What we poor old women could do to make her life easy--especially I! For she always showed me the greatest kindness, and the teacher and I were with her in her last hour. Yes! yes! If anybody had told me that such a poor, useless body would close her eyes, and yet must creep about here on earth a while longer, while she, who was still in her prime--But perhaps you would like to see her? There is time enough. She is to be buried at four, and the whole town will be present, and not a dry eye in the throng, for n.o.body else in the whole place had gifts like hers; and now they will see what we had in her, we old creatures especially, for no one like her will come again--never again--never again--"

She shook her head mournfully as she spoke, but her weary, reddened eyes were tearless, and, rising with some difficulty, she took up her hymn-book, spectacles, and snuff-box, and, beckoning to me to follow, hobbled through the entrance--the door stood ajar--into the long corridor which divided the interior of the dwelling into two equal parts.

It was pleasantly cool inside, only a strong smell of vinegar tainted the air and enhanced the feeling of uneasiness with which I had entered. It was uncanny to be conducted to the abode of death by this old crone, incessantly mumbling her song of Destiny, while out-of-doors the bright young summer was wandering over the fields. The bare hall, too, from which opened more than a dozen whitewashed doors, had no inviting aspect, especially as several dark figures, all dressed very much like my guide, were crouching on little benches along the walls, whispering together and casting distrustful glances at me. I afterward learned that the almshouse had been erected for a pest-house centuries before, when the Black Death was devastating the land, and afterward remained a long time vacant and shunned, until it was at last converted into a poor-house, and the chapel was rebuilt. But how had the Canoness come under this humble roof?

Mother Schulzen had already opened the first door on the left, and I entered a large room with two windows. In the center stood a piano, a number of plain, rush-bottomed chairs were ranged along the walls, a rack containing music-books stood on the table between the clean white curtains. "She gave her singing-lessons here," the old dame said; "the next room was her sleeping-chamber, where she died."

She opened the door of the adjoining room as gently as if she feared to wake some sleeper, and let me stand on the threshold.

I saw a light, square chamber, through whose one window the sun was shining. These walls, too, were merely whitewashed, but they were adorned with a few engravings in dark wooden frames, and the simple but tasteful furniture, a sofa with a bright calico cover, a book-case, a chest of drawers, a bed with white curtains, the flowers on the window-sill, would have made a cheerful impression, had not a coffin stood on a low trestle in the middle of the room. Over the shining boards was flung a large, gayly embroidered rug, whose artistically wrought flowers and vines were almost entirely concealed by garlands of natural blossoms. The dead woman was attired in a plain white shroud; the head was toward the window; at the feet lay a large laurel wreath tied with a broad white satin bow; the hands, which were large, but very beautiful in shape, rested on the bosom, but were not clasped; the head inclined a little to the right, so that I could see it perfectly from the threshold.

There was nothing to inspire horror; a quiet, mysterious charm pervaded the features, which, spite of the silvery hue of the smoothly brushed hair, still wore a look of youth: it was the face of a beautiful woman in her prime, who had lain down on her last couch in the full vigor of life. I said to myself that to have known this sleeper, while living, must have been no ordinary happiness, and those whom she had chosen for her friends had been most fortunate. A feeling of regret stole over me that I had never pressed that firm hand, nor heard a word from those calmly closed lips, never seen the face brightened by a smile.

Who was she? How had this n.o.ble woman condescended to make one of the number of the inmates of the almshouse, and who had laid the laurel wreath at her feet?

My eyes quitted the pallid face a moment and wandered to the sunny window. There I saw the mute figure, clad in black, still gazing fixedly in. He did not even seem to see me, but stood motionless, watching the lifeless form, of which only the head and the tips of the feet were visible to him. I now distinctly saw large tears gush from his dilated, motionless eyes, and course down his pale cheeks.

"Mother," I asked softly, "who is the man outside of the window?"

I had forgotten that her deafness would prevent her understanding me.

Just at that moment a clear little bell began to ring from the steeple of the chapel. The old dame looked up.

"It is four o'clock," she said; "the services will begin. You can't stay here any longer, sir; the pastor and the others will come directly. But if you stand by the trellis outside you can see everything. Oh, dear! Now the sad end is coming! But G.o.d's will be done! Only, may it be my turn soon. Come, sir, there are the bearers."

Six men in long black coats entered, and I was obliged to leave the room. In the corridor I met the pastor in his robes, and a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a sorrowful face--the burgomaster, the old dame whispered. Outside the house a large crowd of people had a.s.sembled, who eyed me with surprise and curiosity. Most of them were women in mourning-garments, but in their midst was a group of young girls dressed in white, with large black bows, and black veils on their heads. Each carried a garland of flowers on her arm, and the eyes of all were full of tears. I perceived that, as a total stranger, I ought to keep myself as much out of sight as possible, and hurried around the house to a post by the garden-fence, whence I could overlook the chapel and the cemetery.

The solitary man in the black coat had disappeared.