CHAPTER XII.

Days have pa.s.sed in which I did not once take my pen in hand; I could not. Must I indeed write of this? What forces me to do so?

"Above all things, leave nothing unfinished that you have once begun,"

was a maxim of hers; and I must therefore tell of her death. When the fogs of autumn and the frosts of winter scatter the foliage of the trees, a branch may here and there be seen to which a few leaves are still clinging. Why should those alone have remained?

My memory has remained true to me; but of that grief which seemed to divide my life I have but little recollection. I constantly thought of the saying of Carl's mother, "You are a good child: you cannot be so cruel as to die before me." From the garret, I looked on while they were filling up her grave. The spade shone in the sunshine. No one knew that I was looking on. Shall I again renew the feelings that then pa.s.sed through my soul? Let it be so.

My wife was ill. She uttered no complaint, but she was feeble, and took no interest in what was going on about her. During the day, she would sleep for hours; and at night, when she awoke, would seem surprised by the surrounding objects. During her sleeping hours, she may have dwelt in quite a different region; but she never alluded to it. The physician gave her but little medicine, and consoled us with the hope that the return of summer, and a visit to a watering-place, with cheerful companions, would help her.

Annette soon returned to us. She was followed by my daughter Johanna, who had, in the meanwhile, lost her husband, and was accompanied by her daughter Christiane. She took up her abode with us. Her only son was living as a vicar in the Unterland.

a.s.sisted by Balbina, Johanna took charge of our entire household. When my wife told Martella that she had better submit to Johanna in all things, she replied, "I shall gladly do so; this was her home before it was mine; and I shall thus be better able to spend all of my time with mother." My wife indeed preferred to have this stranger-child about her; for Johanna could not help treating us in a patronizing, pitying manner, because we were not as pious as she would have us be.

Spring returned, and my wife's health seemed to improve. I was quite happy again. At that time, I did not understand what the prudent and sensible physician meant, when he told me that it would be better for me to moderate my joy.

All preparations for a journey to the springs had been made. Bertha had promised to join us there, and bring her daughter with her.

Suddenly the physician decided that it would be better if my wife would remain yet awhile among the surroundings she was accustomed to. He was a young and kind-hearted man, constantly endeavoring to improve himself by study; full of love for his calling, and beloved by all throughout the valley. His visits now became longer than they had been. He would, at times, acquaint me with the details of his own life, and tell me that, although he had lost his wife while quite young, he endeavored to console himself by the remembrance of the happy days he had pa.s.sed in her society. I listened to his words without giving them further thought; but afterwards it became clear to me why he had spoken so impressively on the subject.

The days pa.s.sed on. I gradually accustomed myself to the thought of my wife's illness; but when out in the fields, I would suddenly become alarmed, and imagine that something terrible must have taken place at the house. I would hurry home and find that all was going on as usual.

Back of my house, where the road makes a descent, the young teamsters would crack their whips quite loudly. I observed that this startled Gustava, and she overheard me telling Rothfuss to ask the young fellows not to make so great a noise.

"Do not interfere with them," said she. "A man who saunters along the road and has an instrument that is capable of making a noise, finds pleasure in using it. Do not stop him."

I had never, before that, seen Rothfuss in tears; but when he heard those words, he wept, and that evening he said to me, "The angels who look down from heaven to see what we human beings on earth are doing, must be just as she is. She is no longer human--she will not stay with us. Pardon me: I am a stupid fellow to be talking this way. You know I am a simpleton, and do not understand such things. She is right, though; stupid people must always make a noise, be it with their mouths or with their whips."

He had, however, in the meanwhile persuaded the youths not to crack their whips.

My wife was determined that Annette and Bertha should go to the springs without her; and, as she would listen to no refusal, they were obliged to comply with her desire.

Several weeks had gone by, when, one evening, the physician told me that she could last but a few days longer. I cannot describe my feelings at that moment.

Joseph telegraphed for the children. They came.

Strangely enough, my wife was not surprised by their speedy return. She conversed with them as if they had not been away more than an hour.

The physician said that perhaps there might still be a chance to save my wife by injecting another's blood into her veins, and that, at all events, the attempt should be made. Johanna immediately declared her readiness, and though her offer was well meant, the manner in which it was made jarred on my feelings. She said that, as a daughter, she had the first right; but, if they did not want her blood her child must be willing.

The physician declared that neither her blood nor that of her child would serve the purpose.

The choice now lay between Martella and Annette, and when the physician decided in favor of Martella, her face brightened, and she exclaimed:

"Take my blood--every drop of it--all that I have."

Some of Martella's blood was injected into my wife's veins, and during the night, she gained in strength. But it was very sad to find that she had almost lost her hearing, and that the only medium of pleasure yet left her was the sense of sight.

Martha, the eldest daughter of the kreis-director, had painted a picture of the view from our balcony, looking towards the woods down by the stone wall, and now brought it to my wife, who was delighted with it. The only figure was a hunter coming out of the woods.

Martha told us that she could not draw figures, and that Annette had been kind enough to sketch the huntsman for her; and she kissed my wife's hands on hearing her say, "I think the hunter looks like our grandson, Julius."

It was on the 22d of July, when she said, "Have a little pine-tree brought for me, from my woods, and placed here beside my bed."

I sent Rothfuss out to the woods; he brought a little pine, placed it in a flower-pot, and I observed, while he was leaning over it, how his tears dropped upon the branches.

He turned around to me and said, "I hope that will not harm the little tree."

When I placed the tree at her bedside, she smiled and moved her left hand among its branches, but the hand soon fell down by her side.

What wonderful powers of memory lie in a mother's heart! She would tell us of a thousand and one little stories and sayings of Ernst, and of his bright, clever freaks, with as much detail as if they had happened but the moment before; but, strangely enough, she did all this without mentioning his name. She praised his flaxen hair, and moved her hand as if pa.s.sing it through his locks.

"Do you not recollect how he once said, 'Mother, I cannot imagine how you could have been in the world without me: of course I have never been in the world without you'?"

She repeated the words, "without you--without me," perhaps a hundred times during the night: and she was almost constantly humming s.n.a.t.c.hes of old songs.

In the morning, just as day was breaking, she turned around to me, and said with a smile, "This is his birthday." And that was her last smile.

"This is Ernst's birthday."

And when the lost son returned, there was no mother to receive him.

Her silent thoughts had always been of him, but now they were deeper than ever.

She had lost her hearing. Suddenly she exclaimed in a loud voice, "G.o.d be praised; Richard will marry her after all!" and then--I cannot go on with the story--I must stop.

It was eleven o'clock (I do not know why I was always looking towards the clock that day) when she said, "Water from my spring."

Richard hurried to bring it.

What must his thoughts have been while on his way there and back!

He soon returned, bringing the water with him, but she seemed to have forgotten that she had asked for it. When Richard lifted her up in bed, and placed the gla.s.s to her lips, she motioned him away.

I heard a voice from without the house. A cold shudder came over me; my hair stood on end.

It is the voice of our son Ernst!

If Ernst were to come at this time! Could he have been drawn here by a presentiment of what is happening? And if he were here, what power could dare take him away from us, at this moment--and how will he enter his mother's presence?

I hurried out. It was Julius--his voice is just like Ernst's. He brought a letter that Edward Levi had handed to him. It was from Ernst, and was dated at Algiers.

I could not stop to read the letter. I could not remain away from the bedside--every moment was yet a drop of blood to me, and everything glimmered before my eyes. I hurried back to the sick-room; my wife looked at me with strangely bright eyes.

"There is a letter here from Ernst!" I called out.

I do not know whether she understood me, but she reached for the sheet that was in my hand, and held it with a convulsive grasp.

I lifted her head, and moved it towards the cooler side of the pillow; she opened her eyes, and tried to raise her arms; I bent towards her and she kissed me.