THE MOUTH OF HELL, page 3
A young pure voice had reached his ear. He leant forward, and, in the shade of a honeysuckle, perceived the most charming group fancy can paint.
A young girl of scarce fifteen summers held on her knees a little boy of about five years of age, and was teaching him to read.
The young girl was of the most winsome grace imaginable. Blue eyes brimming over with sweetness and intelligence, hair of palest gold clustering in such profusion over her head, that her neck seemed too slender to support its weight, a witching symmetry of form. These are words too weak to describe the exquisite creature which Julius beheld. Her chief charm lay in her bright youthfulness. Her whole personality seemed an ode to innocence, a hymn to truth, a sonnet to springtime. There was an inexpressible harmony between the young girl and the glorious morning, between the bright look which shone in her eyes and the dew that glistened on the grass. It was frame and picture.
What she possessed above all was exquisite grace. But her gracefulness did not result from delicacy, everything about her was eloquent of life and health.
She was dressed in German fashion; a white bodice, tight-fitting to the waist; a dress, white also, festooned at the bottom, fell in graceful folds from her hips, and was sufficiently short to disclose to view a pretty foot and ankle.
The little boy whom she held on her knees, fair and rosy, with flaxen curls, was learning his lesson with a serious and attentive air. He was saying his alphabet, pointing with his tiny finger to each big letter. After he had named a letter, he looked anxiously up into his mistress’s face to see whether he had made a mistake. If he were wrong, she corrected him and he began again. If he were right, she smiled and he went on.
Julius could not take his eyes off this charming picture. This exquisite group in this exquisite spot, the voice of the child with the warbling of the birds, the beauty of the young girl with the beauty of nature, the springtime of life, with the springtime of earth; these were all in such contrast to the violent emotions of the night, that a wave of tenderness swept over him, and he became absorbed in delicious contemplation.
He was suddenly roused from it by feeling a head touch his own. It was Samuel who had just entered his room, and approached on tip-toe to see what Julius was gazing at so attentively.
Julius, with an imploring gesture, warned him to make no noise. But Samuel, a stranger to sentiment, gave no heed to his request, and, as the vine somewhat intercepted his view, he pushed it aside with his hand.
The rustling of the leaves made the young girl look up and a faint flush rose to her face. The little boy also turned to the window, and, on seeing the strangers, neglected his book. He made a mistake over nearly every letter. The young girl seemed to become slightly impatient, more from embarrassment at the strangers’ gaze than from the child’s mistakes; then, a moment later, she quietly closed the book, put the child down, got up, and passing under Julius’s window returned the young men’s salute, and went into the house with the boy.
Julius turned towards Samuel with a look of annoyance.
“What business had you to startle her?” said he.
“Yes, I understand,” said Samuel mockingly, “the sparrow-hawk has frightened the lark. But, do not be anxious, those birds are tame and invariably return. Well, after all, you have not been murdered in the night? Judging by appearances, this cut-throat place is fairly habitable. I see that your room is no worse than mine. In fact, yours has the advantage over mine, in being adorned with these engravings of the history of Tobias.”
“It seems to me I have been dreaming,” said Julius. “Come, let us go over the events of last night; it really was the pretty girl with the ugly goat who opened the door to us, was it not? By some mysterious sign, she imposed silence, showed us where to stable our horses; then, leading the way into the house, she conducted us to the second storey, to these two rooms which adjoin; lighted this lamp; made a curtsey, and, without having spoken a word, she hurriedly disappeared. You seemed to me, Samuel, almost as stupefied as myself. Yet, you wanted to follow her, but I restrained you, and we made up our minds to go to bed and have a good night’s rest. Now is that what happened?”
“Your recollections,” said Samuel, “are most correct, and, in all probability, most realistically true. And I dare swear that now you forgive me for having induced you to leave the inn last night. Will you again rail against the storm? Was I wrong in telling you that evil produced good? The thunder and the rain have already procured us two very comfortably furnished rooms, a view of most beautiful country, and the acquaintance of a lovely maiden, whom politeness demands that we should make love to, the laws of hospitality likewise demanding from her that she should return our love.”
“Blaspheming again!” said Julius.
Samuel was about to utter some jest in reply, when the door of the room opened and an old servant entered, bringing the two companions their clothes, dried and brushed, together with some bread and some milk for breakfast.
Julius thanked her, and asked in whose house they were. The old woman replied that they were at the manse of Landeck, at Pastor Schreiber’s.
And, whilst setting the room in order, the good woman, who was evidently loquacious, went on to say:
The pastor’s wife had died fifteen years ago, in giving birth to Mademoiselle Christiane. Then, three years back, the pastor had sustained another loss, in the death of his eldest daughter, Marguerite, and, now he lived alone with his daughter, Mademoiselle Christiane, and his grandson Lothario, Marguerite’s child.
The worthy pastor had just that moment started, with Christiane, for the village church, where his religious duties called him. But he would be back by mid-day, the dinner-hour, and would then see his guests.
“But,” said Samuel, “who then conducted us hither yesterday?”
“Ah!” replied the servant, “it was Gretchen!”
“Good! Now explain to us who is Gretchen?”
“Gretchen? Why the goat herd.”
“The goat herd,” said Julius, “That, of course, explains things in general, and the goat in particular. And where is she now?”
“Oh! she has gone back to the mountain. In the winter, or when the weather is too stormy in summer, she cannot spend the night in her wood hut, so comes to sleep in the parsonage, where she has a bedroom next to mine, but she never stays here long. She is a queer creature. She feels stifled between four walls; air is as necessary to her as to her animals.”
“But by what right did she bring us here?” asked Julius.
“It was not by virtue of right but of duty,” replied the servant, “and my master the pastor, each time that he sees her, charges her to bring hither every weary or belated traveller she may come across; because there is no inn anywhere near, and he says that the priest’s house is the house of God, and the house of God is the house of all.”
The old woman went out. The young men breakfasted, dressed, and went down to the garden.
“Let us take a turn before dinner,” said Samuel.
“No “Julius replied, “I am tired.”
And he sat down on a bench shaded by a climbing honeysuckle.
“Tired?” said Samuel. “You are only just out of bed.” Then immediately he burst into a laugh.
“Ah! yes, I understand; that is the bench where Christiane was sitting. Ah! my poor Julius! already smitten!”
Julius got up, quite confused.
“As a matter of fact,” he rejoined, “we may just as well walk about. There will be plenty of time to sit down. Let us go and look at the garden.”
And he began to talk about the flowers, and to admire the laying out of the garden, as if anxious to turn the conversation from the subject introduced by Samuel, that is to say, from the bench and the pastor’s daughter. He did not know why, but the name of Christiane on Samuel’s mocking lips began to jar upon him.
They strolled about thus for an hour. At the end of the garden was the orchard. But at this season of the year the orchard was likewise a garden. The apple trees and peach trees were masses of white and pink blossom.
“What are you thinking about? “Samuel said suddenly to Julius, who, for the last few moments, had been dreamy and silent.
We dare not assert that Julius was perfectly sincere in his reply, however he answered: “About my father.”
“Your father! And à propos of what have your thoughts flown to that illustrious man of science, I pray you?”
“Why! à propos of the fact that tomorrow at this hour he may have no son.”
“Oh! my dear fellow, do not let us make our wills beforehand, eh?” said Samuel. “To-morrow, I shall be in quite as much danger as you. But tomorrow will be quite time enough to think of it. You cannot believe to what extent the imagination weakens the will. In that lies the difference between men of sound intellect and fools. As for us, let us not anticipate.”
“Do not be afraid!” replied Julius. “Neither my will, nor my courage will fail to-morrow in the face of danger.”
“I do not doubt it, Julius. But do cheer up. If I mistake not, I see the pastor returning with his daughter. Come! come! I fancy your smile returns with them. Can it have gone with them to church?”
“You tiresome fellow!” said Julius.
The pastor and Christiane were, in fact, on their way back. Christiane walked straight into the house; the pastor hastened towards his guests.
CHAPTER IV.
FIVE HOURS IN FIVE MINUTES.
PASTOR SCHREIBER had the straightforward honest look of a German pastor accustomed to practise what he preached. He was a man of forty-five or thereabouts, consequently still young. His benevolent face was grave and sad. The seriousness arose from his calling; the sadness, from the death of his wife and daughter. It was evident that time had failed to heal his wound, and the ceaseless shadow of human regret warred on his brow with the comforting light of Christian hope.
He shook hands with the young men, enquired how they had slept, and thanked them for having sought shelter at his house.
A moment later the dinner-bell rang.
“Let us join my daughter, gentlemen,” said the pastor. “I will lead the way.”
“He does not ask our names,” Samuel whispered in Julius’ ear. “Needless, then, to tell him. Yours is perhaps too illustrious for the little one’s modesty, and mine too Jewish for the old man’s piety.”
“So be it,” said Julius, “let us give ourselves princely airs and assume an incognito.”
They went into the dining-room, where they found Christiane and her nephew. Christiane bowed to the two young men with shy and shrinking grace.
They sat down at a square table simply but plentifully spread; the pastor between the two friends, Christiane opposite to him, and separated from Julius by the child.
The meal was at first a silent one. Julius, embarrassed in the presence of Christiane, said nothing. Christiane seemed able to attend to no one but the child, whom she tended like a young mother, and who called her sister. The conversation was almost entirely sustained by the pastor and Samuel. The pastor was delighted to receive the students.
“I, too, have been ‘studiosus,’ “said he. “A student’s life was a happy one in those days.”
“It is a trifle more dramatic nowadays,” said Samuel looking at Julius.
“Ah!” continued the pastor, “that was the best time of my life. Since then, I have paid dearly for the happiness of those early days. I looked hopefully on life then. Now, it is quite the reverse. Oh! I do not say this to sadden you, my young friends; as you see, I speak almost cheerfully.,. And, whatever happens, I hope I may be permitted to remain on earth until I have seen my Christiane happy in the home of her forefathers...”
“Father, father! “... Christiane interrupted in a tone of tender reproach.
“You are right, my wise fairy,” said the pastor, “let us talk of something else. Do you know that, thank God, the storm of last night has spared nearly all my beloved plants.”
“Are you a botanist?” asked Samuel.
“Somewhat,” the pastor replied with a certain pride. “Do you happen to be one too, sir?”
“In my leisure moments,” the young man carelessly replied.
Then, allowing the pastor to enter into a dissertation on his favourite studies, Samuel suddenly unmasked, so to speak, a profound and daring, knowledge of the subject, amused himself in bewildering the worthy man by his new thoughts and hitherto undreamt-of notions, without departing from his polite, cold and somewhat mocking manner, and without appearing to wish to do so, completely put to rout, by the superiority of his true science, the somewhat superficial, and above all somewhat superannuated, learning of the pastor.
Meanwhile Julius; and Christiane, who up to the present had remained silent, only looking stealthily at each other, began to grow a little more sociable.
Lothario served at first as a link between them. Julius was not yet venturesome enough to address Christiane himself, but he put questions to the child which it was impossible for Lothario to answer. Then the child questioned Christiane, who replied to Lothario and to Julius. And Julius rejoiced that the young girl’s thoughts should reach him through the medium of those pure lips so dear to her. At dessert, thanks to that quick and trustful unreserve which is the great charm of children, the three were already good friends.
So, when they rose from the table and went into the garden to drink coffee under the trees, a frown crossed Julius’ brow on seeing Samuel approach them, and a pang shot through his heart that he should come and disturb the commencement of their sweet intimacy. The pastor had insisted on going himself to fetch his best old brandy.
It was not for want of boldness that he sinned, this cold, sardonic Samuel, and Julius felt very indignant on seeing the quiet, self-satisfied look which he bent on sweet Christiane, as he said: — ” We must ask your forgiveness, Mademoiselle, for having, this morning, so foolishly disturbed the lesson which you were giving your little nephew.”
“Oh!” she said, “I had finished.”
“I could not suppress an exclamation. Do you know that, because of her dress, her goat and the lightning, we were almost inclined to believe that the young girl who introduced us here yesterday was a witch? We fell asleep under that impression, and in the morning, on opening our window, we find the goat changed into an adorable child, and the witch--
“Was I!” said Christiane, with a joyous and, it must be confessed, slightly coquettish, pout.
And, turning towards Julius, who affected a reserved air: — ” And you, sir, did you too take me for a witch?” asked she.
“Eh!” said Julius, “well, you see it is not natural to be so beautiful.”
Christiane, who had smiled at Samuel’s words, blushed at Julius’ speech.
Confused at having said so much, Julius hurriedly turned to the child.
“Lothario, would you like us to take you to the University?” said he.
“Sister,” Lothario asked Christiane, “what is the University?”
“It is a place which is supposed to teach you everything,” the, pastor, who had just returned, said with alacrity.
The child turned gravely to Julius.
“I need not go with you because my sister is a university to me. She knows how to read and write, besides French, music and Italian. I shall never leave her, never in all my life.”
“Alas! you are luckier than we are, my little man,” said Samuel, “because the hour has come for us to set off again, Julius.”
“What!” exclaimed the pastor, “you will not give us even this one day! not stay to supper to-night!”
“A thousand thanks!” rejoined Samuel, “but it is absolutely imperative for us to be in Heidelberg this evening.”
“Come! there are no lectures, and no roll-call in the evening.”
“No! it is even a more serious duty that calls us, as Julius is well aware.”
“Let us consider the matter,” said the pastor. “Heidelberg is not more than seven or eight miles from Landeck. So to rest your horses and avoid the heat of the day you can easily arrange not to leave here until four o’clock. “Even then, you will reach the town before nightfall, I assure you.”
“Impossible. Considering the nature of the business that calls us there, we ought instead to have left earlier, am I not right, Julius?”
“Really!” murmured Christiane in a low voice, raising her lovely blue eyes to Julius’ face.
Julius, who up to the present had said nothing, was powerless to resist the sweet interrogation.
“Look here, Samuel,” said he, “let us not appear ungrateful for our host’s kindness. We can leave at four o’clock punctually.”
Samuel looked from Julius to the young girl with a wicked glance.
“Since you wish it, I have nothing further to say,” said he to Julius with a sardonic smile.
“That’s right!” exclaimed the pastor, “and now here is the programme for the day. It will take us until three o’clock to inspect my collections and my garden. After that the children and I will see you on your way as far as the crossroads of Neckarsteinach. I have a strong, careful lad who will lead your horses as far. You will see! the road, which appeared to you so horrible in the storm and darkness, is beautiful in the sunshine. And probably, we shall come across your so-called witch, on the way. For she really is one in a certain sense, but in the most Christianlike way imaginable; she is an innocent, God-fearing child.”
“Ah! I would be glad to see her again by daylight,” replied Samuel. “May we inspect your collection of plants, sir,” said he to the pastor, rising.
And, in passing Julius, he breathed in his ear:
“I am going to look after the father, and sound him on Tournefort and Linnaeus. Am I a devoted friend?”
And in fact he monopolised the father, leaving Julius alone for some moments with Christiane and Lothario. Now they felt more at ease with one another, and ventured to look at, and speak to each other.
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