Joseph in the Snow, and The Clockmaker. In Three Volumes. Vol. III.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
VOICES FROM THE DEAD

As Annele fell, she upset the lamp on the table, which came down with a crash, and was extinguished, leaving them in entire darkness. Lenz rubbed Annele's temples with the brandy that he luckily got hold of; she breathed at last, and grasped his hand. He carried her into the next room, and after laying her down on the bed, he hurried back to get a fresh light.

Lenz fortunately had an ample store of purified turpentine oil in the house, by which he usually worked at night. The raven, in the kitchen, had broken the large can, and an insupportable smell of rosin penetrated into the room, when the door was opened. Lenz lighted the lamp with the brandy, and the three miserable prisoners looked still more deplorable, by the blue flickering light.

Petrowitsch laid the child on the bed; her feet were as cold as ice. He ordered Büble to lie down on the child's feet, which Büble instantly did. Then Petrowitsch took Lenz by the arm, and led him back into the sitting room, the door of the adjacent room remaining open.

The raven and the cat were again at war in the kitchen, but they let them fight it out, till they were quiet of their own accord.

"Have you anything fit to eat?" asked Petrowitsch; "it is past five o'clock, and I am wofully hungry."

There was enough to eat, as a ham had fallen from the loft down the chimney; there was also bread, and a large sack of dried fruit.

Petrowitsch ate with a good appetite, and pressed Lenz to eat also, but he could not bring himself to swallow a morsel. He was anxiously listening to every sound in Annele's room. The child was talking in its sleep; a kind of confused muttering, as if from another world, and it was startling to hear it laugh – still sound asleep. Annele lay quiet, breathing softly. Lenz went in to take up the child, and called out in terror, for he had seized Büble by mistake, who bit at him fiercely. Annele was roused by the cry, and calling Lenz and Petrowitsch to come to her, she said: —

"I thank God that I still live, if only for one hour longer. I ask forgiveness from all, but more especially from you, my Lenz."

"Don't try to speak much at present," interrupted he. "Will you not be persuaded to take something? I have found some coffee, but not the coffee mill. I will bruise it if the child is awake. There is some good ham here besides."

"I cannot eat. Let me speak. What has happened? Why did you give such a cry, Lenz?"

"It was nothing. I wished to take the child, and Büble snapped viciously at me, and in the terror of the moment, and the anguish of our position, I felt as if some monster, I knew not what, was about to devour us all."

"Alas!" said Annele, "your distraction of mind, your nervous state, has all been caused by me. Oh! Lenz, what I dreamt has come to pass. Last night I thought I stood beside an open grave, and looked in, deep, deep, and dark; little heaps of earth rolled down and down; I tried to save myself, but could not; I stumbled, and was precipitated to the bottom. Hold me fast! Now it is past – lay your hand on my face – merciful powers! to think that you must die with me, that all this misery has fallen on us, in order to bring me to repentance! I deserve it, but you and this child." … Tears prevented her saying more; she seized Lenz's hand and placed it to her lips, then she exclaimed: —

"An hour ago, I would gladly have died, but now I should be so glad to live! I should like yet to show the world what I can do! I see now what I have been. Henceforth I will thankfully implore a kind look or word. Merciful Father! succour us, and save us from this dreadful death, if only for a day, for an hour! I then would send for Franzl; Lenz, my first shortcomings began with her."

"Now I do verily believe that the evil one is fairly driven out," said the uncle: "a striking proof of it is your thinking of Franzl, and wishing to benefit her, whose life you embittered by turning her away. Here you have my hand in token of friendship; now all will be well."

Lenz could not speak; he hurried into the next room, and bringing some of the spirit, he placed it to Annele's lips, saying: – "Drink, Annele, and for every drop you drink, I would fain give you as many grateful and loving words." Annele shook her head, and he went on: – "Only drink it, to give you fresh strength. Now try to rest, and don't speak another word."

Annele said she could not rest, though she would have been glad to do so, as it was his wish; she lamented bitterly, that, in all probability they must all soon die; but Lenz tried to soothe her by saying, that they had still food enough to last for several days, and that they ought to thank God for his great mercy in this; and before what they had in the house was consumed, no doubt help would arrive. Annele then began afresh to deplore the great sin she now felt she had committed, in having received so unthankfully the blessings that had been granted to her, always living in peace and plenty, and yet these mercies she had utterly disregarded; and she perpetually bewailed and lamented, saying – "I feel as if snakes were winding round my head. See if every hair is not a snake – and only yesterday I was so proud, plaiting my hair."

With feverish, trembling fingers she took down her hair, and let it float over her shoulders, making her look still more wild and wretched.

Lenz and Petrowitsch had considerable difficulty in pacifying her; the uncle at last insisted on Lenz leaving Annele alone, and going with him to the next room, when Petrowitsch said to him: – "Pray endeavour to be composed, for Annele's sake, or she will die before any help can reach us. I never beheld such a revulsion in any human being, I could scarcely have believed it. Such a shock to the whole system must be very trying. Now tell me what letter was it that I found in your child's frock, when I placed Büble on her feet?"

Lenz related the desperate determination he had come to, and said it was his farewell to Annele and to life, and begged his uncle to give it back to him; but his uncle held it fast, and read it out in a low voice.

Lenz shuddered at hearing the words repeated, that he had intended being spoken after his death. He watched the expression of his uncle's face, so far as it was visible in the blue light, to see what he thought of it; Petrowitsch however, did not once look up, and read on to the end, when he gave one quick sharp glance at Lenz. He then put the letter in his pocket.

"Give me the letter, and I will burn it," said Lenz, in a whisper.

In the same suppressed tone, Petrowitsch answered: – "No, I mean to keep it, I have only half known you till now."

He was uncertain whether Petrowitsch meant this for good or evil, but the old man stood up, and took down his brother's file from the wall, holding it in his hand, which pressed on the well worn hollow, produced in long years of work, by his dead brother's fingers.

Perhaps at that moment he made an inward vow, that if they were rescued, he would supply the place of a father to Lenz, but he only said: "Come here, I want to whisper something to you. The basest action a man can commit is suicide; I knew the son of such a man, who said to me – 'My father made his fate light, but ours hard!' and that son – " here Petrowitsch suddenly paused, and then said, close to his ear – "cursed his father's memory!"

Lenz started back in horror, and almost sunk to the ground on hearing these words, but Annele at this moment called to him: – "Lenz, for God's sake come here!" They hurried to her, and she said, still in a most excited state, "Oh! my dear Lenz, to think that you really wished to make away with yourself! Surely you could not have done so when it came to the last, for the children's sake; but I am the guilty cause of your ever dreaming of so fearful a sin. Oh! how your heart must have bled! I don't know what is the worst thing I have done, to implore your forgiveness for."

"It is all over now," said Petrowitsch, soothingly. It was singular that the same ideas should be working in Annele's brain, in her room, where she could not possibly hear a word of what the two men were saying in cautious whispers. Both tried to pacify her.

Several clocks now struck three.

"Is that noon or night?" asked Annele.

"It must be night."

They recapitulated all that had occurred since the snow had been precipitated on the house; and they agreed it must be long past midnight.

"Oh! daylight! if I could only once more, only just once more, see the blessed sun! Oh! rise in the sky and succour us! Oh! that it were light!" cried Annele, incessantly. They could not quiet her nervous excitement, till at last she dropped asleep from sheer exhaustion.

Petrowitsch also fell into a doze, and Lenz alone remained awake. He dared not sleep; it was indispensable that he should steadily face their deadly peril, and ward it off, so far as human means could avail. He extinguished the light. The store of spirits for the lamp must not be wasted – who knows how long it may still be required! And soon, as Lenz sat thus in silence and darkness, it seemed first noon, and then night; at one moment he wished it were day, at the next he hoped it was night. If it were day, help would be nearer; if night, those outside would have been working on longer, shovelling away the snow, and rolling away the heavy trunks of trees. Often he thought that he heard sounds outside, but it was all a delusion – it was the raven croaking in his sleep.

CHAPTER XXXVII.
A PHALANX

At the self-same hour – it was twelve o'clock at noon – Faller went to Lenz's home, wishing to tell him that he was now freed from the security for his house. It was raining and snowing alternately, and a violent wind drove the rain and snow about, so that it was scarcely possible to see through it. Faller, however, strode on sturdily, his head bent forward, struggling manfully with the storm. Suddenly he looked up, having arrived at his destination, when he rubbed his eyes, and stared round him aghast. Where have you got to? have you lost your way? Where is Lenz's house? He turned round and round, but could not understand where he was. Stop! there are the old firs that stand just in front of Lenz's house; but the house! the house! In his anguish of mind, Faller slipped into a snow wreath, and the more he struggled to extricate himself, the deeper he plunged in. He prayed to God, he cried for help – no one heard him. He managed to get hold of the trunk of a tree and to cling to the branches, for he could get no further; then a fresh avalanche came rolling down the hill, and carried the snow with it in its course, and Faller was free. And this last rush of snow having cleared the pathway, he hurried down into the valley. By the time he saw light glancing from the house, night had set in, and with shouts which quickly roused even those who were asleep, Faller cried aloud through the village: "Help! help!"

All hurried to their windows, and out into the street, when Faller declared that Lenz's house at the Morgenhalde was buried in the snow.

Faller rushed to the church, and rang the alarm bell. Very few people came from a distance; the weather was so dreadful, that the wind did not carry the sound of the alarm bell far.

Pilgrim and the Techniker were the first to arrive at the church door. There was no end to lamentations at this frightful occurrence, especially at night, and in such a hurricane. Pilgrim could not utter, he seemed frozen with horror.

The Techniker acted like a prompt and gallant young man. "Get ladders and ropes instantly," said he, "collect as many as you can, and shovels and hatchets."

Torches were lighted, while the storm, however, blew about wildly. Some women came also. They had tied their gowns over their heads as a shelter against the storm, and it was a strange sight to see these spectral looking figures, clinging to their husbands and sons, in the red light of the torches, and endeavouring to prevent their going to the rescue, from the fear of their being lost in the snow.

The Techniker wound the end of a long rope round his body – he assumed the command at once – and ordered six men, at considerable distances, to bind themselves together, so that they might not have to seek each other, and might be able mutually to assist each other out of a snow wreath, if they fell into one.

Pilgrim formed one of the band, and Don Bastian also offered to be one, but the Techniker told him to place himself at the head of another chain of men.

They took some dry wood with them to light a fire, and provided with a number of hatchets, shovels, and ladders, they set off up the hill. When they arrived at about fifty paces from the house – they could not get any nearer – a space was cleared of the snow in a sheltered spot, and a fire lighted. The ladders were placed against the mountain of snow, but they sunk in as soon as a man got on them; moreover the wind blew out the torches, and at intervals a cry was heard: "I am sinking!" Every kind of attempt was made, but all failed.

"Nothing can be done at night, and in such a storm," was the universal cry; at last it was resolved they should all go home; one watchman was to be left beside the fire. Faller immediately offered to remain, and Pilgrim wished also to stay, but the Techniker saw that his teeth were chattering from cold, and he insisted on taking him home, consoling him by saying, that if the inhabitants of the house on the Morgenhalde were still alive, help would be quite time enough in the morning.

In the village the report quickly spread, that Petrowitsch must be buried along with them in the snow, as he had gone to Lenz's house that morning, and had not returned; his comrade Ibrahim, when he heard the alarm bell, had run into the street with a pack of cards in his hand saying: "I am waiting for Petrowitsch." Pilgrim said to his new friend: "It would indeed be sad, if Petrowitsch at last resolved to assist Lenz, and lost his life on that account."

Pilgrim reproached himself severely for having spent the whole day in childish games with Wilhelm, for a kind of presentiment had drawn him towards the Morgenhalde – a sensation as if some misfortune had happened there; but he had persuaded himself that this feeling was purely imaginary, and had gone on playing with his godson; now he sat beside the child's bed till his eyes almost closed from fatigue, thinking how little the boy, who was sleeping soundly, anticipated what a misfortune this night might bring on his head – indeed perhaps had already brought on him.

Faller remained at his post like a soldier on the field, and a comrade stood with him – a dial maker, who had once been a sapper and miner. They held a council together how this snow fortress was to be stormed, but they could discover no mode of setting to work. Faller in the mean time stirred and replenished the fire on the side of the hill, furious that he could find no way to rescue his friend.

A stranger joined them at their watch fire; it was a messenger from the neighbouring town, who had been sent to summon Annele to her mother, who was dying.

"Fetch her out!" said Faller in bitter sorrow; "she is below there."

He then related what had occurred, and the man went homewards in the darkness.

Faller ventured to skirt the uprooted wood, by a bye path; if he could only reach the fir trees before the house, then aid would be nearer. In company with the dial maker, he pushed some large logs lying on the side of the hill, towards the fir trees; several were precipitated down, and remained standing upright in the snow, while one rolled down the hill, and rested on the firs.

"Good Heavens!" said his companion, "the large logs that we have rolled down, are sure to come in collision with the roof, and to crush to death the unhappy inmates."

"I am the most stupid wretch that ever lived, the most senseless, the most idiotical; now I shall have been the cause of your death, my dear, good Lenz!" cried Faller in despair.

After a while he managed to crawl on a bridge formed by the trunk of a tree, and succeeded in setting fire with his torch, to several trees that were heaped together on that spot.

"That will melt the snow surely," cried he, elated.

"Yes, but it may catch the straw thatched roof," replied his comrade.

Faller stood transfixed, but soon began to roll huge snowballs on the top of the fire, and succeeded in extinguishing it just as day broke.

It was a bright morning, almost as warm as a spring day; the sun shone warmly on the Morgenhalde, seeking the house that he had greeted for so many long years, but could no longer find it; he sought its master, who was always so quiet, and yet so busy, seated at early dawn working at his window, just like his father before him, and his grandfather before that; but neither house nor master was to be found, and the sun's rays blinked strangely, and flickered hither and thither, as if they had lost their way; the treacherous snow displayed its broad glittering white surface, as if saying: "Do your worst." The sun sent down fiery, burning rays, and melted the outposts, but the fortress itself must be besieged for days.

The men had all reassembled, with the Techniker at their head; and from the adjacent village, and many other parishes besides, there were plenty of stout hands ready to work.

The trees rolled down by Faller, at all events served as a firm support, and, miner fashion, a path was dug out below, and above also the work went on quickly, and according to a regular plan.

A solitary raven kept constantly flying among those who were clearing away the snow, and would not be driven away. Its companions in the air screeched to it in vain; it paid no attention to their cries, but watched those who were at work, as if it had something very particular to communicate.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
A PLANT GROWS UNDER THE SNOW

Lenz sat sad and silent in darkness and solitude, watching for death.

Petrowitsch awoke at last, and related to Lenz, that in the days of his youth, he remembered a house being overwhelmed by an avalanche in a similar manner, and that, when they at last succeeded in digging out the inhabitants, they found them all crushed flat, and four peasants who had been sitting round a table were crushed also, with their cards still in their hands. The old man shuddered as he recalled this circumstance, and yet he could not refrain from relating it; it was a relief to him to tell it, although it made Lenz shiver with horror. He however quickly added, that he felt sure that God would permit them to be saved, for the sake of the innocent child; and he almost rebelled against the decrees of Providence, in ordaining that the poor child should be buried along with them.

"Annele is now, however, become as good and placid as a child," answered Lenz.

Petrowitsch shook his head, and admonished him, if he ever saw the light again, not to be so easily reconciled; he advised him to act in such a manner, that Annele must daily and hourly seek to win his affections. Lenz resisted this advice, and told his uncle that it was evident he never had been married: —

"An angel dwelt within Annele, that might render home a heaven for any man, and the sad thing was, that in the bitterness of her trials, she had repressed all the naturally good impulses of her kind heart."

Petrowitsch shook his head again, but made no reply.

The child suddenly gave a loud scream, and Annele awoke and cried out: —

"The ceiling is falling! the ceiling is falling! Lenz, where are you? stay beside me! let us die together: give me the child in my arms!"

By degrees Annele was pacified, and with restored self command went into the sitting room with Lenz and Petrowitsch.

Lenz bruised the coffee beans, which were part of the present brought by Ernestine the grocer's wife; and again they all sat together by the light of the feeble blue flame. The coffee cheered them all. The clock struck. Annele said she had not tried to count the strokes, she would ask no more whether it were day or night; they would at all events live together in eternity, when the last fatal hour was past. She had hoped that they would have contradicted her fear of the worst, and the certainty she had expressed of approaching death, but no one said a word.

They continued to sit in silence together, for there was little more to say. After a long pause, Lenz said to his uncle that the past was now all smooth and clear, but he should like to know why his uncle had been always so dry and reserved towards him.

"Because I hated him whose dressing gown I am now wearing. Yes! hated him; he ill used me in my youth, and it was his fault that I was called the 'Goatherd' for life. In his file there is a hollow produced by long pressure; how much more must it work on the human heart! – and his pressure on it was hard indeed. My only brother cast me off; and when at last I came home, I rejoiced at the thought of giving vent to the mass of hatred I had borne about with me so long. I can, with truth, say that I hated him to the death. Why did he die, and leave me alone in the world, without our ever having exchanged one kind word at the last? On the whole of my long journey home, I felt so happy in the thought that I should again have a brother; and now he was gone and no one to replace him; but in truth, and to speak honestly, I did not really hate him, for had I done so, would I have come home? In this world I shall hear my brother's words no more, soon perhaps elsewhere, – "

"Uncle," said Annele, "at the same moment when Büble scratched at the door – at that very same time – Lenz was telling me, that when his father was once snowed up here, though not buried like us, he had said – 'If I must die now, I have not an enemy in the world but my brother Peter, and I should like to be reconciled to him.'"

"Really! really!" said Petrowitsch, pressing one hand on his eyes, and with the other grasping the well worn file of his brother.

For long nothing was heard but the ticking of the clocks, till Lenz again asked why his uncle had always been so indifferent about him; it had grieved his heart, that, for nearly a year, his father's only brother had settled in the same place, and yet would not notice him; every time he met Petrowitsch, he would like to have gone up to him and taken hold of his hand.

"I saw that well enough," answered Petrowitsch, "but I was angry with you and your mother, because I heard that she spoiled you, and told you – seven times a day at least – how good you were, and the best son in the world, and so clever and so prudent! That was very unwise. Men are like birds. There are some who devour insects, and must have each minute a fresh one in their crops; and you are just like one of these birds, every minute a pat on the shoulder, or a panegyric."

"He is right, is he not Annele?" said Lenz, with a bitter smile.

"Not far wrong," answered Annele.

"Don't you say a word," cried Petrowitsch, "you are also a bird, or rather you were one, and do you know what kind of one? a bird of prey: they can endure hunger for days, but then they devour whatever they can get hold of – an innocent singing bird, or a kitten, with bones, and skin, and fur, entire."

"He is right here also," answered Annele, "I never was better pleased than when I got hold of some one to pull at, and to tear to pieces. I exhibited this unhappy tendency, the very first day you and I drove out together, when I felt such malicious pleasure in provoking Ernestine, and you asked me, 'Does that give you pleasure?' These words sunk into my heart, and I intended to become as amiable as you, and felt there was more real happiness in this; and yet I lived on in the old way, and every now and then I thought, 'presently I will begin to be very different, but no one shall see it, my husband above all must not suspect it;' and then the old evil spirit got the mastery again over me, and I felt ashamed that people should observe that I wished to be better, and so at last I gave up even wishing to be so. I felt I was Annele of the 'Lion,' who had been a favourite with every one who came to the house – that there was no need for any change. And I was furious with you, because you were the first person who ever found fault with me, for saying what others praised and laughed at; and then I wished to show you that you were no great things yourself. And at last all hung on the one point: 'you must be a landlady again, then you will recover your self-esteem, and the world, too, will see what you are.' It was thus I thought, and thought wrong. Even yesterday – was it yesterday? when the Pastor was here. Listen! your uncle is asleep; I am glad of it. I am thankful to be one hour alone with you before we pass into eternity. No third person could understand the love we bear each other in our hearts, even amid all – all that has happened. If I could only see your face once more, only once fairly in the bright daylight! I can distinguish nothing by this blue flickering light. If I could see but once your kind face and loving eyes! To die thus without one last look, what agony it is! and how often I have turned away my eyes when I saw that yours were seeking mine! Oh! for but one single look, that I could see you once before we die."

Petrowitsch still pretended to sleep. He had quickly seen that Annele was eager to unburthen her heart, and that no third person ought to interfere. The child played with Büble, and Annele continued: —

"Oh! if I could but recall the years that are past! Once you said to me at noon: Is there anything in the world more cheering than the sun? – and then again one evening: What pure happiness fresh air brings! I ridiculed you for your simplicity; I was constantly sinning against your better nature; everything makes you happy, and so it ought to be. Just as I once threw away your father's file and broke the sharp point, and it seemed to enter my heart, but I took care you should not know this; and I threw out of the window your mother's pious writing, and the plant: there is not a single thing in which I have not acted wrong. I know – I know that you forgive me freely; pray to a gracious God that He will also forgive me in life and in death."

A musical timepiece began to play a hymn. Petrowitsch moved uneasily in his chair, but appeared to sleep again. When the air was ended, Annele exclaimed: —

"What is there that I have not to ask forgiveness for? even that clock. Now for the first time in my life, I hear how holy that music sounds, and yet how often I vexed you on this subject also! Good and gracious Lord! I ask it not for myself – but save us, oh! save us! let me prove that I wish to make up for the past."

"I feel quite happy now, even if we are doomed to die," said Lenz; "while the clock was playing it came into my thoughts – we have got the precious plant Edelweiss again; it grew under the snow in your naturally good heart. Why do you tremble so?"

"I am so cold, my feet are like ice."

"Take off your shoes, and I will warm your feet in my hands. Are you better now?"

"Yes, much better, but my head feels as if every hair were dripping blood. Hark! I hear the cock crow, and the raven screech. God be praised! it must be daylight at last."

They started up, as if help were really at hand, and the uncle, too, seemed to rouse himself from his supposed sleep; but suddenly there was a loud crash. "We are lost!" cried Petrowitsch.

All was again still. The ceiling of their sleeping room had given way, so that the door could no longer be opened. After the first moment of alarm, Lenz thanked God that his wife had a presentiment in her sleep of what had happened, and left the room with her child; and for their comfort he told them that their sleeping room was a new building, unconnected with the other part of the house; and that he had no fear of the stout crossbeams of the old house not standing fast and untouched. It did seem to him, however – only he took care not to say this – that the walls of the room next the sleeping one bent inwards; but this was merely a delusion, caused by the flickering, dim, blue light.

A long silent pause ensued; no sound was heard except when a cock was heard crowing in the distance, or when Büble barked and the raven croaked.

"This is an actual Noah's ark," said Petrowitsch; and Lenz replied: —

"Whether the issue of this is life or death, we are equally saved from the deluge caused by sin."

Annele placed her hand in his.

"If I had only my pipe; it is so stupid in you not to smoke, Lenz," said Petrowitsch, in a complaining voice. The thoughts of his collection of pipes at home, must have reminded him of his fireproof strongbox, for he continued: – "I tell you fairly, that even if we are saved, you need not expect any money from me – not a single dollar."

"We shall not want it then," said Lenz; and Annele asked in her clear voice: —

"Do you know who will not believe you?"

"You?"

"No! the world will never believe it; if you were to swear it a hundred times over, no man will credit, that he who shared our deadly peril, will not share his life with us henceforth. The world will in future give us credit for your sake, and make us rich if we like."

"You are as shrewd and mischievous as ever," said Petrowitsch; "I thought all your gay gibes were at an end for ever."

"I am thankful they are not," cried Lenz; "Annele, keep up your lively spirits; if God rescues us from this peril, be honest and merry, as Pilgrim says."

Annele threw her arms round Lenz's neck, and kissed him affectionately. All the three suddenly felt that they had become as cheerful as if all danger were past, and yet, at this moment, it was greater than ever. They would none of them point it out to the others, but yet they saw with awe and fear, that the walls were trembling, and the cross beams sinking.

Annele and Lenz held each other in a close embrace: —

"Let us die thus, and shelter the child by our bodies," cried Annele. "Farewell, life! Lord God, save our child!"