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THE MARIGOLD
A STORY OF THE FRANCO-GERMAN WAR
“I never felt my nature so divine
As at this saddest hour.”
Lovell Beddoes
SOME time ago, I sat reading at evening-time beside an open window which gave upon the picturesque street of a little German town. Between the leaves of my book lay a dead and faded marigold, whose history I did not know, for it had dropped, just dried and shrivelled as it was, from the pages of a nun’s Prayer-book, as she rose from her devotions before the altar of a neighbouring church. And I, interested in the incident, and impressed by the beautiful pale face of the young “religious” herself, had carefully lifted the flower from the stone pavement, and ever since had treasured it as a memorial of sacred, and perhaps melancholy associations. Rapidly the time of sunset approached, and as the golden doors of heaven opened in the far west to admit the angel of the Day, a beam of mellowing light fell upon the leaves of the volume I held, and attracted my attention to the glories before me. The afternoon had been one of brief and sudden showers, and now, round the shining lake of sunset radiance, lay shadowy continents of grey cumuli, with dusky fringes and inner tracts of-dark hill-like circles, over which was flung, distinct and beautiful, its topmost height lost in heavenly glory, the seven - coloured bridge of the angels of God.
Then, as I sat gazing dreamily at this beautiful scene, there stole upon my senses the reposeful, insidious drowsiness which comes of silent contemplation; the rainbow faded, the sun sank, my book glided slowly down upon my knee, and I, yielding to the mesmeric influence of the balmy air and soothing hour, passed contentedly into the land of slumber.
And, presently, I dreamed that adown a ray of golden light there came floating into the room before me a lovely spirit, with airy arms extended downwards towards the earth. She was covered with a veil, like a mourner, but beneath the tawny web-like tissue l could see that all her cloudy limbs glowed through and through, as though with
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hidden fire. Then in a sweet voice, low and tender, as the wail of an Eolian harp, she thus revealed to me her name and story.
“I am,” she said, “the spirit of the dead marigold, which lies between the pages of your romance, and I dwell in the garden of the rainbow, the Paradise of flowers, where the faded blooms of earth are renewed in undying beauty, to give eternal joy and refreshment to the holy angels of the Lord.
“Just outside the walls of this German hamlet there is a little Friedhof, a garden full of crosses pointing heavenward over many long green hillocks. Wreaths of immortelle flowers and tiny pictures of saints have been laid by pious hands upon most of the graves, and around some of them are planted shining rings of yellow marigolds. There, once, in the midst of such a group, I also bloomed, – the flower of grief and pain, whose petals are bitter as aloes to the taste, – fit emblem of care, and mourning, and desolation. In the evening, when it was fine weather, a little French peasant-girl came, with her book or needlework, to sit upon the soft dry grass beside the two graves close to the spot where I blossomed. I believe she planted me there with her own hands, before I opened my great golden eye upon the world at all; but, be that as it may, I knew that now she took much care of me, and never suffered me to droop for want of water, nor to be devoured by noxious insects.
“Sometimes, when she came to see me, she brought white or yellow garlands of immortelle flowers, which she hung tenderly about the little wooden crosses at the heads of the two narrow mounds; sometimes her offering was a posy of wild blossoms, or even a little chaplet of rosary beads, which the priest had blessed for her. She was an orphan, and it was her father and mother who rested in those two long graves.
“A sorrowful little maiden she was, – small and shrivelled in stature, but sedate beyond her fifteen years, and I never saw her mingling with the noisy children who often passed me on their way home from school; for there was a shady footpath through the cemetery, and people came and went, long it all day, as they do along the paths of any other, public garden.
“Sometimes, indeed, on very fine evenings, a few merry voices called to her from the meadow beyond, or from the Stile at the end of the long avenue: ‘Marie! Marie! we want you! Come and help us to play!’
“But she never went, and I think they only invited her out of kindness, for the cry was seldom repeated.
“Among the many villagers who trod the cemetery path,
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two figures were especially familiar to me, for I saw them there every day, and always at the same hours. One of them was a tall stalwart youth of about twenty-two, with a hand-some frank face, and a smile as bright as the sunshine, fair brown curls, and German blue eyes; a boy to make any father hopeful, and any mother proud. The other was a maiden of some eighteen years, golden-haired and fair, too; but there was no likeness between them save the likeness of a happy fellowship, which illumined their glad faces, and beamed in their radiant eyes. Every evening, when the young man came home from his work, the maiden went to meet him by the stile at the end of the footpath, and they walked through the grave-garden together on their way to the village. N Strange, indeed, and pathetic it seemed to me, to behold youth and love thus walking hand-in-hand between the rows of low silent habitations wherein the dead lay evermore so lonely and regardless.
“These young people called each other Hermann and Hertha, and I thought they had neither ears nor eyes for anything except themselves. But, at last, one evening, when the young man’s work was over earlier than usual, and Hertha met him at the stile s full half hour before the ordinary time, they loitered in the beautiful cemetery-garden, and seated themselves on the green turf, in the shadow of a quivering aspen-tree, – the tree which is always shuddering and sorrowing for the terrible part which it had in the Passion of the Lord. (1)
“And while they rested there, Hermann, lazily toying with the daisies around him, turned his bright eyes from Hertha’s smiling face, to the face of the orphan child, where she sat, like a little guardian angel, beside the two graves she loved better than anything else in this world. And he asked her gently, whence she came, and why she always spent her evenings there, instead of playing or rambling1 about the meadows with the girls and boys of the village. Little Marie looked up from her knitting shyly, and told him that her father and mother lay burled there. That they were Alsatian peasants, who had travelled with her to this neighbourhood in search of employment, and that, while they were still strangers in the place, God took them both in one week; and she was left in the wide world with no friend but the cure of the village, and he was only a poor nun. But he sent her to school, said Marie, and she was earning some-thing now, – very little it was, – by her needlework, and by
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minding the babies at the cottages while the mothers were away, or helping the housewives in their business sometimes. But when her day’s work, whatever it chanced to be, was over, she always came to sit by the place where they had laid her father and mother; for she loved those two low graves too much to leave them for any dances or games or merry sports in the world.
“And as she bent over her shining needles again, she began to weep, silently and intensely, out of the bitter depth of a grief which had already bleached to winter ashen the gold of her brief April life, and changed the tender-hearted child into a sorrowful lonely woman.
“Hermann watched her awhile without speaking. But his large blue eyes were full of compassion, and he would have said something to comfort her, had he only known what words to choose. But Hertha plucked him sharply by the sleeve, and her beautiful face looked vexed and peevish as she whispered to him that he ought to talk only to her, and not to interest himself in strangers. Marie did not catch the rebuke, for it was uttered in low, suppressed tones, but the marigolds heard it well, and they perfectly understood what baneful emotion it was that was busy in Hertha’s heart. She was too much blessed. She was so happy in her full possession of Hermann, and in the knowledge of his great love for herself, that she had no sympathy to give to any-one else, and she grudged every word and look which he spent upon the little French maiden. Hertha thought that all Hermann’s tenderness was due to her alone, and that none other than she had any claim on him. Her felicity had made her selfish and hard, so that instead of opening her heart to all the world, and crying, – ‘see how happy I am; come and drink of the abundance of my joy, come and be cheered by the sunlight that brightens my life,’ – she chose to shut herself up with her treasure in a strong room of her own making, and cared nothing for the poverty and desolation of the souls outside in the cold. ‘I have my happiness,’ she said, ‘I have my prize, what are the misery and bereavement of strangers to me? I am going to enjoy my-self, and have no taste for doing anything else. And Hermann shall not sully my pleasure by importing into it the woes of others, nor bestow on them any part of a love and sympathy which I claim to be wholly mine by right,’
“And while the ruddy-hued marigolds looked up in Hertha’s face, and saw these cruel thoughts reflected in her fair maiden eyes, the evening breeze passed swiftly over the shining petals and stirred them as with a strong emotion, giving them power to utter the words of God. And the flowers stretched their slender throats, and raised
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their tawny faces to Hertha, and murmured sadly, – ‘Bear ye one another’s burdens: weep with them that weep.’
“But Hertha heard only the sound of the breeze among the leaves, and knew not that it was the breath of the dear God, whispering to her dry and hardened heart, and bidding her to bend like the yielding grasses and field-flowers, before the gentle influence of sympathizing love. Her ears were deaf to the many voices of nature, and my tender reproof was uttered in vain for her.
“But the rusting which the wind made among the marigolds attracted Hermann’s attention towards them, and without answering the complaint of Hertha, he continued as he bent towards me, ‘Are these flowers also your care, little Marie? you appear to have bestowed great pains upon them.’ And when she answered ‘Yes;’ he added with gentle tenderness, ‘You have chosen well, my child, for marigolds are hardy plants, they brave the bitterest winters, and are self-sowing, so that they do not need replacing every year like other blossoms. Did you know that when you chose them to put here?’
“ ‘Surely,’ interrupted Hertha, interested in spite of herself, because Hermann was interested, and resolved to play a part at least in a conversation which she had failed to terminate, ‘surely that must be the flower of Love which endures all storms, and renews itself spontaneously every year!’ And as she spoke, she blushed and laughed, and let her silky hair drop over the young man’s shoulder.
“ ‘Alas, no, Fraulein,” answered Marie, bending her sorrowful eyes upon me; ‘it is the flower of grief and bitterness; and in France we always plant it about the graves of the dead, to signify the pain we suffer in being parted from our dear ones, whose bodies lie at rest beneath the earth out of which all the flowers spring. And we call it Souci, for care and regret are perennial to souls on this side of earth.’
“Hertha looked in surprise at the little homilist. It was very strange, she thought, to hear a mere child discourse in this grown-up fashion: even she herself, who was so much older, knew nothing of care or regret.
“ ‘You French have droll notions, then,’ she rejoined, shortly, addressing Marie for the first time. ‘We call this flower of the churchyard Gold-blume, the golden flower.’
“ ‘It is both, I think,’ answered little Marie, in a thoughtful, musing tone, that made Hertha wonder at her more and more: ‘care and sorrow first, that turn to gold for us by-and-by, and that are gold, too, all the time, if only we understood their ministry and their meaning rightly.’
“But all this was sheer folly to Hertha. What had she to do with grief or bitterness while Hermann was beside
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her? Impatiently she turned to him again, and urged him to rise and come away.
“ ‘The sun is setting,’ she cried, ‘and the old grandmother will be expecting us home. Come, dearest, I am sure you have rested here long enough,’ And nodding her head carelessly at Marie in token of farewell, she led the young man off down the avenue; and s they went, the dying, inconstant sunshine peeped between the branches upon their retreating figures and danced delusively before their feet, as gaily as though it were going to last for ever, and had no intention at all of passing away. And yet, even then, the sunshine was fading fast, and before long the last streak of daylight would have utterly sunk in the west, and night would have enveloped earth and heaven in her melancholy gloom and silence.
“Another day passed; and little Marie was there again in the burial-place. ‘God’s Acre,’ the Germans call it, and the words carry with them a beautiful and significant sense of beatitude which is pleasant, I think, to dwell upon. Again Hertha came along the pathway under the lindens to meet her handsome friend at their trysting-wicket; and as she passed me, the orphan child looked up from her needlework, and greeted her with so wistful an air that Hertha stopped involuntarily, and answered the salute in quite a gracious mood.
“ ‘Is he your brother?’ asked Marie, looking earnestly into the beautiful face before her; ‘he who is always with you?’
“ ‘No,’ replied Hertha, with a rosy blush,’ we are betrothed, – we are to be husband and wife.”
“ ‘And you love each other very much, then?’ questioned the child, naively.
“ ‘Oh, yes!’ cried Hertha, clasping her hands in the fervour of a passionate nature; ‘Hermann is more than all the world to me!’ Then suddenly checking herself and resuming her former dignity, she added in a colder tone, ‘But you cannot understand this yet; you know nothing of love.’
“Little Mane glanced at the two graves in silence. They spoke for her, and Hertha, seeing the significant look in the child’s wounded eyes, made haste to tender some sort of excuse for her impetuosity.
“ ‘Such love as mine, I mean!’ she cried, reddening. ‘It is quite a different thing from any other, you know: it is much better and stronger. No other love is to be compared to it; if I were to lose it, I should die.’
“She spoke rapidly, with a fervid absorbed expression upon her face, and her eyes steadfastly directed towards the place of tryst. Hermann was not yet in sight; how long he tarried!
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“ ‘Shall you be married soon?’ asked the little mourner gently, after a moment’s pause.
“ ‘Yes, soon; oh, very soon.’
“Again the answer was hurried and passionate in its utterance, but it had scarcely died upon her lips before Hermann himself appeared, advancing slowly towards us, and with a cry of joyous recognition Hertha ran to meet him. But the young man’s eyes betrayed traces of recent tears, and the hand that was laid fondly in the eager grasp of his betrothed trembled under the power of an emotion he vainly strove to conceal. With passionate love the young girl hung upon his neck, and entreated him to speak; but for a minute he stood silent, straining her almost fiercely to his breast, as though by that tender and ardent gesture he defied some invisible enemy to tear her from his faithful embrace. Suddenly he withdrew himself, and holding her out from him at arm’s-length, gazed earnestly into her terrified face.
“ ‘The war!’ he cried wildly; ‘O Hertha, the war!’
“I had heard of this war many times lately, from the people who passed to and fro through the cemetery, and talked to each other as they went. And I knew also, from these fragmentary conversations, that it was daily expected some of the villagers would be called to the battle-fields. For in Germany every man is a soldier, and may be bidden to assume arms in the ranks, whenever the necessities of Fatherland demand the lives of its sons. It did not therefore surprise me to hear Hermann tell the weeping girl who leaned on his bosom, that the Meister of the atelier where he daily worked, had that morning received an official notification claiming for the country the services of his artisans, and warning the young men to hold themselves in readiness for immediate marching orders. But how terrible was Hertha’s misery on hearing these evil tidings! In that cemetery I had borne silent testimony to the suffering of many a mourner bereft of his dearest treasure; I had marked the tears of many a sorrowful group gathered about the unclosed grave of a beloved one, but never had it been my lot to witness grief so wild, so intense, so appalling, as that which I now beheld. No anguish of parting from the dead could equal in abandonment or despair the anguish of this farewell to the living! O Love, how sweet thou art in thy delights, – how bitter in thy sorrows l So desperate and profound was the agony of this German maiden, that neither Hermann’s tender caresses nor the tearful adjurations of little Marie, availed to afford her the least consolation. Madly she clasped her betrothed to her wounded heart, in a frenzied tumultuous passion of love that had
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something dreadful in it, and cried aloud upon God ‘to destroy them both with His lightning where they stood, rather than suffer them to be parted thus! Hermann hushed the wild appeal with his lips; he drew down the white lifted face upon his breast, and smoothed the soft disordered hair with his trembling fingers. Then, after a little while, he led her gently away homeward; and hand-in-hand, as it was their wont to walk together, they went with slow faltering steps down the dark sombre avenue, where no beaming light danced tonight, for the hour was late, and the sun had set; – and so, broken-hearted and silent, they passed out of the cemetery. Never again, O Hermann, to enter it hand-in-hand with thy beloved!
“For many weeks I saw them there no more. Little Marie still came in the evening to her old place by the two graves, and the villagers went to and fro, and talked of the war, and of the tidings which reached their homes from the camp, and of the great victories which were being won for Fatherland; but I heard nothing of Hermann.
“Then the days grew shorter; the summer roses around me shed their last blooms and perished; dead Leaves fell thickly upon the turf, and I, too, yielding to the touch of doom, latest of all the flowers in the Friedhof, began to drop my queenly headgear, and to fold my mantle of shrivelled Leaves tightly over my chilled heart.
“Just one golden cresset remained, puny and rusty indeed, but braving yet the early November atmosphere, when on a certain morning a new grave was dug, not far from the spot I occupied, and people gathered round the freshly-turned earth, and spoke to each other in subdued voices about the death of one whom they had all known familiarly, and who was to be buried here today. It was a youth, they said, who had died of wounds received in a recent battle; and an old woman related how his regiment left him to the care of strangers in the hospital of a distant town, and how he begged to be sent back to his own village, that he might look once more on the face of his betrothed, and die. So, Said the old woman, his request was granted, for the surgeons knew his wounds were mortal, and that no treatment of theirs could save his life, and they laid him in an ambulance and sent him home.
“But while the gossip still went on, there came up the avenue beneath the shadow of the linden branches, – between which the snow-flakes now began to drop, and the winds of winter to sough, – a little funeral procession, deeply pathetic in its simplicity, sublimely solemn in its touching reality and earnestness’ Upon the violet pall which shrouded the coffin there were laid side by side two garlands, – one of laurel, the
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other of dried marigolds. The first bore witness to the glory of a dead hero, the other to the heart-rending of her who should have been an artisan’s wife. She followed, leaning upon the arm of the good priest who had been so kind to the French orphan, and behind them walked little Marie herself, with her pale face and her large intelligent eyes, telling her rosary sadly as she went Then they gathered round the grave, and the promised bride of the dead man raised the black veil which hitherto had covered her features, and stood beside the bier of her beloved, like a marble woman, – white, cold, motionless, and heedless of the falling snow.
“It was Hertha! She had lost all!
“Then arose the prayerful wail of the Miserere; and the storm-wind, moaning organ-like through the tossing aspen-boughs, swept down upon me, and shook from my withered lips the solemn antiphon: ‘Incerta et occulta sapientæ; Tua manifestasti mihi!’ (1)
“And again in the same plaintive Psalm: Domine, labia men aperies; et os meum annuntiabit laudem Tuam!’ (2)
“For it is the divine gift of understanding which alone avails to grasp the true meaning of suffering; to interpret God’s hieroglyph of Pain, whence charity and sympathy draw their holy being; and to make of the bitter Souci a Gold-Blume of inestimable price.
“The accents of the concluding responsory died away, borne aloft upon the hurtling wings of the snow-wind, the grave was covered with earth, and the little crowd of mourners and spectators slowly dispersed. Then also went the good pastor himself, not without a kindly benison upon the head of the desolate widow-maid, where yet she stood unmoved beside the resting-place of her lost love; a marble woman, tearless, pulseless, frozen-hearted beneath a touch that was sharper and more icy-keen than that of the frost beneath her feet, or the bitter air upon her brow.
“But when the priest had departed and the flutter of his black cassock was hidden from sight beyond the farthest tree of the avenue, Hertha, alone with her dead, fell suddenly upon he: knees on the crisp hard earth, and tossed her arms wildly upward towards the grey November sky.
“It was a strange picture, – this passionate woman, with the wan lifted face, the shining hair of gold, and the heavy black dress streaming about her upon the blank white ground, – a strange picture, vivid in its contrasts, weird and ghastly
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in its terrible realism. Then from the pallid lips there burst a sudden cry, a wail of utter despair and agony, more grievous far than any tears, – the cry of a woman’s soul in exquisite torture; without hope, without understanding, without human sympathy.
“ ‘O Lord, Lord, Thy ways are hard to bear! Men are not cruel as Thou art, Thou Ruler of Life, merciless and uncompassionate! My god is dead! Is dead! is dead l I shall hear his voice no more l I have lost all!’
“She fell along the frozen clods of the new-made grave, and moaned.
“Footsteps, swift and soft, came over the snow behind her, and a light h and touched her upon the shoulder.
“ ‘Hertha!’
“The gentle child-like voice was familiar to her, and with a slow weary gesture she raised herself, and turned her deathly features upon the pitying face of little Marie.
“ ‘I saw you meant to stay here,’ whispered the French girl, bending tenderly over the poor mourner, ‘so I waited till everybody was gone, and then ran back. Take my cloak, Hertha, ’tis bitter cold, and the snow is falling.’
“ ‘I don’t care for that! I like the cold! It is nothing to me! See!’
“And she flung back the dark veil from her head, and let the white flakes drop upon her yellow hair. But Marie hastily wrapped her own woollen mantle about the frenzied girl, and warmed the icy hands of Hertha in hers, while she sought gently to draw her away from Hermann’s grave.
“ ‘You do not know what you say now,” argued the child, caressively, in her soft Gallic German; and there stole over her tender face the shadow of that serious womanly look I had seen there when first she spoke to Hertha’s betrothed about her dead parents, ‘I know what that is, that you do not care, for I, too, felt just like it once; but time is good to us. You must trust to God and Time. It is because l also have suffered, that I understand and love you now.’
“But the heart of Hertha was wounded too sorely to fed the sweetness of the dropping balm as yet She covered her stony face with her hands, and moaned. ‘I want no love but Hermann’s l I never sought any other love, I never cared for any other! I have lost all!’
“Little by little, with mild compassionate words and gestures, Marie drew her companion away, and the falling snow-flakes hid them speedily from sight, as they went down the long white path towards the cemetery wicket.
“Many days elapsed, and they returned not; my last tawny blossom froze in the bleak atmosphere, but still the life was in me, when presently, one sunny noontide late in
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December, when the frost was yielding under foot, and the birds were chirping faintly in the withered rosebushes, they were there again. Marie, with her childish figure and her woman’s face, and Hertha, in her widow’s garb, paler and deeper-eyed than she used to be in the old days, but lovelier so and sweeter far, than when I saw her first in the full rose of her selfish, petulant beauty.
“She spoke, gazing down upon the marigold-plant at the’ foot of the two graves, and I noticed that the delicate voice’ had lost its careless jubilant ring, and had grown subdued and thoughtful; a voice to match the face in tenderness; for speech is made sweeter by tears, as music is sweeter that sounds from the sea.
“ ‘Marie, your Gold-Blume is dead. See here, not a single flower remains! Alas how well I recollect our conversation about it that September evening, and my own foolish utterances, and your replies, which then I thought so old-fashioned and incomprehensible! Ah, Souci! bitter Souci du Jardin des Morts! thou art indeed undying l thou art a real immortelle! for neither heat can wither, nor frost destroy the germs of thy hardy being. Now, indeed, thou seemest to be dead, but the spring will revive thee in fresh youth and vigour; and, while with care one must gather the seeds and foster the off shoots of the frail blossoms of love, thou, O flower of sorrow and dole, renewest thyself unheeded year by year! To thee the returning winters bring no real decay, for every spring. Time finds thee again in thy place, wearing always the same hereditary coronal; self-perpetuating and unchanged!’
“ ‘Yet said Marie, softly, as she bent over me,’ ‘tis a Gold-blume too, this imperishable Souci!’
“ ‘I thought so once,’ answered Hertha, in mournful tones, ‘but what is the good of sorrow? Am I better off because I have lost my heart’s beloved?’
“ ‘Yes,’ responded the child-philosopher, firmly. ‘Better off: for now you have an affinity with the universe, and with the grand world of spirit. One with whom you are most familiar, one to whom you are ever the dearest, has passed into the dawning light of the perfect day. Rise with him, through sphere after sphere!’
“ ‘But he is lost to me!’ cried Hertha, lifting her earnest eyes to the cold blue space overhead, as though she sought ‘‘to pierce its blinding deeps, and find therein some shadowy semblance of the face she had loved.
“ ‘Lost!’
“ ‘Not so, dear Hertha; the golden Souci has taught me sweeter lesson that that! It has taught me that if grief and care are perennial, so also is the precious treasure of human love! That is the indestructible gold which fire mars
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not but refines, the flower of gold which dies not with dying spring or summer; which the rank atmosphere of the charnel-house cannot tarnish, nor the bitterness of tears corrode; but which ever blossoms most richly upon the very graves of the dead!’
“ ‘Alas answered Hertha, a mist before her jasper-clear eyes, ‘I know that your words are true, but my heart returns them only an uncertain echo! You have learnt more in your fifteen years of existence than I!’
“ ‘When one’s existence of fifteen years is such as mine has been, one learns many things,’ rejoined Mane, gravely. ‘Human life is not measured by the year, as cloth is meted by the ell. I am older than many a woman whose age doubles mine. To live alone is often to live twice one’s time. If, therefore, I seem to assume too much, or to teach when I ought only to condole, you must forgive me, Hertha; for somehow you have always hitherto seemed to me younger than I. But now, we are of equal age.’
“I put the pretty broken German sentences she used into words which I think may render their sense more intelligibly to you, but I cannot reproduce the earnest tones and the simple grace, which gave their meaning its power and tenderness. But Hertha, no longer hindered by a too great happiness, felt the deep force of the pathetic apology, for over the once cold and arid nature of Hermann’s betrothed, there had arisen the gracious life-giving warmth of holy sympathy. Not the full light as yet, but the dawning of it. She took the orphan girl to her own bruised heart, and whispered in low tones that she loved her, and that henceforth they would be sisters to one another, And then they were silent; a quiet brooding sense of serenity descended upon them like a blessing; and there was no further need of words between them for awhile. The communion of sorrow is sweeter at times than even that of joy, for joy leaves nothing to be desired, but sorrow yearns, and seeks redemption.
“The clamorous voice of the chimes, ringing the four quarters in the belfry of the village church, broke the spell-like stillness, and then came a single reverberating stroke from the brazen hammer of the great clock itself, which evermore looked down from its high tower upon the buyers and sellers in the market-place, – like a round, sleepless, open eye of Time. And while the heavy sound yet thrilled and quelled through the air, a woman’s voice from the wicket-gate summoned Hertha to the family Mittag-essen; and for that day the conference between the two maidens was ended.
“But soon they were again in the grave-garden, very early in the morning, before the red light of the winter
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sunrise had faded in heaven, and while the glow of the new day was still sharp and pure upon the white crosslets that marked the resting-places of the dead. But the light upon Hertha’s pallid face was a light of soul, calmer and Diviner in its bright-shining than the inconstant radiance of the sunbeams; a light of springing hope, and strength, and love, which should not fail nor perish for evermore.
“She knelt beside the grave of the artisan-soldier, and her meek jasper eyes dwelt intently upon the stone cross which was set there, with this inscription graven on its base: –
“‘OF YOUR CHARITY PRAY FOR THE SOUL
OF
HERMANN FROHSINN.
Arise, shine, for thy light is come;
And the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee!’
“And she wept as she read; then lifting her gate to the watchful face of her friend, repeated aloud, in solemn musing tones, that brief exhortation, which of all the little philosopher’s words had most deeply impressed itself upon Hertha’s sorrowing heart; “Rise with him, through sphere after sphere!’ And after a little pause, she added, laying her hand upon the cross at the grave-head, – as of old the Crusaders, when they made a solemn vow to God, laid their hands on the crosses of their sword-hilts: –
“ ‘Marie, I am going to do that. I am going to use my adversity as I never thought of using my happiness. My mind is made u p to leave the village tomorrow morning, and to go to nurse the wounded soldiers in the towns and hamlets wherever the surgeons will let me go, and wherever I can be of use. Many women have gone already to this good work, and I have no home duties that need keep me here. It will comfort and strengthen me to know that I am treading in the footsteps of Hermann, following where he has been before me, and doing perhaps, for his very comrades, what strangers did for him. And if, among the sick or dying whom l tend, any poor fellow should speak to me of a dear wife or sweetheart waiting for him at home, I shall know what to say to such an one out of the depths of my own torn heart, – I shall understand his grief by means of mine, and be able to give him, not the barren comfort and surface smile of common nursing cheer, but the meed of a living and perfect sympathy.’
“The light of that new day-spring grew brighter in her crystalline eyes as she ceased, and Marie looking upon her,
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and ‘seeing her face as the face of an angel of God,’ returned no answer in words, but yielded only with silent tears the benediction of her pure and simple heart.
“And again Hertha spoke; while the fresh morning air, floating hither and thither over the grave mounds, bore to her lips the subtle balm of my spirit, and laid upon her brow with invisible lingering hand the strength-giving benison of the Lord.
“ ‘There is a new world opening to me,’ said the sweet rapt voice, ‘and new thoughts are awakened within me. It is borne in upon my heart for the first time with real conviction, that Hermann is not dead. That I have not indeed lost all. It is something to feel that, instead of merely saying it, and hearing it said. I see now that I must not lose a day in idle sorrow, but that where I can, I must help others. love them, and thank God I have seen upon earth such a heart as his, – have known, have loved, and have lost it. For not even heaven itself is able to take from me the love with which I have loved; my soul will be richer thereby through all eternity. (1) Sister Marie, have you also felt this truth?
“ ‘Dear Hertha,’ cried the orphan, weeping, ‘your nature is nobler than mine, and your love was a stronger and a loftier love than that which fell to my share. Last year, you k now, you told me so yourself. And because you loved with that mightiest love of all, therefore your discernment now is clearer than mine, and the grace your sorrow brings you is higher and more perfect. To have loved as you have loved, is to know love for ever face to face, to be able for ever to love all beauties of nature and of mind, – all truth of heart, all trees, flowers, skies, hopes and good beliefs, all dear decays, all trusts in heaven, all capabilities of loving men!’ (2)
“ ‘And are these too, Marie, among the teachings of your darling Gold-Blume?’
“ ‘Indeed I believe they are,’ whispered the little maid timidly, leaning her brown head upon Hertha’s bosom; ‘for l have often marked how the marigold, though it is the flower of sorrow and loss, yet bears the image and colour of the sun, and itself resembles a tiny luminary upon earth, abiding and perennial as the great Giver of light in heaver, whom it ever adores and imitates. And so also we, even though it be winter with us, and our joys and our loves lie buried beneath our feet, may yet, like the sun, give forth to others our sweetness and our strength, to gladden colder hearts with deeds of charity and words of help.
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Even as you, dear Hertha, are about to do for the wounded soldiers of Fatherland!’
“The answer came with infinite tenderness:
“ ‘And as you, dear Marie, did first for me, when Hermann died. From you I learned this lesson of human sympathy!’
* * * * * * * * * *
“The grey keen lines of breaking daylight were low in the bleak east, when Hertha came again, to take her farewell of Hermann’s grave. Marie was not with her, for doubtless the instinct of the woman-child withheld her from intruding even her gentle presence upon such a sacred leave-taking as this. Hertha knelt alone by the burial-cross of her beloved; her clasped hands resting on the white stone, and her face bowed down upon them, – the face that had grown so subdued and solemn in its pathetic beauty. No sound of sigh or moan escaped her hidden lips, no passionate sobs disturbed the faithful heart; but I knew that the farewell prayer she prayed, and the farewell intercourse of soul with soul, were a holier oblation and a truer communion for the consideration of that sacramental silence. Then she rose, and mounting a little green knoll beneath the aspen trees, waved her ‘good-bye’ with a kerchief to some anxious watcher, who waited at a distance for the parting signal; and so, with the dawn upon her face, she went her way.
“Winter wore itself out loitering and reluctantly into a cold and peevish spring. April gave place to May, and summer began with tardy fingers to colour the folded buds of the rose-bushes, and to sow the meadow-grass with silver dew and daffodils of gold. After a while, I too unfold my new-year’s vesture, and all around me tiny green heads force their way through the damp mould- wherein my seeds have lain throughout the colder months in darkness and seclusion, and ascend to the surface of the earth, thirsting to behold with their yellow eyes the light of day, and with me to receive into their hearts the low-breathed messages of God’s evangelist, – the Wind.
“The campaign is over, and I hear it whispered among the market gossips, that very soon Hertha will be with them again; and they mention her name with reverent love, for she has been good to those of their sons and brothers, whom, like Hermann, the summons of the country has made soldiers and heroes, – not infrequently also, victims. For of late many a poor fellow has been brought home to the village dying or dead; and the graves are close and numerous under the waving lindens; so that here and there the rose-bushes have been forced to yield before the sexton’s spade; and on moonless nights the villagers shrink from crossing
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the Friedhof, because the death-lights (1) upon the new-made mounds are so bright and so frequent.
“Then, towards the close of June, Hertha returns. Again I see her in the cemetery, with the same calm face that since I saw it last has beamed sweet consolation upon a hundred dimmed eyes and stricken hearts, a face softened and made solemn by the double beauty of understanding and sympathy.
“For she has been in many battle-fields, and has witnessed many a strange and terrible tragedy of wholesale death; she has seen the green slopes of Alsace and Lorraine strewn with the writhing forms of dying men; she has found in the stiff grasp of more than one poor boy some unfinished letter traced in pencil with unsteady fingers to the ‘liebe Mutter,’ or the ‘Kleine Trüdchen’ at home – pathetic little messages of only two lines, perhaps, – for then the palsied nerves of the writer had failed, and his dead hand had fallen heavily upon the torn morsel of paper.
“And Hertha has knelt beside many a wounded veteran, friend or foe, and heard him murmur huskily of Vaterland, ‘or of the Emperor, while the slow pulses of his great brave heart beat – beat – beat the continued rattaplan of war for the country or the name that he most loved. And she has bent her pale lips to his car, and whispered gently that glory and honour cannot always last, (2) that war and war’s renown must pass away, and love alone endure.
“And here too is Marie – Marie, childlike in form as ever,’ but careworn and desolate no longer; for there stands beside her a tall fair youth with beaming eyes that dwell upon her fondly, – a youth for whom all the village has a word of respectful praise and hearty affection; for is he not the pastor’s nephew, just returned from a brilliant college career at Leipsig? And all the maids and matrons whisper sagaciously that it is at the feet of little Marie his academic laurels of erudition and honour will ere long be laid.
“The sexton is busy digging under the shade of the shivering aspen boughs, for tomorrow another corpse will, be borne to its long home, – the corpse of one whom Hertha has nursed, the last martyr among the village patriots. In
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the midst of his labour the old delver pauses, wipes his heated visage, and looks appealingly at the little French maiden.
“ ‘Fraulein Marie,’ says he in guttural German, ‘your marigold plant is in the way here! I shall have to dig it up. You see there’s no room now that the ground’s so full of graves on this side, and we are a bit pressed for space. ‘Tis a favourite comer, Fraulein, you know, under these trees along by the rose-bushes. Folks will be buried here!’
“And down goes the spade into the turf with a terrible thrust that is my death blow. The iron cuts my stalks in twain, cleaving in a moment the tendrils of my infant roots, and I am lifted with a jerk from the severed fibres, and thrown upon a bank beneath the aspens, amid a heap of torn squitch-grass, and mould, and pebbles, and twisting centipedes. As I lie there, dying under the fierce glare of the midsummer sun, Marie’s gentle face bends over me, and her small hand breaks from its stalk the most beautiful of my tawny blooms.
“ ‘Ah,’ sighs she regretfully, ‘I am sorry to see thee wither thus, my dear Souci! Thou hast soothed and strengthened me in many of my lonely, sorrowful hours!’
“The tall youth beside her stoops and kisses her soft forehead.
“Those hours are past for ever now, he tells her fondly; he will never let her be sad or lonely any more. In the future they two will be all to one another, always together, always glad-hearted!
“She does not answer him, but turns her brightened face timidly upon Hertha.
“ ‘Dear sister,’ she murmurs, caressing the thin white hand, upon which still gleams the gold betrothal ring of former times, – ‘ indeed I fed almost guilty to be so happy and so blest, when thou art alone, and hast lost all!’
“The pallid widow’s face lightens with a smile of unutterable trust, the sweet solemn voice thrills with passionate love.
“ ‘Not lost,’ she answers,’ Oh not lost! Mine for evermore! Hermann has become to me part of the universe; his spirit speaks to me in the flowers, surrounds me in the air, and looks upon me from the stars; and I am never desolate, since earth and heaven alike are filled with the presence of my beloved. And with him I rise l Who therefore can par-take in thy joy, Marie, more truly than I, who have suffered with thee? For l, too, have loved and have been happy!’
“She stoops, and taking from Marie’s outstretched hand the flower of the marigold plant, fastens it in the folds of her snowy neckerchief, to be treasured side by side with a little silver crucifix, significant and familiar memorial of One ‘Who
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learned upon earth to be touched with the feeling of mortal infirmities,’ because He likewise was ‘made perfect through suffering.’
“And upon that true and maiden bosom the last blossom of the Gold-blume died.”
* * * * * * * * * *
There the story ended.
“Then,” said I aloud, “I suppose Hertha became a religieuse, and it was she whose sweet cal in face I so win the chapel today!”
The sound of my own voice awoke me. The rainbow had vanished, the sun had set, my beautiful phantom was no longer before me, and the whole room was darkened by the drowsy shadows of fast-approaching night.
NOTES
(137:1) a It is in the folklore of Germany, that the cross upon which Christ suffered was made of aspen-wood; and that in remembrance of the fact, the awed tree has trembled ever since, and it is thence regarded as the emblem of lamentation and fear.
(143:1) The uncertain and things of Thy wisdom, Thou hast made manifest unto me.
(143:2) Thou shalt open my lips, O Lord; and my mouth shall declare Thy praise!
(148:1) “Recreations of Recluse.”
(148:2) Leigh Hunt.
(150:1) Denth-light or ghost-light; – a luminous vapour caused by the decomposition of the human gases, which vapour is distinguishable on dark nights above new-made graves. In England it is called the corpse-light.
(150:2) “Quand un ancient regarde
En pleurant so cocarde,
Au grand nom de l’Empereur
Quand trop fort bât son cœur;
Doucement je m’avance
Et je lui dis, – silence,
La gloire et les amours
Ne durent pas toujours!” – La Cantinière
Índice Geral das Seções Índice da Seção Atual Índice da Obra Atual Anterior: The Water-Reeds (Autumn) Seguinte: The Painter of Venice
